Public Behind the Walls

[Lumiya Dara]

​

Location: Imperial Detention Center, Orinackra


Sleep had offered me little comfort. The mattress beneath me was thin enough that I could feel the cold metal frame through it. Every shift reminded me that this place had no intention of letting anyone forget where they were. Somewhere beyond the walls, machinery droned with a relentless rhythm that never truly stopped. Even in sleep, the prison seemed to breathe.

I stared at the ceiling. How long had it been since I was brought here? A day? Two? Time blurred together when there was no sunrise to greet it and no stars to measure it by.

Closing my eyes only invited the memory back. It had been such an ordinary stop. One that was for supplies and food. I had wandered the streets with little more on my mind than whether I had enough credits left for anything other than fresh rations. I deserved to treat myself every once in a while.

The city had been busy, louder than I expected, though I thought little of it at first. Then came the shouting. They weren't frightened screams. They were determined voices; hundreds of them. People filled the streets carrying homemade signs, demanding change from a government that had long since stopped listening. Curious more than anything, I lingered at the edge of the crowd, intending only to wait until it had passed before continuing on my way. That was my mistake....

Sirens echoed through the district. Security forces poured into the streets from every direction. The protest dissolved into chaos. Some people ran, while some stood their ground. Others simply froze.

I had scarcely taken more than a few steps before armored troopers began herding everyone together. They made no distinction between protester and bystander. We were driven through narrow streets until there was nowhere left to go, trapped in a dead end with towering walls on either side. Then one by one, we were restrained.

I tried to explain that I wasn't from here. I hadn't joined the demonstration, I was only passing through. But no one listened. My lightsaber was taken before I ever reached the transport. The familiar weight disappeared from my belt with practiced indifference, disappearing into a sealed crate alongside my robes, boots, communicator, medkit, and every possession that reminded me of who I had been only hours earlier.

By the time the transport doors closed, I wore the same dull prison uniform as everyone else. I was just another number. Just another prisoner. I had never been confined before...

The memory faded as a deafening klaxon shattered the silence. The alarm echoed through the cellblock, harsh enough to rattle the walls themselves. "Prisoners," a distorted voice barked through unseen speakers. "Morning muster. Exit your cells immediately. Stand on the designated markers for inspection and orientation. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action." Heavy locks then clanged open in perfect sequence.

I drew a slow breath, swung my legs over the side of the bunk, and stood. Around me, the prison was already waking. Boots struck metal walkways. Cell doors slid apart. Faces I had never seen before emerged into the harsh white lights, each carrying their own story, their own fears, and perhaps their own regrets.

I stepped out into the corridor with the others. For the first time since arriving, I looked at the people imprisoned beside me. Some stared at the floor, while some glared at the guards. Some wore expressions so empty they scarcely seemed alive anymore. I couldn't help but wonder how many had entered this place believing they would only be here for a few days. And how many had already forgotten what freedom felt like.

Tags: Xur’kai Dren Novac Lyrikal Tiber Fel (Open)

Spoiler

OOC sign up for this story is here
It's still open for others to join in, both guards and prisoners alike. But keep in mind, this is not a prison rescue story, but one of survival and possible prison break.

 

[Evander Thule]

Tags: Open​

Thule hated prisons.

Few things were a more egregious waste of time, manpower, and credits, but Imperials had loved them since time immemorial.

Perhaps he'd feel less strongly if they were at least run competently, but few were. Most were overfilled, owing to Remnant states' tendency to greatly expand the definition of what could be considered a "crime".

While he didn't owe strict allegiance to any of the sad little warlord regimes who aped the glory of a once-great Empire, they still had credits, and he still needed to eat. He'd found some minor success as a freelance consultant of sorts when times were good, and an outright mercenary when they weren't. So it had been on Lothal recently, when he'd foolishly allowed his nostalgia for the glory days to goad him into a fight.

That was the way of things. Loss and memory were jailors that boasted far higher walls and far lower escape rates than any cage of mortar and metal. Thule carried his own prison on his skin, and in what little remained of his soul. In a way, the poor bastards assembled here were lucky. They'd at least get out someday.

Maybe.

He was here as a third-party inspector, paying for tomorrow's bread with today's misery. Where possible, he'd at least try to make things better for them. Push for clean cells, healthy meals, warm blankets. Such things increased morale, made prison more of an annoyance to be endured rather than a horror to be escaped. Less messy, expensive "incidents" that way. More than likely, his advice would go ignored, but his consultancy fee would remain the same size regardless.

The cybernetic apparition stood in a reinforced, glass-panelled guardroom, one that overlooked and controlled this particular cellblock's doors. The two men manning the controls were visibly nervous in his presence, and rather understandably so.

Thule resembled some kind of misshapen bird of prey more than the man he'd once been, looming over the cell block's custodians menacingly. With a raptoral posture and a skull-like helm bolted to his face, no inmate dared meet his inhuman gaze for more than a few seconds. He was used to that by now, and understood it. Still, it wasn't him they needed to be afraid of. The guards would take their own unease at his presence out on the residents.

In places like this, such cruelty was rather the point. He'd seen the numbers back in the day; these boxy, brutalist establishments were effectively recidivist factories on an industrial scale, cranking out hardened criminals by the millions.

Leave it to today's Remnant-states to turn a mild-mannered accountant or illicit pharmaceutical dealer into a seasoned killer with reason to hate Imperials. The cyborg couldn't quite restrain a shake of his head. He had no skin in the game, didn't much care if the malodorous masses in the yard got out or raised hell or stabbed some fat long-timer who was a week from retirement.

What bothered him was the inefficiency. He hadn't gotten to where he was by tolerating it, or even by fixing it. Wardens hired people like him to give their own superiors the illusion that they were on top of things, not to actually correct issues.

There'd been a word for that back home. Talamka. There was no exact translation in Galactic Basic; the closest equivalent was "I know I'm lying, you know I'm lying". Thule knew this post was nonsense. The warden knew it was nonsense. The inmates certainly knew it was nonsense. All parties involved were fully cognizant that his presence here was smoke-and-mirrors ass-covering nonsense of the type ubiquitous in workplaces of all sorts.

Whatever. At the end of the day, he'd perform his inspections for the contracted two months, collect his outrageously-bloated paycheck, get off-planet as fast as his starship could fly, and thank his lucky stars that he wasn't out there with the rest.

"Pull up the current inmate roster." He said, apparently directing this no-nonsense demand at both of the other men present in the box. "Inform them that I'm seeking volunteers for interviews. Anyone who agrees gets double rations. Might as well start earning my fee early today." With that, he turned and stalked from the room, leaving both of them visibly more at ease. "And... tell the guards and staff I'll be working. Best not to scare anyone too much this early on."

Thule doubted he'd get many takers on his offer. Despite the promise of a hot meal, prison inmates (shockingly) tended to resent being imprisoned, and were historically unenthused about being questioned by a monster.

An unfortunate fact, since such independent data-gathering was the real treasure here, and a driving factor in his decision to take the job. He'd interview guards, inmates, administrative staff; get information on how to make a good prison, by noting everything that constituted a bad one.

With what Thule had planned for the future, he'd need a lot of good prisons.

 

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Inspection // Interrogation ::
:: Targets: Evander Thule // Lumiya Dara // Novac Lyrikal // Xur’kai Dren ::

The Imperial shuttle settled onto the landing pad with mechanical precision, its lowering engines scattering dust, grit, and loose pebbles across the cracked surface. Beyond the wash of displaced debris waited the prison's reception party: a small cluster of guards in worn uniforms, standing in a formation that imitated ceremony without understanding it. At their head stood the warden, broad, overdressed, and visibly constrained by the sash pulled too tightly across his stomach.

It was pomp without circumstance. Authority reduced to costume.

The ramp lowered.

Four figures emerged from the shuttle. Two stormtroopers marked in red descended first, their weapons held with professional restraint, taking flanking positions as they advanced. Between them came a gaunt-faced officer in a white uniform, severe and silent, his eyes already measuring the facility with administrative contempt. But first came Tiber Fel.

The black-armoured figure descended at a measured pace, each step deliberate enough to make haste seem beneath him. He did not rush toward the warden. He approached as if the distance between them had already been conquered and only the formality of movement remained. The prison guards offered their salutes. The warden followed with one of his own, stiff and eager to be seen as correct.

Tiber stopped before him.

For a moment, the helmet said nothing. Its gaze lowered with glacial slowness, fixing upon the man beneath it.

"Warden," Fel said at last, his distorted voice cutting through the humid air with the clean edge of cold steel, "your nervousness, and that of your men, is unnecessary."

The words were almost reassuring. Almost.

"My presence here shall not interfere with the excellence of the regime you run. It shall only enhance it."

The threat was veiled with the delicacy of a blaster pressed to the spine. This prison was a sinkhole of misery, corruption, and forgotten procedure. A decaying organ of an old system that still wore Imperial language while failing every standard that had once given that language meaning. Fel had reviewed enough before arrival to know what he would find. Neglect. Theft. Incompetence. Private arrangements passed off as administration. A prison maintained not through discipline, but through habit and fear of accountability.

He had considered orbital fire as the cleaner remedy. That option remained, in principle, available.

"You have been informed of the official purpose of my visit," he continued. "Consider this facility under inspection as of this moment."

His visor moved across the assembled guards, lingering long enough to make the silence useful, before returning to the warden.

"Proceed."

The order left no room for ceremonial delay, explanations, or attempts at charm. The inspection had begun because Fel had declared it begun, and the prison would now expose itself by obedience or by failure.

Yet the inspection was not the true reason for his arrival.

That reason rested at his side, clipped to his belt beneath the shadow of his cloak: a lightsaber that had once belonged to one of the inmates. A relic. A weapon. A question waiting to be answered inside walls already unworthy of the Empire they claimed to serve.

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.

 

[Xur’kai Dren]

The transport ship's ramp clanged with Xur'kai's heavy footfalls, followed by the softer ones of his 4-guard escort and further accented by clanging of the heavy chains that bound his leg irons to his stuncuffs. He watched the other prisoners ahead of him. They were all unrestrained and few looked up from the ground as they shuffled slowly to the large heavily reinforced door leading into the facility.
Weak. Afraid.

He held his poise, yet his mind questioned his reason for being here.
There may have been an easier way to obtain the data. One of my other leads may have panned out. But, maybe not. I cannot question myself now.

He looked at the guard to his left, a human male, likely in his early 20's and sporting a large crimson stain across his uniform shirt. Seeing the man's shattered nose again, "At least it stopped bleeding." He smirked at the young man and nodded at one of the others, "Listen to the old heads next time. And don't run your mouth if you can't take a hit."
The man quietly scowled, turning his face away and falling back slightly behind the immense Dashade so as to lose the unwanted attention and avoid further embarrassment.

Xur'kai and his silent personal escort followed the others to the large gate where a facility supervisor was verifying the identities of their newest arrivals. Several of his men stood nearby with blaster carbines, presumably set to stun.

Once custody of the prisoners was officially handed off, the man with the broken nose began to hurriedly and roughly remove Xur'kai's restraints as two of his companions kept their stun-pistols trained on the hulking mass of muscle.

The chains fell free with a heavy clang.
Xur'kai stretched his arms and rolled his head, overly dramatically as he maintained eye contact with Broken Nose until the man scooped them off and scuttled back to the transport ship.

He sized up the other arrivals and intently ignored the brief speech given to them by the supervisor. The wanna-be cop finally finished and Xur'kai took his chance to begin building his rep amongst the other prisoners. He raised a hand, "What time is chow?" Then, before giving anyone a chance to respond, "I heard you have a pool with a slide here. Can anyone use it?"

 

[Lumiya Dara]

The line toward breakfast moved slowly; prisoners shuffling forward beneath the watchful eyes of guards stationed along the walls. The smell reached me before the food itself did. It was a bland mixture of overcooked grain and something vaguely resembling protein. Enough to keep people alive, but little more.

The tray felt strangely heavy in my hands. Not because of it's weight. But because accepting it somehow made this all feel real.
I found an empty stretch of table and had scarcely taken two steps toward it before someone stepped into my path. He was taller than me by nearly a head, and broad-shouldered beneath the faded prison uniform. Another man drifted to one side, leaning casually against the end of the table while a third watched with the detached curiosity of someone expecting entertainment. "Careful," the first prisoner said, eyeing the untouched tray. "Fresh arrivals usually don't know where they're walking."

"I...." I began, only to stop myself. There was no explanation worth giving.

His shoulder struck mine. Not hard enough to injure, but enough to send the tray tilting. I caught it before it spilled. A few scattered chuckles echoed through the mess hall. "So she can balance," another prisoner muttered.
"Wonder if she can fight."

I met the first man's gaze. For a brief moment, instinct urged me to answer differently. Months ago, I would have rested a hand on the lightsaber hanging from my belt. Before that, I might have relied upon the Force to gently move past them without anyone noticing. Neither option existed anymore. Not here. "I'd rather eat," I said quietly.

The words seemed to disappoint them. Perhaps they had expected anger, or even fear. Instead, one of them extended a foot. I didn't see it until it was too late. The edge of my boot caught against it, pitching me forward. The tray slipped from my grasp. Metal struck the floor with a deafening clang as tasteless porridge splattered across the duracrete. Laughter rippled through nearby tables, while I remained where I had fallen for only a heartbeat, closing my eyes as I drew a slow breath. Anger would have been easy. So would despair. But instead, I simply knelt and began gathering what little remained of the meal.

Tags: Evander Thule Tiber Fel Xur’kai Dren (OPEN)

 

[Novac Lyrikal]

Evander Thule

Of course this place couldn't care less about his size, giving him a regular bed and cell. He'd only been here for a few days, some protest gone wrong. One where he was only in the alley watching, yet the imperials didn't care. Being there was enough to them. He hated the feeling of having his things taken from him, luckily if he really needed to protect himself he could use his tail and claws.

Novac spent most of last night thinking of how or when he'd leave. The most likely scenario is his droids attempt to break him out. It could go fairly well probably, they'd definitely be able to raise hell at the very least. Perhabs they get the farworld alliance to break him out. That was a lot less likely however, knowing them they'd rather do it themselves, might even crash his ship into the place if they got desperate enough.

As he left his cell to go to the cafeteria he almost hit his head on the doorframe as he ducked down. Many of the other prisons next to him gave him space, intimidated by his size.

On the way a guard was talking about some Evander Thule interviewing inmates, turns out any who accepted would get double rations. That was enough to get novac's attention and he quickly accepted the offer.

 

[Evander Thule]

Tags: Novac Lyrikal / Lumiya Dara / Tiber Fel / Xur’kai Dren /Open

​

Thule took his seat in the interview room, shrugged his shoulders, and laid his datapad on the table. The chamber was sparsely furnished, just a table and two chairs bolted to the floor.

Typical of Imperial prisons, it was predominantly gray in aspect, with claustrophobic contours designed specifically to induce a sense of helpless unease in its visitors. Thankfully, Thule wasn't here to interrogate anyone. Anything of use he'd get today had to come voluntarily, or not at all.

As he'd suspected, there hadn't exactly been a cavalcade of takers on his offer. Nonetheless, one single inmate had expressed interest. "Lyrikal, Novak". Thule brought up his file, flipping through it with mild curiosity. One mangled eyebrow elevated slightly at what he was reading.

This inmate's information was surprisingly sparse. Height, weight, species, little else. Just more examples of sloppy standards in record-keeping, Thule figured. In any sane world, he'd expect one hell of a story to explain how these boys had managed to wrestle a nearly thirty-foot long reptilian into a cell.

Multiple recent inmates had been swept up as part of a single supposed outbreak of civil disobedience. Thule was familiar with the procedure. Such mass-arrests were usually a way to pad inmate numbers, thereby justifying the jobs of certain prison officials. More than likely Mr. Lyrikal, and others, were only guilty of failing to escape quickly enough when they saw the troopers coming.

Such was the way of things. If no real criminals could be found, the Empire would simply create its own. Anything else meant budget cuts to detention centers like this one, and few would be willing to let that stand. Unfortunate, and unfair, but the universe was seldom overly concerned with justice and fair treatment in any capacity.

As it stood, Lyrikal was the only one who'd decided he'd like a real meal today. Thule intended to ensure he'd get one, provided he was cooperative. A deal was a deal, and he'd not get very far here without establishing a degree of trust with the inmates.

"Inform Mr. Lyrikal that I'll see him now. Make sure the kitchen staff feed him double afterward, as promised." He tabbed his access to the commsfeed normally used by the guards. Despite his status as an outside consultant, he knew they'd be smart enough to listen.

 

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Inspection // Interrogation ::
:: Targets: Evander Thule // Lumiya Dara // Novac Lyrikal // Xur’kai Dren ::

By the time they reached the prison command center, the warden was sweating through the collar of his uniform. His breathing had grown heavier with every corridor, stairwell, and security gate, the strained rhythm of it following Fel like an irritation he chose not to acknowledge.

The command center itself was a relic of better discipline. Two recessed control pits flanked a raised central walkway, where prison staff in grey and brown fatigues sat among consoles that should have been maintained to a higher standard. Dark metal surfaces had dulled with grime. Corners had gathered dust. Panels showed signs of improvised repair rather than formal replacement. The room still functioned, but function alone was not excellence. Function was the lowest excuse a failing institution offered for its own survival.

The two stormtroopers took position beside the entrance without needing instruction, red markings stark against the washed-out fatigue colours of the prison personnel. Lieutenant Hark entered behind Fel, gaunt and severe in his white uniform, carrying the quiet contempt of a man who had already decided the paperwork would be damning.

Tiber moved along the central walkway at an unhurried pace. His armoured boots struck the metal floor with a steady, echoing weight, each step measured, each sound claiming more of the room than any raised voice could have managed. He looked down into one control pit, then the other, the expressionless visor passing over consoles, officers, guard captains, access boards, and surveillance displays. Nothing escaped judgment. Nothing was yet worth comment.

Only once he reached the center of the walkway did he stop.

"Prisoner records. Maintenance reports. Transfer logs. Personnel files. Transmission protocols."

His voice carried through the chamber with cold clarity, distorted through the helm into something sharper than volume alone. It was not a request, nor even a demand. It was an administrative reality imposed by command.

"Lieutenant Hark will oversee and coordinate the work."

For half a breath, the warden hesitated, caught between the instinct to comply and the fading habit of local authority. Hark gave him no time to dress the hesitation as procedure.

"Compile the files in that order," the lieutenant said. His voice was thinner than Fel's, but no less severe. "Prisoner records first. I want them transferred to my review station immediately. Prepare the remaining files for inspection. Your office will serve as my workspace."

The warden's mouth tightened as if an objection had almost formed. Whatever survived of it died unspoken. Hark was already looking past him, selecting staff with brief gestures and exact instructions, reducing the command center from a local nerve hub into an annex of Imperial scrutiny.

The room began to move.

Consoles were accessed. Orders were relayed. Files were pulled. Staff shifted between stations with the sudden urgency of people who had discovered that procedure was no longer optional. The air thickened, not with panic, but with compression: the pressure of a failing system being forced to account for itself line by line.

Tiber remained still at the center of it.

That tension served him.

Beneath the sealed helmet, his focus narrowed, then expanded. The noise of the command center receded into ordered layers: voices, machinery, data-chimes, the warden's laboured breathing, the soft movement of Hark's uniform as he took possession of the inspection. Beyond it lay the prison itself. Corridors. Cells. Guard posts. Locked doors. Lives stacked in durasteel compartments.

Fel reached outward through the Force.

Not violently. Not with spectacle. His presence moved through the structure like cold air finding cracks in old stone, passing beyond the command center and into the prison's deeper arteries. He searched through fear, resentment, exhaustion, guilt, defiance, and the dull survival-instinct of the incarcerated. Most minds were noise. Some were sharp enough to notice. Fewer still mattered.

Somewhere within these walls was the trace he had come to find.

The lightsaber at his belt had belonged to an inmate. A weapon did not survive without a history. A prisoner did not carry such a history without consequence.

Tiber intended to know both.

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.

 

[Lumiya Dara]

The morning breakfast had ended as abruptly as it had begun. We were divided into work details with little more than a shouted designation and the point of a rifle directing us where to go. Questions were met with silence. Hesitation earned sharp orders. Before long, I found myself swept along with a steady stream of prisoners through a maze of corridors until we emerged into one of the prison's fabrication halls.

The cavernous room stretched farther than I could comfortably see, disappearing into rows of harsh white lights and rattling conveyor belts. Metal tables stood in long lines, each occupied by prisoners working with practiced efficiency. Crates overflowed with tiny mechanical components, wiring, connectors, and housings no larger than the palm of my hand. The constant hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated only by the occasional barked order from a guard.

It did not take long to understand why I had been assigned here. Most of the work required patience more than strength. Small hands. Careful fingers. Delicate movements that larger prisoners might struggle with. I took my place beside two women who barely acknowledged my arrival, their hands never slowing as they assembled one intricate component after another. I quietly copied their motions, trying to match their rhythm. Every mistake earned little more than an impatient glance before they returned to their work.

No one spoke. The machinery did enough talking for all of us. Minutes blurred together into a strange monotony. Piece after piece passed beneath my fingertips until I found myself almost forgetting where I was.

Then someone shouted. The sound cut through the factory floor like a vibroblade. My hands froze.

Across the hall, two prisoners had abandoned their workstations. One was broad-shouldered and heavily built, the other leaner, younger, his breathing already ragged as they circled one another between the tables.

Around me, the other prisoners scarcely reacted. Some looked up briefly. Most simply kept working, as though they had seen this countless times before.

The larger man threw the first punch. It landed with a sickening crack that echoed across the room. The smaller prisoner staggered backwards into a workstation, scattering unfinished components across the floor before scrambling upright once more.

I instinctively searched for the guards. Four of them stood no more than twenty metres away. One glanced toward the disturbance. Another folded his arms. A third continued his conversation, chuckling quietly at something his companion had said. None of them moved. The realization settled heavily in my chest. They were simply....watching.

The younger prisoner reached beneath his workstation with desperate hands. When he stood again, something glinted beneath the harsh lights. A sharpened strip of durasteel. It was an improvised weapon, and clearly hidden before, waiting for exactly this moment.

The fight changed instantly. The larger prisoner lunged. The makeshift blade disappeared into his side. A gasp escaped somewhere nearby. For a heartbeat, neither man moved. Then the larger prisoner let out a furious roar. He barely seemed to notice the blood spreading across his prison uniform. Grabbing the smaller man by the front of his shirt, he slammed him into the metal workbench once. Twice. A third time. The sound of skull against steel made my stomach tighten. The sharpened metal slipped from trembling fingers. The larger prisoner snatched it before it struck the floor. With one savage motion he drove it into the other man's abdomen.

Everything became terribly still. The first drops of crimson splashed across the grey duracrete. My breath caught. No. The metallic scent reached me almost immediately. My stomach lurched so suddenly that I had to grip the edge of my workstation to steady myself. Not now...Please....not now. Heat rushed from my face. My vision threatened to narrow around the edges as the all-too-familiar wave of nausea washed over me. Blood had always affected me this way. It never mattered whose it was or how often I had encountered it. The sight, the smell; it always made me feel as though the ground might disappear beneath my feet.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look beyond the crimson pooling beneath the fallen prisoner. He was still breathing. But barely. Training overtook instinct. Without thinking, I stepped away from my station. "I can help him."

One of the guards didn't even look in my direction. "Back to work."

"He's alive," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. "He needs medical attention."

This time the guard turned his head just enough for his cold stare to meet mine. "I said..." His voice carried effortlessly across the workshop. "...back to work."

Every part of me wanted to ignore him. I could slow the bleeding and stabilize him, keep him alive until someone qualified arrived. He still had a chance. I took another hesitant step before another wave of dizziness swept over me. My knees weakened beneath me, and I instinctively caught myself against the corner of the table. Breathe...Just breathe.

The guards never moved. One yawned. Another laughed quietly before returning to his conversation as though discussing the weather rather than a dying man. Two prisoners arrived pushing a battered cargo cart. Neither looked surprised. Without ceremony, they lifted the wounded man onto it. His arm dangled limply over the side, fingertips leaving a thin trail of blood across the floor as the cart rolled away.

No medic came. No alarm sounded. The conveyor belts never stopped. The machinery continued its endless rhythm as though nothing had happened at all.

Beside me, one of the women quietly resumed her work without ever looking up. "First one?" she asked flatly. I nodded. She fitted another tiny component into place with practiced hands. "You'll get used to it."

My eyes lingered on the faint crimson streak left behind by the cart before I slowly lowered them back to the unfinished components waiting beneath my fingers. "I hope that I don't," I whispered.

The woman offered no reply. Around us, hundreds of hands continued working. The prison had already accepted that one more life had been spent. I wasn't sure that I ever could.

Tags: Evander Thule Novac Lyrikal Tiber Fel Xur’kai Dren @OPEN

 

[Xur’kai Dren]

"You're up." Several middle-aged, but rough looking, guards came up to Xur'kai. He glanced up at them from his seat in the chow hall before continuing with his tasteless meal. "Up. Now. Time for work." The guard in charge nodded to one of the others, who then ignited his stun baton and jammed it into Xur'kai's shoulder. "Now!"

The jolt of electricity caused his shoulder muscles to spasm slightly but did little more than annoy the large Dashade. He stood from the bench seat and turned to face his attacker, "Do that again and I will be eating meat for my next meal."

The guard retreated several feet, providing himself an illusion of safety through distance. Xur'kai looked the man up and down slowly and plays into the man's fear and the galaxy's commonplace xenophobia, "Yes, you will make a fine meal." He looked into the man's eyes and began slowly and menacingly baring and chattering his large sharp teeth. Silence encompassed the chow hall, eliminating what little conversation remained. "Now, take me to this work."

He walked out of the chow hall, guards guiding him into an immense room filled with loud machinery manned by prisoners. While dominated by humans, he noticed that the prison population here seemed to have a disproportionate number of alien beings. While human women and aliens of smaller statures seemed to more commonly work the tasks requiring fine motor skills, several larger beings worked alongside the more well-built human males at the larger machines.

"Here." One of the other guards, a man older and more weathered than the one Xur'kai confronted in the chow hall, pointed to an open position on a large machine. "The others will show you what to do. Mess it up and the hounds' next meal will be your meat."

Xur'kai inspected the position assigned to him before watching the human working next to him. The man had a fresh bandage takes to his side just below the ribs, fresh blood still seeped through the cheap cloth. On the far side of the man, he saw a lean old man mopping up what appeared to be a significant blood smear.

He began to copy the movements of the clearly injured man next to him, taking a moment to scan the room as the movements slowly shifted into muscle memory. The other prisoners working around him seemed entirely unbothered by what must have been a recent fight- likely having grown used to what seemed to be a common occurrence.

Until he happened to lock eyes with a small human female, clearly new here and entirely out of her element.
Lumiya Dara

 

[Novac Lyrikal]

Evander Thule

As he was being taken to his interviewer novac noticed how the guards stayed at a distance from him and his tail, electro staffs in hand. They learned to not get close when they where trying to capture him and he crushed a few with his tail.

Novac was apparently looking at the one directly to his left a little to long since the man tilted his staff towards novac a little.

Entering the room novac saw the barren room, Evander Thule sitting on one side of the table.

"Sit." on of the guards said as he leaned his electro staff on the wall closest to evander and telling him "just in case ya know, I'd keep your distance." then leaving the room

Instead of sitting novac stood behind the chair, his four arms resting on it. "If you don't mind I'll stand, chairs made for humans suck to try and sit in."

 

[Lumiya Dara]

The movement across the workshop caught my attention before I realized what had changed. Heads turned. Not many, but just enough. The subtle shift in the room spread almost like a ripple through still water as another work detail entered beneath armed escort.

I looked up too. He was enormous. Even surrounded by guards, the alien seemed to fill the space around him. Heavy restraints were gone now, but they hardly seemed necessary. Broad shoulders rolled beneath the coarse prison uniform as though the fabric itself struggled to contain him. Every measured step carried a confidence I had seen in very few prisoners since arriving.

No. Confidence wasn't quite the right word. He simply refused to look imprisoned. The guards barked orders, but he answered on his own terms.

Around me, no one stared for long. The people here had apparently learned that paying too much attention to newcomers often invited trouble.

I lowered my eyes back toward the tiny components resting beneath my fingertips. One. Two. Three. Fit the connector. Rotate. Secure the housing. Keep working. That was the safest thing to do.

Then I felt it. The unmistakable sensation of someone watching. Not the constant surveillance that had become part of life here. But someone's eyes. Slowly, almost against my better judgement, I glanced up from the workstation. He was looking directly at me. Our eyes met across the fabrication hall foor just a heartbeat, but it was long enough that I instinctively looked away again.

The coarse prison uniform suddenly felt even more foreign than it already had. I found myself reaching, almost unconsciously, toward the place where the edge of my hood should have rested against my shoulder. But my fingers closed on empty air. Right... The gesture faltered before my hand quietly lowered back to my side. I had never thought much about my robes before. They had simply been familiar and comfortable. The deep hood had allowed me to pass through crowded spaceports without attracting notice, offering a quiet sort of privacy whenever I wished for it. But here there was nowhere to hide. No hood to lower over my face. No familiar cloak to disappear beneath. Only identical grey fabric and rows upon rows of watchful eyes.

I wasn't afraid of him. Not yet, for I knew nothing about him beyond his size. But being noticed at all sent a knot tightening somewhere deep in my stomach. In a place where survival seemed to depend upon becoming invisible, in this moment I suddenly wasn't.

Tags: Xur’kai Dren Tiber Fel Novac Lyrikal Evander Thule

 

[Evander Thule]

Tags: Novac Lyrikal / Tiber Fel / Lumiya Dara / Xur’kai Dren ​

Thule looked up as the door opened, studying his visitor. Most men would at least have reflexively flinched back from the sight of the massive serpentine alien; Evander Thule was not most men. Very little shocked him any longer.

He nodded at the inmate's request to remain standing. "That will be fine. Sit, stand, whichever makes this process more comfortable for you." His blank, visored gaze inclined upwards towards the guards. "You may go. Stand outside if it makes you feel better, but I don't think Mr. Lyrikal will be any trouble."

Thule slid his datapad halfway across the table, tapping a rapid succession of buttons with his clawed, spidery digits. "Very good. Here is how this process will work. I'll tell you a little about me, who I am, what I do, and what the purpose of this procedure is, then I'll ask you a series of questions."

"Nothing too complex, just inquiries about who you are, your supposed crime, and the nature of your daily experiences here. If you don't feel comfortable answering a question, or just don't want to, then you don't have to. Nonetheless, the purpose of this exercise is honesty. Either answer as truthfully as you can, or not at all. I also feel obligated to tell you that this interview will be recorded, but those recordings will be for my own records. Prison staff won't know what you say in this room, and I certainly won't be telling them, so don't be afraid to speak freely."

"I am Evander Thule." He pulled the pad back to his side of the table. "Independent contractor and analyst in the employ of your captors. I'm here for data, not to make their lives, or yours, easier. Nonetheless, and as promised, I can make your stay here a little more bearable if you cooperate. That starts with double portions for today's meals. I assure you, a fully belly will be more than worth any annoyance you are put through by answering harmless questions."

The cyborg's voice was an unpleasant mechanically-filtered rasp, but his tone was even, calm, and unthreatening. "If you don't draw any issue with any of this, then we can get started. Any questions?"