Just Another Face
Location: Mustafar, Abandoned Mining Facility
Tags:
Alana Calloway
The heat was oppressive, even through the shielding of the platform. Mustafar's blackened rock and molten veins stretched into the distance, the air shimmering with the constant, restless motion of the planet's infernal rivers.
Natima Vando stood near the edge of a jagged overlook, clad in light combat armor that bore no insignia, no clear allegiance. It was practical, made for movement—exactly what she expected of her apprentice.
Her current face, a sharp-featured woman with red hair tied back, was set in a neutral expression. Green eyes, keen and patient, flicked toward the entrance to the platform. Alana was late.
Not by much. But late was late.
Natima didn't check a chrono. Didn't move. Instead, she ran one gloved hand over the small vibroblade at her belt, as if reacquainting herself with the feel of it. A subtle reminder.
This wasn't a lesson in punctuality. This was a test.
She listened for the approach, the shift of boots against metal, the telltale weight in a step that gave away a person's state of mind. When Alana arrived, Natima finally turned, her voice as smooth as durasteel cooled in the dark.
"You're slower than I expected." A pause. A slight tilt of the head, assessing. "But that's good. It means you're cautious. Careful. Or it means you're uncertain."
She took a single step forward, posture relaxed, but there was no mistaking the predator in her stance.
Several of her vibroknifes lined her left side, ready for use. The skin of her elbows remained exposed, ready to shift and draw the blades when she deemed necessary, but for now, it was merely an interview.
"So which is it?"
Tags:
Alana Calloway
The heat was oppressive, even through the shielding of the platform. Mustafar's blackened rock and molten veins stretched into the distance, the air shimmering with the constant, restless motion of the planet's infernal rivers.
Natima Vando stood near the edge of a jagged overlook, clad in light combat armor that bore no insignia, no clear allegiance. It was practical, made for movement—exactly what she expected of her apprentice.
Her current face, a sharp-featured woman with red hair tied back, was set in a neutral expression. Green eyes, keen and patient, flicked toward the entrance to the platform. Alana was late.
Not by much. But late was late.
Natima didn't check a chrono. Didn't move. Instead, she ran one gloved hand over the small vibroblade at her belt, as if reacquainting herself with the feel of it. A subtle reminder.
This wasn't a lesson in punctuality. This was a test.
She listened for the approach, the shift of boots against metal, the telltale weight in a step that gave away a person's state of mind. When Alana arrived, Natima finally turned, her voice as smooth as durasteel cooled in the dark.
"You're slower than I expected." A pause. A slight tilt of the head, assessing. "But that's good. It means you're cautious. Careful. Or it means you're uncertain."
She took a single step forward, posture relaxed, but there was no mistaking the predator in her stance.
Several of her vibroknifes lined her left side, ready for use. The skin of her elbows remained exposed, ready to shift and draw the blades when she deemed necessary, but for now, it was merely an interview.
"So which is it?"
