Her expression when he'd first locked the door had not been particularly generous. After everything that had happened, especially with Jedi, there was a tightening around her mouth. Not fear but more of course, this again.
But his actual words melted that stony expression. At least a little. There was still a wariness in her eyes, but perhaps something else as well.
Irajah was, by and large, not particular impressed by the differences the Jedi especially liked to claim between the way they used the Force and the manner in which the Sith did. She wasn't particularly impressed by the differences in their methods, for that matter. So she wasn't particularly surprised or shocked- let alone upset- at the revelation about [member="Connor Harrison"]. Mostly because in her mind, the Force simply was.
And it certainly explained why he was less oppressive than most of the other Jedi she'd crossed paths with.
Of course, we can't let you leave.
It's for the best, you understand?
I'm sorry.
No they weren't.
He had taken a risk, stepped off of a cliff, by telling her who he was. And while she didn't really care about the whole 'light side/dark side' dichotomy nonsense, she also recognized that her reaction was not a particularly common one to that kind of news from a Jedi. They were both taking risks here.
Could she take one more? It had been over six months since she had escaped from the underworld her planet had become. Eleven months since she had woken up surrounded by the dead- not knowing how or why- simply that she was the only one left. Five months she had been surrounded by silence. And worse. And in all of that time, she had not told a single living soul about any of it. Not [member="Cait Falcor"], not [member="Boo Chiyo"], not [member="Ghorua the Shark"]. None of the people who had come to matter to her knew any of it. Because the words were just. Too. Heavy. They were too much.
If she didn't talk about it, maybe it wouldn't exist. If it was only a nightmare in the dark hours of the morning, maybe it didn't have to exist for anyone else.
But every time she looked in the mirror, she knew that was a lie.
Very slowly, Irajah rolled up one sleeve. The action was jerky. Her jaw set hard. The bruises were dark- angry and deep against her pale skin. Though she only rolled her sleeve up to the inside of her elbow, it was clear that they traveled farther up her arm.
For a moment she opened and closed her mouth, false starts. She didn't even know what words needed to be shared. They wouldn't come at first. Hazel eyes cast down to her arm, brow furrowing.
"When I say that my patients- people- are safe- that is mostly true. You are in no danger here. But-"
Irajah breathed in, ragged and hard, trying to silence the maddening staccato of a single word echoing in her head.
Gideon Gideon Gideon.
She dropped her hands in to her lap, but didn't roll the sleeve back down.
"Almost a year ago, a virus was..... accidentally... unleashed on my homeworld." She didn't look up, her tone carefully modulated, carefully controlled. She spoke slowly, taking time to pick through the words. Sometimes, her voice would shake, but then she would stop for a moment. She was not calming herself each time- no. She was clamping down with iron and fire, and as the recitation went on, some of that heat and hardness would creep in to her voice.
"It was engineered from multiple versions of the Hive virus. They called it Gideon."
It was the first time since Gap Nine that word had been given a life aloud. In hung heavy in the air.
"It has a nearly one hundred percent morbidity rate. As far as I know, only three people have ever survived the initial exposure. An unknown subject in the original trial. She appeared completely immune, so far as I have been able to find. The other two are my father. And me."
She paused then, eyes distant.
"His death, due to another cause, is what led to the outbreak. And to my infection. The only training I ever had in the Force- at the time, I had simply thought it was to help my mother- but I understand now it was also because he must have been aware that this was a possibility. It keeps me alive. Keeps the virus in check and from spreading. But the technique is imperfect. It has limits."
There was too much. Too many things. How her father himself had created the virus. How crushingly aware she was of the utter selfishness in her choices. To live. The risk she posed to people, if she were to lose control. And yet. She couldn't end it.
It was selfish. And it haunted her.
But she was not ready to die. That fire would not go out.
