Geneviève Lasedri
Fascists hate her!
She had caved in. Call it something grand like intuition or merely desperation in the cause to reverse the inevitable, the Prime Minister had approved a contract for approximately two hundred cloned men of the build of a Mandalorian by the name of Mantis. A clone army lived once more. What had she done?
Justification had always been a mode by which Geneviève operated. Everything she did went through her mind like a plaintiff and defendant before a judge, but she always came out right either way. She had murdered no one. She was just an instrument to their unholy demise. She had not lied. She had only protected the innocent. She had not signed away her soul. She had sacrificed her standing for the greater good of her Republic and this galaxy. She was righteous.
Being the righteous head of this clamoring nation afforded her a few seconds here or there to visit her home and attempt to relax, though there was far too much on her mind to ever truly relax. Not without a bottle of wine in hand, anyway. Dammit, what have you become this time, Gen? Externally, she never seemed to change; seemed incapable of change. Few knew any Lasedri apart from the crass, dominating warhawk who had so gracelessly graced the Senate with her imposing presence. But Gen knew a different Gen on he inside--one who had hated her father only several weeks ago and now was drinking away some raw emotion she nearly had difficulty recognizing. It was a pure sorrow. Deep down, she knew she had always wanted Daddy. Had he wanted her?
Simply dressed in a gray tanktop and white linen pants, the Prime Minister gazed across the farmlands of Chandrila from the balcony of her suite. She was not tipsy yet, and for good reason. She was to meet with this commander of the presented clone legions whenever she arrived. From what Geneviève understood, there was no reason to dress up for this occasion. And she was completely game for that.
Justification had always been a mode by which Geneviève operated. Everything she did went through her mind like a plaintiff and defendant before a judge, but she always came out right either way. She had murdered no one. She was just an instrument to their unholy demise. She had not lied. She had only protected the innocent. She had not signed away her soul. She had sacrificed her standing for the greater good of her Republic and this galaxy. She was righteous.
Being the righteous head of this clamoring nation afforded her a few seconds here or there to visit her home and attempt to relax, though there was far too much on her mind to ever truly relax. Not without a bottle of wine in hand, anyway. Dammit, what have you become this time, Gen? Externally, she never seemed to change; seemed incapable of change. Few knew any Lasedri apart from the crass, dominating warhawk who had so gracelessly graced the Senate with her imposing presence. But Gen knew a different Gen on he inside--one who had hated her father only several weeks ago and now was drinking away some raw emotion she nearly had difficulty recognizing. It was a pure sorrow. Deep down, she knew she had always wanted Daddy. Had he wanted her?
Simply dressed in a gray tanktop and white linen pants, the Prime Minister gazed across the farmlands of Chandrila from the balcony of her suite. She was not tipsy yet, and for good reason. She was to meet with this commander of the presented clone legions whenever she arrived. From what Geneviève understood, there was no reason to dress up for this occasion. And she was completely game for that.