the Kid for the Win
Step by step.
Each and everyday, Kyric repeated the simple phrase to himself as he marched alongside dozens of prisoners back and forth from the cortosis mines of Obreedan. From what the Kid had gathered in his two years alongside them, most were lifers—locked away decades ago in Darth Solipsis’ initial rise to power. Then Senator, Fossk, disappeared anyone and anything who drew too close to the vestiges of truth lingering within his poisonous lies.
It was an ingenious strategy, really. The galaxy afforded those like the Sith Lord an endless supply of dark sites for idiots like Kyric. But things changed not long after the young Jedi arrived in Mining Facility 36-A.
Kyric felt ripples within the Force not unlike a powerful wind. It carried warmth in the form of a promise; a promise of peace. The Shadow of the Sith Lord grew distant in the months following Kyric’s arrival. The Dark Side Elite responsible for breaking the Son of the Sword—as Solipsis’ so readily called the kiffar—vanished soon after. Stormtroopers within the facility cycled out (likely through the incinerator) by the current command were replaced by staunch loyalists to whichever Imperial Fragment survived the collapse of the Sith Lord’s grand design.
Whether by choice or by chance, ‘Moff’ K’sari paid Kyric little attention. The imperial’s attention was fixed on production, production, production! His prisoners were worked hard, driven to collect more cortosis than under Solipsis’ rule. Dozens died in the mishandling of the dangerous material. Regulations shifted not long after. The inmates saw an increase in their quality of life at the cost of longer, more rigorous shifts.
By now, Kyric expected to have wasted away into a husk of who he was prior to his capture. Instead, the Jedi was physically stronger. His body acclimated quicker than most. It allowed for the kiffar to shoulder the burdens of his team, saving many the lash, or worse: isolation.
Everyone except himself.
By virtue of Kyric’s force sensitivity, the stormtroopers marched him further into the facility than the others. They knew the effects a Jedi could have on the broken and hopeless. More importantly, the imperials knew what a Karis would do if given the chance. The legacy of his father stretched even into imperial history, as a young Ryv Karis played a pivotal role in uniting the Core and destroying the Sith Empire once and for all.
So, Kyric marched. And marched some more. He stood between four stormtroopers with heavy blaster rifles trained on the Jedi as they led him into a turbolift. It descended almost immediately, headed for sublevel 50.
Even before the turbolift stopped and the door opened, Kyric felt the cold. It was one of many strategies implemented by the Moff to keep the Jedi cooperative. Forced to focus on merely surviving his rest periods in sub-zero temperatures, Kyric couldn’t begin to formulate a path to freedom—not while every moment in his cell was spent in deep meditation. To make an already untenable situation worse, the kiffar’s entire team of laborers were unknowing hostages; the perfect collateral.
Step by step.
Kyric stepped into his cell at the behest of his armed transport. He turned in time to offer a smile and a salute, no different than any other day, then watched the door slide to a close.
“Right,” Kyric mumbled to himself. He turned and wandered to the thin mat shoved into the corner of his cell. The old thing did nothing for the cold, but it provided a comfort the kiffar latched onto at the end of another long day of digging dirt, breaking rocks, and lugging the Obreedan earth throughout the facility. He worked the tension from his tired body over the next half hour, moving through his daily stretches in preparation for the day the Kid would finally escape.
But until then? Kyric needed to sleep.
When next Kyric opened his eyes, the kiffar cast his gaze to an endless blue sky overhead. An overwhelming heat bore down on him. The sensation of grainy sand and dry heat made him reconsider his whole stance on freezing cold accommodations. He quietly pushed himself to his feet and turned a complete circle in search of a person, place, or thing that could even begin to explain what the hell was going on.
Unfortunately, Aradishu greeted him. The old slave market stood taller than it did the day Damien and Kyric infiltrated the ‘town.’ Bodies bustled through the sands, driven relentlessly into overcrowded pens fit for animals—not people. The sight made the Jedi sick. Regret instantly flooded into him. He had the chance to shut this place down once before, but he let his brother talk him out of i-
No.
Kyric sighed. He lifted both hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. Damien was right when he told Kyric not to run off, halfcocked, into a den of such unquestionable evil. The kiffar couldn’t doubt that now. Instead, he set off across the dunes in search of answers.
Tags:
Capris Halcyon
Honorable Mentions:
Darth Solipsis
|
Damien Dooku
Each and everyday, Kyric repeated the simple phrase to himself as he marched alongside dozens of prisoners back and forth from the cortosis mines of Obreedan. From what the Kid had gathered in his two years alongside them, most were lifers—locked away decades ago in Darth Solipsis’ initial rise to power. Then Senator, Fossk, disappeared anyone and anything who drew too close to the vestiges of truth lingering within his poisonous lies.
It was an ingenious strategy, really. The galaxy afforded those like the Sith Lord an endless supply of dark sites for idiots like Kyric. But things changed not long after the young Jedi arrived in Mining Facility 36-A.
Kyric felt ripples within the Force not unlike a powerful wind. It carried warmth in the form of a promise; a promise of peace. The Shadow of the Sith Lord grew distant in the months following Kyric’s arrival. The Dark Side Elite responsible for breaking the Son of the Sword—as Solipsis’ so readily called the kiffar—vanished soon after. Stormtroopers within the facility cycled out (likely through the incinerator) by the current command were replaced by staunch loyalists to whichever Imperial Fragment survived the collapse of the Sith Lord’s grand design.
Whether by choice or by chance, ‘Moff’ K’sari paid Kyric little attention. The imperial’s attention was fixed on production, production, production! His prisoners were worked hard, driven to collect more cortosis than under Solipsis’ rule. Dozens died in the mishandling of the dangerous material. Regulations shifted not long after. The inmates saw an increase in their quality of life at the cost of longer, more rigorous shifts.
By now, Kyric expected to have wasted away into a husk of who he was prior to his capture. Instead, the Jedi was physically stronger. His body acclimated quicker than most. It allowed for the kiffar to shoulder the burdens of his team, saving many the lash, or worse: isolation.
Everyone except himself.
By virtue of Kyric’s force sensitivity, the stormtroopers marched him further into the facility than the others. They knew the effects a Jedi could have on the broken and hopeless. More importantly, the imperials knew what a Karis would do if given the chance. The legacy of his father stretched even into imperial history, as a young Ryv Karis played a pivotal role in uniting the Core and destroying the Sith Empire once and for all.
So, Kyric marched. And marched some more. He stood between four stormtroopers with heavy blaster rifles trained on the Jedi as they led him into a turbolift. It descended almost immediately, headed for sublevel 50.
Even before the turbolift stopped and the door opened, Kyric felt the cold. It was one of many strategies implemented by the Moff to keep the Jedi cooperative. Forced to focus on merely surviving his rest periods in sub-zero temperatures, Kyric couldn’t begin to formulate a path to freedom—not while every moment in his cell was spent in deep meditation. To make an already untenable situation worse, the kiffar’s entire team of laborers were unknowing hostages; the perfect collateral.
Step by step.
Kyric stepped into his cell at the behest of his armed transport. He turned in time to offer a smile and a salute, no different than any other day, then watched the door slide to a close.
“Right,” Kyric mumbled to himself. He turned and wandered to the thin mat shoved into the corner of his cell. The old thing did nothing for the cold, but it provided a comfort the kiffar latched onto at the end of another long day of digging dirt, breaking rocks, and lugging the Obreedan earth throughout the facility. He worked the tension from his tired body over the next half hour, moving through his daily stretches in preparation for the day the Kid would finally escape.
But until then? Kyric needed to sleep.
When next Kyric opened his eyes, the kiffar cast his gaze to an endless blue sky overhead. An overwhelming heat bore down on him. The sensation of grainy sand and dry heat made him reconsider his whole stance on freezing cold accommodations. He quietly pushed himself to his feet and turned a complete circle in search of a person, place, or thing that could even begin to explain what the hell was going on.
Unfortunately, Aradishu greeted him. The old slave market stood taller than it did the day Damien and Kyric infiltrated the ‘town.’ Bodies bustled through the sands, driven relentlessly into overcrowded pens fit for animals—not people. The sight made the Jedi sick. Regret instantly flooded into him. He had the chance to shut this place down once before, but he let his brother talk him out of i-
No.
Kyric sighed. He lifted both hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. Damien was right when he told Kyric not to run off, halfcocked, into a den of such unquestionable evil. The kiffar couldn’t doubt that now. Instead, he set off across the dunes in search of answers.
Tags:
Capris Halcyon
Honorable Mentions:
Darth Solipsis
|
Damien Dooku
