Private Folsom Prison Blues

[Fynn Dayemi]

Nothing better to do, when I'm stuck on you
I'm still in here trying to figure it out
LOCAL PRISON, CENTARES
Djorn Bline ​

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of the ball hitting the wall marked the passage of every second between meals. The repetitive motion of her arm over and over soothed her, keeping her from going crazy as she swam in the sea of despair. The small confinement of her cell didn't allow pacing, nor windows for any reconnaissance of the place while she was in it. Waiting was the only thing to do. The spark of hope was quickly being extinguished. Extraction was plausible, but that chance slipped further and further with every hour. It was only a matter of time until planetary authorities were forced to hand her over to the Iron Empire.

"Up and at'em," A voice demanded from the other side of the metal door. It slid open to reveal a jailor the size of a bantha. Beady eyes slithered over her face and neck, a smirk dressing his lips. "They sure did a number on you, didn't they?"

Fynn made no move to hide the purpling blemishes that covered the left side of her face. Her head rose as she stood, as if the pantoran wore it as a badge of honor. The academy had prepared her for what she had been through the night before; the fact she still had it after all those years was a source of pride. Wordlessly, she waited, until the guard finally turned with a hmph and led her from the cell. The pair rounded the corner to the hallway that led into the mess hall. A familiar form in front of her caught her gaze. Eyes widened, then relax, attempting to act casual.

As the line of prisoners made their way to the counters, a blue arm brushed against his own, her eyes locking his sidelong for a second before dropping to the gruel that was slopped onto her tray in front of her. The soldier had to work to keep the disgust off her face, not wanting to draw the wrath of the calloused and grey woman who served her. As they shuffled from the line, Fynn kept on his heels, driving him to the first free table and slamming her tray down.

"What are you still doing here?"​

 

[Djorn Bline]

Wasn't the first time he was detained, but he sure was hoping the last time was the last time...however long ago that was. Was there tricks up his sleeve to avoid detention within the local prison? Yes, but that would give a bad mark on the New Imperials. The operation was to have Centares willingly join the Empire and denounce the resistant cells on the planet, not spark controversy and give a wrong impression to its people. So he lied, as always. Denied any affiliation with the Empire, if he was ever asked about the Imperials. Just lied to the interrogators about himself and his past. Wasn't proven guilt until facing a judge, but how long would that be until enough evidence was gathered up to put him on trial.

That wouldn't be a problem as he had no intentions for staying too long behind bars. There was too much work to be done just for him to sit about and let time be stolen from him. It was just a small setback in the grand scheme of things. Nothing ever could go perfect, he learned that through his experiences.

Always expect something to derail a plan. An unknown variable, but it always lurked. An unknown variable he could work as an asset.

"Nice to see you again," he said sarcastically, as the two sat down on opposite sides of the table their were occupying with a adequate meal served to them. Adequate in the sense it was edible, not delicious.

"The hell you mean by that? I'm sure you're well aware of how prisoners are processed and all that shit, yeah? Well, that's why I'm here," picking at his food with his own fork, looking at his plate with a frown. Better this than eating wildlife on a mission that's for sure.

"We wouldn't be in this situation if you weren't so damn stubborn, y'know? Now look at us, all thanks to you."

Fynn Dayemi​

 

[Fynn Dayemi]

A flicker of uncertainty swept the pantoran's face before it recomposed itself into a pointed glare. Eyes narrowed, mouth twisted into a frown, she searched the man's face for any hints. Finally, her gaze dropped to her tray. A plastic fork gingerly traced lines through the mush, pushing it around.

"If you would have given me the information I wanted, I wouldn't have kept you so long." She threw back with a condescending sneer.

A probing gaze swept the room, looking for eavesdroppers. Some prisoners were whooping and hollering at nearby tables, hyped up by the only socialization they got. Others were sullen, tucked into corners, dead eyes devoid of any joy. Guards were posted at the only point of entry, a few more scattered along the walls. Every one in a while, their gaze would flicker to their table, but none were within earshot.

"I still want to know." She mused, though the words held a deadly edge. "Who gave the order? And why are they letting you rot in some local prison? What game are you playing?"

Blue eyes bore a hole into him, shining with anger.

 

[Djorn Bline]

“Couldn’t have risked it, I’m sure you’d know why. I didn’t know what you’re affiliations are, especially with how tense things are around here,” he remarked back at the Pantoran, still playing with his food. Gave him something to keep his emotions at bay. Play with it enough to bore the hell out of him, but he needed a bite to keep his stomach content.

“I gave myself the goddamn order, alright?” Indeed playing this game of cat and mouse? For the lack of a better word. He wasn’t lying, of course…at least on that. He sure acted on his own accord without asking for permission or waiting for orders. He killed the diplomat Gideon Saigo was attending; he blew up that squad of stormtroopers and civilians. She was shocked with the latter, but him? Live long enough, and the mirror will just reflect an ugly, demented image of Djorn. Better to die young than to live with sorrows and lack of empathy. Not a life to for the faint of heart, hopefully the Pantoran wouldn’t last long in this particular profession.

“I simply do what needs to be done, plain and simple. Doesn’t matter how I do it, so long as the job gets done. Someone needs to scare off those Imps,” finally picking up mushed food with his spoon, giving a bite before looking up to stare at the Pantoran’s angry frown.

“Does that satisfy you?”

Fynn Dayemi

 

[Fynn Dayemi]

The hard facade flickered, uncertainty sweeping across her face. No signs of mistruths were present at the implications- and the story matched what she knew was true of the civilian cells on the planet. I simply do what needs to be done, plain and simple. She shifted a bit, her form softening. Had she not meant to do what needed to be done that day, too? That bag she had taken when left her team carried death itself. Then again, her target had been chosen days before, taking care to avoid innocents.

"No." She answered plainly. "But it at least explains some things. No one is gonna cry for those bucketheads- but someone will damn sure want to avenge their loved ones. All you were doing was threatening to make more of 'em. They hadn't chosen a side. They didn't deserve that pain."

Her voice had fallen hushed, eyes pensive, somewhere beyond this place and time. A shiver rolled through her spine. Lips pursed as she avoided eye contact, not wishing to see her reflection again.

"What's done is done. I won't report you when we get outta here, but I'm damn sure not letting you off the hook, either." She wrinkled her nose, a dramatic glance thrown around the room. "Guess we gotta figure out a way outta here, first."

 

[Djorn Bline]

Pain. Pain…all this path he voluntarily chose and continued to pursue brought him that essence. He was promised, by a Miraluka Jedi he killed many years ago, that should he elect this path he would know only endless conflicts and know no substance of joy. Turns out his prediction came true, after coming all this way. What was once a lad with patriotism turned to be a zealous demon with only ideals and values holding him together from being a monster.

“Hahaha…oh, shit, as if a report would stop me. You’ve got lots to learn if you think everything is based on protocol and morals.” Still a disgusting smirk was on his lips, amused by such greenness from a soldier like the one across from her. A Rebel and democratic sympathizer, but a soldier all the same. A soldier that thought they knew to differentiate right and wrong, good and evil as if they were black and white

“And yeah, I don’t plan on staying here either. I’m sure the time will come, it’ll come eventually. You got any friends that could bail us out without charge? Or are we gonna have to do the dirty work ourselves?”

Took another bite from his “meal”.

“Got a name I can call you?”

 

[Fynn Dayemi]

"Captain Fynn Dayemi."

Her head lifted with the emphasis, bruise catching the light. There was no shame in the announcement. A name was held dearly when it was all you had. A blue hand was offered as an olive branch. She resisted the urge to snap about morals. If he was coming with her, he would learn the blood of innocents was not so easily washed clean. For now, she need his cooperation, as much as she hated to admit it to herself.

"We might have a chance. Extractions aren't uncommon, but... this is different. Anything that happens wouldn't be sponsored." A grimace fell across her face, exhaustion showing age lines. "Basically, I don't think we should get our hopes up."

A sweeping gaze assessed him.

"You wouldn't happen to be one of those techies, would you...?" The question trailed off as she raised an eyebrow, asking for a name. "Brawlin' and force I can handle, and sometimes people, but uh- I never did have the finesse for the finer things." She admitted with a chuckle.

 

[Djorn Bline]

“Eh, somewhat adept in using that. Obviously, you need a datapad or some similar device to even attempt that,” which was his weakest skillset; slicing and hacking. He usually had a third party do that from afar while he did the dirty work. Storm Commandos were trained in a variety of skills, all had to show they were capable of understanding the material.

“But I’m better off with a blaster and getting dirty,” explaining more to his newfound ally. Different sides of the same coin.

“The name is Abel,” that’s a lie, but he had to keep a strict cover on his identity.

“My opinion, but we should try to affiliate ourselves with some gang here. That’s our first step of getting out of here. We also need to learn the ins and outs of this place; basically, we gotta be observant and find exploits.”

“What cell you’re in?”

Fynn Dayemi​