Graphite

[Cira]

At first, I wasn’t even sure what it was that Linna held out to me. It was enough to draw a frown of confusion at the small used ammo can, reused as a container for sakekeeping and shipping purposes.

“What is it?” I asked her, frowning as I took the small can in between my hands. It was lighter than I expected,

“Security had them scanned for explosives and any biochemical weapons, came out clean. Scans show that all they have are sheets of filmsi.”

Them? That had me blinking.

“Filmsi? … and there are more?” Her answer was two more small containers; one was a durasteel flare box, the other a used grenade tin.

“Two more to be exact. Three in total.” Linna replied, a bit quieter than normal.

The frown went deeping over my face as I slowly began to open the first. Soot, rust, and a faint dusting of grime covered it. It completely stood out of the grain in the small dainty desk it had been set upon.

I hadn’t left Naboo as I’d intended; Linna wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t long before confirmation came that the one who had so vexed me days earlier had left. More than a month had passed since then, my stay on Naboo being extended as the war between the One Sith and The Galactic Republic began to boil.

Slowly, my fingers went sliding over the top of the ammo can, coming over to a stop at the latches. The click clicking sound came next as I snapped them from their locked position, followed by the slight groan of metal as the lid went flipping open.

To reveal sheets of filmsi; shipping manifests really. That frown deepened. It didn’t register that Linna had left by the time I pulled the torn and well worn sheets out. The sound of crinkling filmsi brought me back to another time. Another place. Why would anyone send me shipping -- the thought would come to an abrupt halt as I finished unfolding the filmsi.

It wasn’t a shipping manifest -- no, not as the aurabesh sigils written in stark contrast to the grimy torn sheet in a neat upward slant became alarming clear.

It was a letter.

I’m on Coruscant, now. Too little too late. Guess that is how war goes when you don’t expect it…

I had a sickening forbearing that the sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach would soon return.

It pains me to think that we created our own enemies...we destroyed our friendships too.

It did.

Do you remember when we first met?

A silly question, I know, but my mind keeps going back to it. How ready I was to throw the label of Sith at you, and for what? What you chose to hold me off with.

It was a letter.

Funny to think you were right, in a manner. I did need to return. But I cannot return without recharge, and that was exactly what I got. Even if all you got was exasperation. My apologies.

Perhaps another time?

I know the answer already, but it feels good to ask.


From him.

Sarge.

The hand that held the letter fell to my side, only to rise up and glance at the other two containers. Quickly, I set the letter on top of the desk only to bring the small flare box over. Click click. More rustling of filmsi. The grenade tin was next. Click click and a flip of a lid. More sheets of filmsi.

My eyes went scanning over the first couple of sentences.

Another day, another soldier left in the field. We cannot reclaim them and it is a physical pain that their abandonment causes me….

Then went on to the first sentence of the other.

I can feel the rust in my bones. That doesn't seem right. Perhaps a storms coming. Might explain why the knee is acting up. Can't be sure. Hard to tell through the chemical cloud cover. I can hear the worms grinding their way through the old factories.

That sickening feeling mixed with a bit of befuddled shock came in. Letters. They were all written letters.

Graphite on filmsi --- shipping manifests for Force sakes!

A slide of a chair and then the soft rustle of fabric gave way as I sat down in front of the three open containers, my eyes trying to take in the absurdity of it all. Slowly, I reached over for the first letter, the date on it labeled it as the first.

Once again, I began to read from the top, the distant sounds of birds chirping from beyond the nearby balcony a stark contrast to the content therein the sheet of filmsi in front of me.

I’m on Coruscant, now. Too little too late. Guess that is how war goes when you don’t expect it…

So he was on Coruscant now. A spare glance to my datapad made me remember what I’d had sent him in my anger and my lips drew into a thin line.

Do you remember when we first met?

A silly question, I know, but my mind keeps going back to it.

I couldn’t help the faint upward quirk of my lips at that. As if I could forget. He’d snuck into my office without a by your leave and a metric ton full of sarcastic arrogance.

It had been my full intention to throw him out of that window. Otherwise, I wouldn't have used the Force.

... but I cannot return without recharge, and that was exactly what I got. Even if all you got was exasperation. My apologies.

Perhaps another time?

I know the answer already, but it feels good to ask.


He was apologizing…. It took me a moment to come to terms with that. Then he did it again.

My fervent hope is we can do some measure of good here, given time, and perhaps reclaim this world from the hands of our most ancient of foes.

Do you have one? I've long been aware of your hatred for Sith, but that seems based more upon a moral ground than an ancient and bitter enmity. I'm prying again.

My sincerest apologies.

Do you have one? ...My sincerest apologies.

These will be smuggled out at the earliest convenience. I hope they reach you in better condition than I'm in sending them. I have a worrisome fear that they will show up illegible and tattered.

-S

Long seconds would pass as I reread that once more, the glowing light of the afternoon sun a contrast to the description of what I’d just read.

My eyes would rise to rest upon the other two neatly folded letters, their torn edges worn and covered in grime, soot, and if any of those dark red smears were of any indication, blood.

“What were you thinking?” came my exasperated utterance from my lips. Why was he writing letters? To me of all people?

It was confusing. Baffling.
And it was only the beginning.

 

[Cira]

Utter confusion and bafflement went washing over her face. Cira sat there for what seemed to be long minutes, the first letter still held in her hand, her years as a xenoarchaeologist prompting her to hold it carefully by the edges through muscle memory.

Blinking rapidly, she attempted to gather her wits. However, that was an easier said than done. The pale pink tip of her went slipping out of her mouth to lick dry lips.

She took a deep breath, a million questions still running through her mind. Why was he writing to her? What ever gave him that blasted idea? And just what was he trying to do...

Always the curious one and perhaps, a bit suspicious when it came to Sarge -- but then again, considering the rather odd relationship they had, it was no wonder.

He had an ability to get under her skin like none other, and that vexed her. Vexed her good.

Her shoulders rose as she took a deep breath, placing the letter in her hand down only to pick up another.

Gently, and with all the careful concern of a researcher handling delicate artifact, she brought it closers. She went smoothing it out in front of her, feeling the thin layer of grime that had accumulated over it, a slight smear of graphite sliding over the pad of her thumb, staining it grey with it’s grit.


Another day, another soldier left in the field. We cannot reclaim them and it is a physical pain that their abandonment causes me. But I cannot sacrifice the lives of many for the body of one. We do not have the manpower and supply to make this a reality…

Sometimes, I wonder how far sentients can sink in order to survive.


She quietly mulled over those words, recalling the horrors of the Bando Gora Reavers.

Far… and farther still. she thought grimly, of just how low sentients can get. Cannibalistic, murdering, sociopaths that ---


And its in those moments I remember.

A cave. Dark and dried by the bombardment that left radioactive dust floating upon the breeze like so many tattered leaves. A body on a wall, pinned and spread eagle; a warning. Go no further.

...Cannibals they were. They deemed themselves rulers of a dead world.


What? She gave a frown, straightening in her chair as she kept reading.



...There is no pride in the destruction of a planet, only the aching emptiness that comes from knowing how many stories were ended before they started.

How many chapters were interrupted mid sentence.

The uneasiness grew, and a small chill ran down her spine. This was personal. This went beyond the silence. This was a window into the inner musings of a man who’d she had been content to sit in silence; for her own sense of privacy as well as for his.

A confusing medley of emotions would tug in conflict. She didn’t want to know. It made her uncomfortable but at the same time, it made her curious. By her Shi’ido nature she was naturally curious, add to the fact that her choice of study and occupation had been xenoarcheology and xenosentologiy… well, it was an overall bad combination.

She should stop reading. She should just collect the letters and put them away.

But she couldn’t.

There was just something about graphite on filmsi. It told a story. A story that carried with it an intimacy that could not be expressed by mere holocommunication. The time it took to write it in the most primitive of forms. Every error, every smear of graphite, and every unique neat loop and whorl of the aurabesh alphabet.

Intimate to the point that one could easily imagine the low tenor of his voice dictating every word in front of her. Beside her.

And it was not something she could ignore.

When they were in that shuttle, enroute to the StarFall, she could avoid his gaze, she could play her role and her part and simply avoid anything that would push the conversation into revealing more than she was comfortable with.

With this… in this, he had effectively managed to convey his thoughts without a single way to stop him, as they lead on sentence by sentence. Thought after thought. Muse after muse of introspection and revealing just a bit more with every stroke of the pencil.


It feels good to put it on flimsi though. Nice to just... get it out. Lay it bare.

Perhaps one day you could do the same. I imagine it would be an almost liberating sensation, just to write without hope that who you are writing to will ever read what you've put down. It's almost like talking to yourself.

We both know all about that.

-S

….We both know all about that.

A fine trembling came to her hands at the truth of that.

 

[Cira]

We both know all about that.


In that instant she drew back against her chair, the letter fluttering from her hands to settle on top of the polished marble desk. Gold eyes went darting over towards the balcony, where the gentle breeze of cool lake air would kiss the open archway, bringing with it the distant calls of birds and gentle rustling of leaves.

Memories would murmur at the back of her mind. His voice.


You’re avoiding the personal questions again, Cira. You can’t do it forever. Force knows I couldn’t.


There was a time where she would say in full confidence that Sarge and her were both pros at ignoring anything and everything that passes between them that might smack of emotion. It was the routine. There was safety in routine. In that familiarity. In the silence.


Say it, Cira. The sooner you say it the sooner the room stops shrinking.


But that only brought back that dreadful night on Fondor. Dark Harvest.

The long list of missing and dead.

Sitting there, head in her hands, her office a wreck and scattered sheets of filmsi fluttering like ash around her.

Every burden, every bit of responsibility of the Protectorate weighing on her shoulders.

How every time she thought she was getting wiser, more in control of her actions, she only ended up slamming face first into a situation that makes her excruciatingly aware that all she’s succeeded in doing is swapping one set of delusions for a more elaborate, attractive set of delusions. And how that single mental chide went roaring in her mind.

That’s me. The Queen of Deception.

In more ways than one.


Cira...


Uz nie som tvoja starost. << I am no longer your concern >>


You’re my concern until you remember you’re a person, not a title nor a figure.


Cira took a deep breath, closing her eyes, blocking out the memories of his voice. Of that day. And of what came after.

Of what he’d made her feel and that awareness… that blasted awareness.

Who knows how long she sat there, emotions in confused turmoil. The sun’s ray’s had long since drifted to cast long shadows across the open balcony. A weary sigh fell from her lips and she opened her eyes, her gaze drifting over towards the last worn sheet of filmsi. The faded style of the shipping manifest seemingly to silently mock her.

She stared at it for what seemed like hours, before finally, her right hand rose. A single finger went hovering over a torn edge, only to press down and gently slide the sheet towards her again.

The sound of crinkling filmsi joined that of a rustle of leaves, a shift in the wind, as Cira carefully unfolded the letter.

And began to read.


What time is it?

I can feel the rust in my bones. That doesn't seem right. Perhaps a storms coming. Might explain why the knee is acting up. Can't be sure. Hard to tell through the chemical cloud cover. I can hear the worms grinding their way through the old factories.


Funny how she could hear the low timbre of his voice as she read the neat script.

Of course, it wasn’t without those small reminders of who exactly was the author. The following lines were enough to perk the corners of her mouth in mild amusement.


This place takes the cake for Suck.

Man do I hate cake.


Not surprised. The thought of Sarge and cake just did not mix.


Why... why do people like it? I mean, I understand pastries taste good but that icing is just disgustingly sweet. Can't do it. Can't do it.


Brows rose in surprise at that, then there came a small grimace. For three reasons really.

One, because she also disliked the rich sweetness of icing, anything ridiculously sweet really. She couldn’t stand it either. Her notable taste in black bitter coffee would give small evidence of that.

Two, because she was actually agreeing with him.

Three, the realization that they both had a common dislike.

It didn’t bode well.


I'm a thorn, really. It's my lot in life. I'm prickly and I stick around when all people want is for me to be gone.


You don’t have to say that twice. In this she could completely and utterly agree. He'd been a pain in her ass that just wouldn't go away. No matter what she did he was still there. Like a both fly on a banth's ass. Constantly there.


But you can't get rid of me, because without me there's no rose. There's no foil to the beauty around us.

No dark without the light.

The lights here haven't worked in days.

Managed to find an old oil lamp, though. So I use that to write, sometimes. When I can find the time.


There was something about a narrative of a letter that had the ability to paint a mental picture. It had the ability to take the reader on a journey that was unique to the written word. Funny that Sarge of all sentients was able to so eloquently deliver it in such a poetic manner.

Who would have thought?

But what came next…. oh by Dyspeth, shook her to the core. She should have known he would do that.

He had a way of bringing her up only to knock her down. Just like that day. That blasted day.


I miss lights. I miss home.

I miss you, probably just because I've got no way of entertaining myself.

Ah, who am I kidding. I just don't feel right not havin' you around. Not sure why. Can't think so well. Probably that quiet strength of yours. Yeah, sounds right. Always so driven. Intense. Dedicated.


She froze, her fingers tightening upon the page, feeling the lingering fine grit of graphite, tinting the pads of her fingers a fine silvery grey.

Why did he have to say that? She didn’t want to read that.

It made her mind wander. To that day. Again. The shuttle. Words. Words and phrases and that intrinsic to their wordless free-for-all that tacit agreement to never elevate those conversations into a verbal level. Neither would cross the line, it was just the way things were.

No, it was the way they’d once been.

Things were different. They were different the moment he said that aloud.

She didn’t say, I missed you.

But he did. He did.


I missed you. Probably more than I should have.


His exact expression in that very moment went blooming in her mind. How the black void of his gaze had rested upon hers, that sad curve of his lips as he said ‘You heard me,’ quietly, firmly. No hesitation at all as he broke the silence.

It had been too much to take. Eriadu. The media. His sudden arrival. His return to the living. His status a Jedi. And those words.

Shock had certainly painted the former Lady Protector’s visage then in clear colors for Sarge to see then.

The wounded shocked expression. Lips parting only to close in dawning realization. The avoidant gaze there after.

He was a crack sniper for a reason and he’d found a weak point to exploit. And he’d found that clink in her armor.

Stars, did it vex her. Awareness. That awareness.

It … it just inexplicably didn’t fit anywhere in her understanding of reality. Not with her goals. Not with what she’d become.

A flicker of lashes would bring her attention back to the slightly trembling letter in her hand. Eyes that had avoided the void of his gaze then could not help but fall upon the inner musings of the Jedi Master. You can ignore the living breathing sentient in front of you, but in the silence of her solitude, it was an altogether different manner. The mind had a way of running away with itself.

Perhaps, because only in solitude does the truth ever really come out.


Not so different, really.

And yet worlds apart. No... pun intended? I think that works here. Maybe not.


By now her right hand had risen to rest her fingers against the fullness of her lower lip, her left holding the worn sheet of filmsi. Her mouth gave a slight quirk again. Humor. Perhaps it was due to the sensation of nervousness, unease, and a need to turn the train wreck of thoughts in her mind towards a different direction.

But as always, he just wouldn’t let her do that.


Situation not normal. Situation was never normal.

Are we normal? Is carrying out conversations with another person in your head normal?


Outside looking in, perhaps one wouldn’t say normal to say the least. Their wordless conversations were just that. At the very least, there was that confirmation that he knew exactly what she’d been referencing. He’d been aware, yet he purposely crossed the line.

It made her so uncomfortable.


What about a relationship? We fight like old lovers. We were never actually that close.

Did I miss a step somewhere?

Or the whole staircase?


Back against the chair she went again, the letter fluttering to the table as her right hand went running through the thick strands of her hair, pushing it away from her face, the arched fresco painted ceiling appearing before her blank stare.

What about a relationship? We fight like old lovers.

Awareness.

Just like that night, closing her eyes would not fade away the image nor the rush when he’d pulled her close, anger rolling at her constant denial, lips suddenly on hers.

There was no denying his existence then. Not when that familiar scent that she’d come to know from his cloak had suddenly enveloped her in the most tangible of ways. It wasn’t secondhand, but with that brash unrelenting and unapologetic manner that were the epitome of Sarge Potteiger. It was not the soft flex of fabric against her, but the bristle of his beard, the heat of his kiss, and the anger that had boiled between them.

Or, perhaps, you’re afraid of facing yourself.

Again, his works mocked her. Went beating against that mental wall she had that protected those wandering thoughts. Crazy inexplicable thoughts that made no sense whatsoever in her perfect logical and organized world.

There, in the distance, the seemingly sound of crumbling mortar and brick could be heard. Or maybe that was all in her head as trembling fingers went rubbing her face. His voice resonating in her ears.

Or, perhaps, you're afraid of facing yourself?

He'd nailed it then.

If you wish to keep avoiding that place you may. Just know that you have no control over time.

As he'd done again now.

Time had run out.

 

[Cira]

The sun had begun to sink into the distant horizon, the sky a painting a canvas of crimson, indigo, and citrine. The light of the evening star was bright while the moons of Naboo shone in illuminated crescents.

Cira had long since left the desk from where she’d sat to get fresh air, choosing to wander over to the balcony. There she let her body lean against the vine covered railing, left hand idly playing with a leaf.

Weeks had passed since she’d received those first three letters. Weeks where she spent long hours of introspection among the sea of oblivion of her research in ancient holocrons and artifacts.

Work would always distract her. Take her into it’s comforting arms into a land where time would cease to matter and all she had to focus on was discovering the secrets of cultures or organizations long lost.

However, it was getting a bit more difficult to do so lately.

She took a deep breath, her head dipping as her right hand rose, lifting the latest entry into Sarge’s worldview.

Linna had delivered it to her earlier in the day, but she had avoided it. Avoided as much as she could by pouring herself into a holocron detailing that of the Order of the White Current. However, she could not help but feel her eyes drifting over to the small grenade ammo can that held that which seemingly mocked her.

By sunset, she had finally given into her anxious curiosity. There had been no legible date, so she had no real clue as to when he’d written it, but it was clear by the content that it was prior to the on going battle of Carida.

Is that where he is now? The thought would percolate in her mind. Concern washing over her.

A sigh fell from her lips.

His letter confused her. Confused her more than she was already. There was content in there that she couldn’t quite put into context. And it didn’t help that his reference to that fateful day when Ayden approached her made her recall how it all started.

Why did Ayden come to her then? Why come to her? To Omega Pyre?

Why had he not gone to the Republic? The Hutt Cartel?

Her gaze fell down at the letter, re reading the last few paragraphs.

You can't trust them.


Just like you can't trust anyone, anymore. A shame, that. Even the people fighting alongside you may turn their rifles on you at any moment without warning.

What a time we live in. 400 years of surviving a plague for this? I'd have been better off to die all those years ago. But I didn't. Perhaps the Force was guiding me here. I'd like to think it guided me to you.

There's no other explanation really. Ayden was content to stay the course, maintain what we had. Then, suddenly, he was shifting gears, breaking atmo. For some reason he was compelled to approach you and your mercenaries about a deal. And there we were.

Indeed.

There we all were.

Now what is to become of us? that single question frightened her. It wound knots in the pit of her stomach.

There was too much going on in the galaxy and in it, the shameful realization that one did not know exactly who you could trust. Who would never falter.

Who would stay the course.​