Sarge Potteiger
Emotional Damage
Sarge hadn't quite believed it was happening so quick, but he'd got the message. He knew what was going on. Somewhat. A long time ago - many, many years - he'd broken into these very Towers, scaled their heights, and then snuck into the room housing the then Prex. A woman, [member="Cira"], whom Ayden had figured would be most likely to accept their offer of merger to consolidate their hold on the local space.
No sooner had he entered the room than his armors cloaking had drained itself of power, leaving him standing, awkwardly, in the middle of the room.
He still remembered the first words out of his mouth.
"Kark me, right?"
A sigh passed through his lips as the lift opened and he stepped out. On either side of him a pair of lifts opened, four of his Initiates stepping out around him. Grey armor reflecting the light from above, he looked down the hall to the secretaries desk, eyes blinking. He'd got helmetless for this, not needing the protection. His halberd was on his back, as well. Turning his head to the right, then the left, he began moving forward.
Behind him, the lifts moved downward to pick up [member="Uriel"] and his squad.
All these years later he could still feel the invisible hand of hers around his armored throat, husky voice asking him the one question he'd never be able to answer...
He still didn't know. His life in the Protectorate had been shifting, changing. There was a time he'd been filled with a boyish bravado. A young soldier with a gun and all the hopes in the world. A steady job, great benefits and pay. Hot boss. What more could you want?
But the galaxy had a way of changing people. From [member="Anaya Fen"] to [member="Ashin Varanin"], all the way to his brief run in with Dredge, everything had been leading him to this moment. He'd made friends he'd never anticipated, from the Sith to those as broken as he. Those friendships lay in ruins now, all for the woman who'd stood in this office all that time ago, threatening to throw him from a window.
1.3 seconds.
That was the fall time. It felt like it'd been that long since he'd first shown here with Ayden in toe.
Time was funny like that.
Pushing open the massive doors, he beheld the Iron Throne that [member="HK-36"] had made, and decided then and there to remove it. One initiate dropped himself behind the desk outside, another two flanking the doors. The fourth went back to the lift to search those coming off who weren't Inquisition. He'd escaped from this office to Dagobah, and he'd not been the same since he'd been abandoned there.
Then she'd disappeared, and so had he.
To think. To give solace to the families of those lost with stories of their children.
Eventually, to join the Jedi. It was there he'd wondered if perhaps he'd come into his own, finding [member="Marakai Al'Orren"] and bringing her under his wing and into his bed. Then he'd ruined her life just as surely as he'd ruined his own. He'd alienated [member="Coryth Elaris"], drifted from [member="Ayden Cater"] and lost contact with [member="Jorus Merrill"] and his god-daughter. Every road, however, had lead here.
It always lead here.
This desk. The chair - now a throne - those windows. The books. The paintings.
Every sign pointed here.
A sigh parted his lips, haggard visage falling flat with a burden he'd forgotten he bore, and he moved around the desk to settle into the throne. It would do until another, more comfortable chair could be made. He couldn't feel discomfort in this armor. Before he sat, he rested his halberd against the back of the throne, then settled in to drape his heavy gauntlets across the arms, hands gripping the ends as he let his weight distribute itself onto the metal.
Leaning back, staring at the open doors that gave him a birds eye view of the lift, he realized then he was what he was always meant to be.
Alone.
An avenging sword, pulled from the scabard of its wielder to take down that which would seek to oppress him. There lay only one end for a sword; in blood-stained dirt. Perhaps that day could come now. Perhaps it couldn't.
Another responsibility for him to wear until a new Protector could be established.
Him? In charge? War was most certainly coming. A laugh-scoff parted his lips as he recalled the last words she'd spoken that first day.
She'd said them to Ayden. Not to him. Perhaps that's why he'd never listened. And yet, despite the field promotion, he couldn't help but feel this was merely the beginning of the end. A hand rose to the display on the desk, opening up the information feed afforded the Protector. It was time to get down to business, but he didn't know where to start. Maybe Uriel would know.
Or Hastings.
He blinked.
I am so unprepared.
No sooner had he entered the room than his armors cloaking had drained itself of power, leaving him standing, awkwardly, in the middle of the room.
He still remembered the first words out of his mouth.
"Kark me, right?"
A sigh passed through his lips as the lift opened and he stepped out. On either side of him a pair of lifts opened, four of his Initiates stepping out around him. Grey armor reflecting the light from above, he looked down the hall to the secretaries desk, eyes blinking. He'd got helmetless for this, not needing the protection. His halberd was on his back, as well. Turning his head to the right, then the left, he began moving forward.
Behind him, the lifts moved downward to pick up [member="Uriel"] and his squad.
All these years later he could still feel the invisible hand of hers around his armored throat, husky voice asking him the one question he'd never be able to answer...
“Who are you?”
He still didn't know. His life in the Protectorate had been shifting, changing. There was a time he'd been filled with a boyish bravado. A young soldier with a gun and all the hopes in the world. A steady job, great benefits and pay. Hot boss. What more could you want?
But the galaxy had a way of changing people. From [member="Anaya Fen"] to [member="Ashin Varanin"], all the way to his brief run in with Dredge, everything had been leading him to this moment. He'd made friends he'd never anticipated, from the Sith to those as broken as he. Those friendships lay in ruins now, all for the woman who'd stood in this office all that time ago, threatening to throw him from a window.
1.3 seconds.
That was the fall time. It felt like it'd been that long since he'd first shown here with Ayden in toe.
Time was funny like that.
Pushing open the massive doors, he beheld the Iron Throne that [member="HK-36"] had made, and decided then and there to remove it. One initiate dropped himself behind the desk outside, another two flanking the doors. The fourth went back to the lift to search those coming off who weren't Inquisition. He'd escaped from this office to Dagobah, and he'd not been the same since he'd been abandoned there.
Then she'd disappeared, and so had he.
To think. To give solace to the families of those lost with stories of their children.
Eventually, to join the Jedi. It was there he'd wondered if perhaps he'd come into his own, finding [member="Marakai Al'Orren"] and bringing her under his wing and into his bed. Then he'd ruined her life just as surely as he'd ruined his own. He'd alienated [member="Coryth Elaris"], drifted from [member="Ayden Cater"] and lost contact with [member="Jorus Merrill"] and his god-daughter. Every road, however, had lead here.
It always lead here.
This desk. The chair - now a throne - those windows. The books. The paintings.
Every sign pointed here.
A sigh parted his lips, haggard visage falling flat with a burden he'd forgotten he bore, and he moved around the desk to settle into the throne. It would do until another, more comfortable chair could be made. He couldn't feel discomfort in this armor. Before he sat, he rested his halberd against the back of the throne, then settled in to drape his heavy gauntlets across the arms, hands gripping the ends as he let his weight distribute itself onto the metal.
Leaning back, staring at the open doors that gave him a birds eye view of the lift, he realized then he was what he was always meant to be.
Alone.
An avenging sword, pulled from the scabard of its wielder to take down that which would seek to oppress him. There lay only one end for a sword; in blood-stained dirt. Perhaps that day could come now. Perhaps it couldn't.
Another responsibility for him to wear until a new Protector could be established.
Him? In charge? War was most certainly coming. A laugh-scoff parted his lips as he recalled the last words she'd spoken that first day.
"Keep out of my affairs -- and my office."
She'd said them to Ayden. Not to him. Perhaps that's why he'd never listened. And yet, despite the field promotion, he couldn't help but feel this was merely the beginning of the end. A hand rose to the display on the desk, opening up the information feed afforded the Protector. It was time to get down to business, but he didn't know where to start. Maybe Uriel would know.
Or Hastings.
He blinked.
I am so unprepared.