Private I Don't Wanna Be Me

[Beatrice Govan]

The man poured her a new glass in her stead in what was an open invitation to intoxication. Maintaining sobriety was ideally a core priority here, but within the Sith, there was a destructive want to just let go of both her lies and her sensibilities. Given her current circumstance, it was more than justified. Not particularly wise, however.

She'd play it by ear, this was all a part of the pleasure, after all, straight out of the bantha's mouth.

The food arrived, their plates heavily contrasting as Emryc's slab of meat dwarfed the woman's 'cornucopia' in both size and volume. His meal was food, fuel for both the stomach and soul and hers a statement, a carefully arranged display of Artrisian delicacies arranged into tiny structures and artfully drizzled with jus.

For just a moment her eyes settled upon the knife as her host wasted no time cutting into his steak. Flickering thoughts of crimson set the smallest of curl at the edge of her lips before his voice broke through the brief fantasy.

She laughed.

Open-mouthed, it let him view her distinct lack of a tongue and the hoarse sound suggested a total lack of use. She could still speak, technically, but the garbled vowels that Dorn produced were nothing more than horrendous to witness.

What she found so humorous was the notion of 'getting to know them' because really, that's what ordinary people did, albeit in a manner much less tense and frustrating as this. How could one not find the humour in how terrible they were at this? Him, a ruthless inquisitor with no social boundaries, only one step away from summoning an interrogation droid and her, a rude and stand-offish, lying cripple who had only come for fine dining.

“You'll have to forgive me,” came the robotic voice, killing any mirth that she might have left in the air, “I thought you had invited me here as a cruel joke.”

And so the lie remained as Evelynn took up her own cutlery, the delicate precision in which she cut through the minuscule monument of oily fish and leafy salad suggesting her own familiarity with a blade. “Mm,” she actually vocalised with a closed-lipped croak, indicating that the food was satisfactory and that she was going to speak again (although after another sip of wine, of course).

“You do realise that the nature of your questions are deeply personal and rather rude, yes?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

Emryc paused in the motion of cutting into his meal at the grating sound of laughter. So she had a voice, but no tongue. That explained only some things. He watched her intently, even as her gaping mouth finally closed and her fingers resumed their secondary job of communication.

"I thought you invited me here as a cruel joke."

"No," was his simple reply as he resumed slicing through perfectly seared steak, "I don't have a sense of humor."

The man took the first bite of his steak, sans the vocalization of any acknowledgement of flavor or deliciousness. Emryc's enjoyment of a meal came out of the existence of the meal at all. He'd starved enough in his youth to learn how to get past flavor and texture. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

“You do realise that the nature of your questions are deeply personal and rather rude, yes?”

After a moment of chewing, he swallowed and looked back up at her, "Hasn't stopped you from answering." So, yes, clearly he understood and, more clearly, he didn't care.

"Was your tongue cut out before or after the crash?" to drive the point home he popped a second bite in his mouth and chewed, silently.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

'I don't have a sense of humour.'

Instinct took a hold of her fingers, beginning to type out the sentence of, 'well, that's rather obvious' in a snappy retort but mercifully the woman stopped herself and erased the words rather than sending them out into the atmosphere. Besides, it would have been richer than the food upon her plate to hassle anybody else for being humourless, not when she had set up her new reputation as a bitter and miserable shrew.

He raised a good point as she raised her glass for another generous sip, the Sith's sensibilities starting to fear oncoming inebriation.

Nothing had stopped Evelynn from answering. So what if she hadn't? It would have seemed suspicious if he framed it that way, but it wasn't terribly outlandish for the victim of a terrible accident to say, 'I don't want to talk about it' and leave it at that.

“Maybe I'm enjoying it.”

Was she?

Frankly, she found him rather insufferable, and the man's questions were largely a great risk to her own personal safety but he was different from the day-to-day monotony of this new life. He was interesting. This was interesting.

But where was it all going?

“It was removed due to infection,” the device spoke on her finger's behalf, “I bit it in the crash and they overlooked it due to the severity of my spinal fracture,” it continued as the Sith awkwardly ate a few jus-covered leaves like a demented cow, “I'm considering a lawsuit for negligence, they should have caught it.”

Ooh, unnecessary flavour, it was that kind of addition of detail that made things grow sloppy.

“Aside from emjoying the company of interesting strangers, what else do you do for leisure?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

That all seemed exceptionally unlikely, but the man made no effort to express this in any way. This woman had crafted a farce life around her situation, that much was clear to him, but how deep the farce ran was the question, not if her current state of ailments were also simply a production. No, he was convinced she was a cripple and a mute. Did he want to know the truth of it?

Perhaps.

Did it matter?

Probably not.

Would he continue to play her game?

Halfway through his steak, he broke for a drink and to briefly consider his answer to her newest question. It rolled over his tongue with the same vigor of the whisky - blazing a fiery sensation all the way down his throat and into the pit of his stomach. For the smallest of moments the woman reminded him of Senra, all curiosity and big eyes. The lines of her face weren't terribly dissimilar and, in fact, despite everything he found her to be rather attractive.

In the same way a sharpened and polished dagger was attractive.

"I collect guns. Antiques, mostly. Clean, repair, refurbish them."

If there was one this Pa Qosta had taught him that he didn't resent, it was the necessity of keeping a hobby to maintain some semblance of sanity. He set his tumbler down and took up his fork and steak knife again.

"Test them."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Guns.

Now there was something that drew little interest from the woman. The imagery conjured from ranged weaponry fell into a haze of soldiers and bounty hunters, none of whom Evelynn held a particular fondness for. Machismo and patriotism. The so-called camaraderie of a cluster of half-witted juveniles, comparing size, length and power.

She blinked, catching herself in half-sneer at the very thought of...

...ah, let us not.

The glass returned, and with it allowed severe features to be masked behind another overindulgent sip, the woman's mind now choosing to focus on the aspect of antiques rather than guns.

So a collector. That certainly made him all the more...

“Inteesting.”

Idiot fingers.

“Interesting.”

His hobby spoke of money (which naturally, was already well established) and an appreciation for finer things. It was a perfectly acceptable hobby that one would wield like a weapon in the presence of others. Look at me. I am compelling. I am refined. I have taste.

Yet deeper within his hobby lay something a touch more frugal. Clean. Repair. Refurbish. Some would scoff at the notion of salvage; trash is meant for the compactor. But the question of what can be saved and what can't spoke of a more intriguing character. It might have suggested an understanding of poverty at one time from the man, but as Evelynn's thoughts played make-believe psychoanalyst she couldn't help but think:

I'm not your damned salvage.

“At the range, I am sure,” her fingers replied as the woman took a little more time to avoid any further errors, a knowing smile suggesting he didn't snub live target practice. Another glug emptied the glass once more. She never understood the etiquette of wine pouring. Why not just fill it to the top? It's going to be consumed regardless.

“How did you get into such a hobby? And what do you feel that it brings you? Pride? Deep joy? Clutter?”

 

[Emryc]

"Inteesting."

The man looked up from his plate, briefly. Were he any other character written by this person he would have lifted a brow at the typo, but he didn't.

"Interesting."

Emryc couldn't say what a woman such as herself would find interesting about his hobby. Unless, of course, she had an appreciation for antiques. Didn't seem likely. Though he was well-aware that delicate hands did not often find themselves dirty, it wasn't a difficult thing for them to wield a weapon of any kind that could kill at a distance. Or not. She handled her wine glass just fine.

"At the range, I am sure."

"All the galaxy is a range," he replied, taking another bite of his dinner and chewing. Mouth closed - Emryc was many things but a slob wasn't one of them.

"I always kept my guns clean. Fixed them when they broke," before he became who he was on Point Nadir he'd been just a sop. He barely had money for clothes and food, let alone a new gun any time one of his malfunctioned, "antiques were made to last, modern guns are built like toys. Not worth repairing. The work brings me peace," he stabbed the last piece of steak on his plate, gently, "keeps me sane."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, she could only dream of the entire galaxy being her own personal range. Perhaps one day, but in that very perhaps Evelynn was acutely aware that such a desire was beginning to appear like a pipe dream. Confined to her chair she was a pale mockery of a Sith and at that moment she felt the knife twist of envy.

She (wisely) opted not to refill her glass and to instead eat her food so that she could perhaps disguise that sour taste in her mouth with the flavour of overpriced leaves.

At least one intuition about this man seemed to be correct. Those born with the silver spoon didn't repair that which broke. Why would they? Convenience calls to the highest bidder and what could no longer function would almost always be replaced. Like Zambrano children.

Dear Force, had she always been so bitter?

Fork still in one hand, the other typed up a question anew, her somewhat loosened sensibilities more than happy to presume that he had been poor.

“So you started with nothing then?” the device spoke as she raised a single eyebrow in his direction, her gloved-hand conducting the robotic speech with her cutlery, “How does it feel to be where you are now, at the top? Is it everything that was promised?”

 

[Emryc]

The man finished his meal and eased gently back into the cushion of the booth seat. A year ago the word relaxation wasn't part of his lexicon. It still wasn't, but in no way would he have ever eased gently into anything, anywhere. On Nadir it paid with your very life to be keen on your surroundings and your company at every moment.

Even at the 5-star restaurants. Especially at the 5-star restaurants.

Emryc opted for a fresh cigarette to round off his meal, producing a silver tin from an inner pocket. He lit up and gave a soft puff of smoke in an upwards direction, allowing the vents to snatch it away from his guest's food.

"What makes you think I'm at the top?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

“Why? Because you run a trade and investment group, hardly the dregs of society. Of course, the top is open to interpenetration,” she typed back in response without needlessly mulling it over for once, “what you and I define as the top could be two very different things.”

A CEO.

A Moff

A Queen.

An Empress.

Now, it was time to mull pointlessly, as she continued to finish off her meal in that awkward tongueless manner of eating, the wine having emboldened her to really give much less of a damn about looking odd or foolish. Quite a nice state of confidence to be in. Was this why ordinary people so often devolved into alcoholism?

“Indulge me, what is 'The Top' for you?”

 

[Emryc]

The man stared at her in a curiously unblinking fashion. Watching the effects of wine show; slower movements, elongated sentences, diarrhea of the mind translating through monotonous electronic speak. She was eating now, which had been the whole effort of the evening. The woman needed more meat on her bones if she ever hoped to make a recovery from her most unfortunate speeder accident.

A fresh plume of smoke rose from his lips, the gleam of nictitating eyelids showing through.

"When I no long stand as a product of my environment, but my environment becomes a product of me."

He blinked, pinched the cigarette in one hand and took up his tumbler in the other, "And you?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, that sounded good.

His answer gave cause for a sardonic smirk to emerge upon gaunt features and for a small huff of air to shoot from Evelynn's nose as she savoured his perfectly ambitious answer. Perhaps if she were less, merry, then the woman might have raised her glass to toast it instead.

She could relate, after all.

The Sith mulled over her response with the rest of her dinner, eating a small, pretentious cube of... a cube of... orange (?), which without a full tongue to truly taste would remain a mystery until the end of time and then in the true and proper fashion, laid her cutlery down in a manner that signalled that she was finished.

In truth, Evelynn no longer knew what her own personal top was, so lying about it was actually not so much of a mental chore than it could have been.

“My idea of the top is early retirement, a nice cottage and Kath Hound named Scoops. My current accommodation has a no pet policy, you see.”

 

[Emryc]

How ...boring. Thank goodness it was a lie.

For a solitary moment he was once again reminded of Senra. How the woman spoke of a simple life, like the one she saw in holovids, living on a world with real grass and real trees.

A breeze in my hair, flower garden off a front porch. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the table and a baby crawlin' across the floor. Doesn't that just sound so nice, Rue?

The man's stoic brow pinched the memory away and, just like that, it lifted from his mind like the smoke from his lips.

"If you had to choose, what one thing about your broken body would you fix if the money was no object?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Half a lie, at least; it was Chomp, not Scoops.

But wouldn't it be nice to start again? Back to the cottage on Dantooine before the dramatic and perilous realms of blasted Taliths and pantomime Zambranos in the idyllic bliss of ignorance. Sprawling plains and local markets. Shy girl, has a bit of a stammer and so ridiculously naïve but so much happier.

Dead.

Gone.

There's no way backwards, only forwards. More's the pity.

As the pair experienced their individual spurts down memory lane, Evelynn's far away stare finally re-focusing upon the empty glass, the conversation resumed and as expected delved straight into the personal.

“My spine,” came the typed answer with very little thought, “not talking is fine, not walking is not,” a withering sneer was summoned as Evelynn considered her reasoning, “people think it's perfectly acceptable to move me when I'm in their way, all because of this conraption,” not fixing that typo, “isn't that mad? You don't pick up an able-bodied person and move them aside when they're in the way, so why my chair?”

She remembered the first time it happened, in the queue for a hideous street food vendor, the culprit had suddenly felt a divine compulsion to repeatedly run head-first into a wall. What a sound it made! Her sneer transformed into a soft, nostalgic smile just thinking about it.

“And if you were in my situation? What would you choose?”

 

[Emryc]

Frosted glass left the woman's face, turning idly downwards as he stamped out the finished cigarette and reached for his tumbler.

"I will never be in your situation." For many reasons she had no need to be privy to. Another sip of Whyren's coated his tongue and a moment later the waiter returned asking after their meals and if either were interested in dessert. Emryc quietly dismissed the notion with a wave for himself, leaving the waiter to see to Evelynn's answer. When he had it he bowed, cleared the empty plates and took his leave.

"How long are you staying here," another question that seemed to be more of a direct command for information than an innocent inquiry.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

An eyebrow larked in dramatic fashion only fit for the most purple of prose. It wasn't ebony however, one could only dream of being so fabulous and gothic.

Evelynn decided in turn that she would definitely order dessert and she did so with a smile so sickeningly polite that it seemed that she had stolen somebody else's mouth to do it. A single obnoxiously slow finger typed out her order, letter-by-painful-letter.

“I'd quite like to try the viennetta, thank you.”

She felt insidiously bratty at that moment, and the Sith did not entirely hate it, truth-be-told.

“What is here? In this conversation? This resort? This planet? This terrible plane of existence?” Evelynn typed back in a deliberately obtuse manner far swifter than before, actually enjoying this loose sense of wine-infused sassiness, “the answer to all of the above is, I don't know.”

Quick-fire round, respond in kind with a question.

“What even is a viennetta?”

 

[Emryc]

Something about women who found themselves in unenviable situations that drew in melodrama like vultures to a fresh kill. Messy to deal with and the stench had a tendency to linger on the air for others to pick up on.

I don't know.

Cyclical monotony to the life she didn't want to lead. Expectations of no bright horizon. The churn. He knew exactly how that all felt and as for the vienetta...

"Nothing that will cure what ails you."

Not even her insidious brattiness. Not even his untenable terror.

"I will pay for your spine."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

A pity.

Evelynn was prepared to make some generic 'wine mum' joke about dessert being the cure for all of life's ills like her life depended on it when the man's next statement hit her like a red speeder.

The Sith blinked.

Then a steady arm reached out and grabbed the wine bottle and began to pour a very generous helping. Once her drink had been over-refreshed, Evelynn's gloved fingers hovered over the device for a few moments as if a verbal response was forthcoming.

She blinked again and raised a finger to him on one hand as she drowned a hundred perplexing inner-questions with several glugs of vino with the other.

“Why?”

 

[Emryc]

Emryc could have gone into a drawn-out response featuring his own sorry backstory and how he began the trek to the top with one oddly placed offer of kindness - but he liked to leave the past in the past. If it had taught him anything at all it was to never refuse a free meal and to be in the moment.

In this moment, this is what he wanted to do.

"Because I can," the man replied flatly.

Pa Qosta had taught him to take chances when the betting was good. Emryc was betting that investing in this woman would pay off eventually, and his instincts told him the odds were in his favor. He just couldn't know how it would pay off and that was about as much mystery as he liked to keep in his life.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Well then.

In normal circumstances, Evelynn would have taken that offer, no questions and just have been done with it. If he wanted to help her, repair her like some antique blaster then who was she to argue with him? There was everything to gain and so very little now to lose.

But, something gave her pause.

Probably the wine.

And so instead of being canny, and willing to bank on the charity of some rich and handsome stranger, she posed a new question.

“Is there something you want in return?”

 

[Emryc]

"The truth," there was little hesitation or wait for his reply, and for certain the sharpness of it might have been rather impactful for the woman who perhaps thought herself a proper dancing liar. Mayhaps she pictured herself a Prima Donna Ballerina, traipsing her way through this story of hers with grace, dignity, beauty...

"Not right now," the man pre-empted a return from her, "later. After."

In all honesty he wasn't sure he actually cared about the truth and it wasn't something he felt particularly greedy for, but seldom did he find himself this curious. Mostly he was caught by the why and not the what. Why did this woman have any reason to concoct such a woeful fabrication?