Private I Don't Wanna Be Me

[Emryc]

Remarkable what the looks of something could do for a woman's confidence. It was the quintessential I only wear makeup to look good, I don't wear it for you. Given the option between contacts and glasses, a walker or a cane, somehow aesthetics won out. Either way, it was improvement in both effort and self-confidence. A win-win all the way around, and Emryc Qosta learned a long time ago to take his wins where he could.

"I think you should pick two," came his answer, or however many she wanted at this point. God knows a woman had to accessorize.

"Another glass, Mrs. Qosta?" an attendant swung in with a tray, a bottle, and a glass of wine calling her name.

That got a brow raise out of Emryc. He'd missed the first Mrs. Qosta simply for distance. It fell so easily from the Attendants lips that she had to have played along. His own lips, he found, he wished had a cigarette to keep them busy.

"Whatever you want, Mrs. Qosta," the man intoned, directing himself away from the conversation and over toward the register to handle the bill.

"Oh, how cute, are you two newlyweds?" the Assistant giggled.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Emryc's face actually moved as he found out that he had somehow gotten married and Evelynn was more than happy to just stand there and savour it, drink in the light-hearted teasing that normal people were supposed to do...

...aaaand he was gone.

Swapping the hand that held the cane to her prosthetic, it didn't take long for the woman to type up an appropriate response as she reassumed her role of Beatrice 'Bea' Qosta, former logistics coordinator and current crippled newly-wed.

“Oh yes,” her datapad announced as Evelynn broke into a perfectly saccharine smile as if she was some variety of domestic goddess, “they said he couldn't be tied down but here we are.”

She could have lowered the volume of the datapad to avoid the edge of his hearing, have spared his humourless void of a soul some dignity but the silliness of it all felt like required catharsis. Especially given the revelations that had been spilt not so long ago.

“And those cheekbones.”

Pale brows bounced, inviting the assistant to admire his stone-carved face as the robotic voice tried and failed to sound anything other than stiff.

“Ah, but perhaps no more wine, a bit of a lightweight, I'm afraid.”

 

[Emryc]

“Listen kid, you can’t take these things personally. Here? Nothing’s personal, it’s just good business, and right now you’re bad for business. Your mother’s a train wreck of a schutta and I’m just a guy who spends too much time away from his real family to bring in the dough. Sidepieces are trouble kid, keep that in mind. Look at me, you little whelp, I’m doing this for your own good. Don’t flinch this time and don’t ever look at me again.”

It started when he was 8 and it never stopped. A constant diet of hatred and blame fed between fists to the face will turn even the scrawniest of whelps into granite. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. After a few years you don’t really believe in any kind of higher power other than the guy standing over your bloodied, broken form. The problem is every time you get there, wishing it’d be the last blackout, you always wake up. Alleyways never get any warmer to wake up in, but eventually you wind up in the right one.

“I know you’re Arrion’s, but don’t think that name does you any favors. It’s not your name anymore. Arrion is an expensive name, too high-brow for a pleb like you. Plebs get trash. You get leftovers. You get the names nobody gives a shiit about. You … your name is Emryc, now. Hear me? What’s your name?”

Everyone always hates the name they’re given. This one doesn’t mean anything at all, which was better than he could say for some of the other plebs he arrived with. One of the others got a name that was the equivalent to the poodooter in some foreign language. Emryc was nothing. Meant nothing. Maybe he meant it literally because he liked to call him the very same. But everything and everyone starts from nothing. Nothing he could work with. Easier to work with nothing than a fucking toilet.

“You’re a Qosta grunt now, and grunts do everything and say nothing. If I tell you to shoot a fucker in the foot, you shoot a fucker in the foot. If I tell you to punch your grunt brother in the face, you punch him in that fat fucking face. If you can manage to do what you’re told long enough without fucking it up I might let you start earning in. And then you might actually be somebody. Who are you, you little poodoo Nothing?”

Archon wasn’t actually the guy in charge but he was second in command and that pretty much made him the guy in charge. No one ever saw Pa Qosta, the real Pa Qosta, the guy the entire clan was named for. He was always back in his office or shadowed out to his speeder or off at some meeting or party. Important guy, that Pa Qosta. Really respected around this part of Nadir. Nobody fucked with him, and when somebody did you never heard from them again. The Maw took care of them - that’s what earning in got you, some stupid title with a lot of clout behind it. Oh, and the name Qosta, and a bed to sleep in at night, and food to eat, and security of the clan… fucking right, it was tooth and nail between the grunts to earn in.

"Hey Em, EM - stay awake buddy - almost there."

There was really no telling what had dredged up those particular memories. He was a year past those demons now and, frankly, Emryc Qosta hadn't thought of Pa or Archie once. He'd been busy rebuilding the name and clan he'd stolen from Nadir. Tore down that tower of Pa's, blew it to oblivion. Took every credit owed and every valuable owned and fucked right off, just like Aver told him to. Emryc was a man of his word, after all, and he wouldn't be going back there ever again.

SMACK.

Zib's broad, flat hand impacted the side of his face, clearing the haze settling over his eyes, "Sorry Boss, need ya to stay with me here. Yer a bit -grunt- too big for these shoulders to be goin' all limp."

Breathing was difficult. A pang in his chest had his air caught under his right shoulder. The attached hand felt tingly, like he'd slept on it wrong. A jagged black line stuck upwards through his peripheral. He could smell blood. Lots of blood.

"One more floor - gorramn these fucking lifts."

Ding.

"Look at you, you're a mess but you're still so good lookin-" SMACK, "ey, ey, none of that sleepin' stuff. Not till the Doc sees ya."

At the end of the hall beyond the labs and medical suite, a one Emryc Qosta appeared hung up on the shoulders of his right hand man, Zib. Barely conscious, blood soaked, and with four feet of durasteel rebar run through his chest.

"HEY DOC - LITTLE HELP HERE."

Suddenly the medical suite was abuzz with activity and Evelynn, who was in the middle of receiving serum injections for her bone density, found the vast majority of her attendants hustling off.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Usually, Evelynn liked a break in the monotony of scientific rehabilitation every once in a while but this was less than ideal.

The staff attending her mostly dispersed as she observed the scene, a distinct lack of shock upon the blonde's face and more a quiet consideration. In her time here as Beatrice Govan she had not seen the light and become a shining paragon of all that was ever good, no, subtle improvements here and there but there were still habits deep down.

Just how did it f e e l ?

From experience, Evelynn had to guess that the sheer trauma was smothering any sweet sensation of suffering at this point. It came with carelessness, with the impatient hand of others and sometimes you just got carried away. Organs failing, conscience fading, death awaiting. She had witnessed it many times, so often as the hand of both torment and enlightenment.

Giving.

Receiving.

Ah, perhaps now was not the time to be getting so sentimental about such malevolent old tricks.

The medical staff were far more well-equipped than her to deal with the monument of rebar that had impaled the Firrerreo's chest, but that didn't mean that Evelynn would not provide a touch of aid in their efforts to save his life. She lurked on the periphery of the action, out of the way but close enough to do her own work.

She had been an expert in bringing them back from the brink.

Emryc Qosta, she scolded into the centre of his mind, her mental voice a rich and vibrant ringing of bells, a far-flung contrast from her usual frigid tones, you have ruined your shirt! I'm starting to believe that trade and investment is code for something illegal, you know.

 

[Emryc]

Emryc was spending a fair amount of time swimming in that nether-realm between conscious and not, watching visions of his youth on Nadir fill his mind's eye while the Doctors and Nurses helped Zib move him to a stretcher and began emergency vital checks.



"I know you're Arrion's boy," Pa Qosta sat at his desk in his private office at HQ, white pressed shirt rolled up at the sleeves and glasses slid halfway down his nose. His watery, red eyes peered at Emryc like a bear might peer at a family sitting down for a picnic in the meadow. Easy lunch. Pa growled over a sigh, "he gave you to me. Dumped you right on my doorstep like a fucking garbage can kitten."

Archon passed by in the background, setting a tumbler of brown liquid on Pa's desk. Pa took it with raised brows and gave the slosh a good whiff, "I fucking hate cats." Slurp.



Zib stood back as the staff took over and found himself standing next to Beatrice Govan. He stood near as tall as Emryc but at only half the mass. Lean, wiry, scrappy. Not without a hint of roughshod brawn. He flicked an expertly arched brow at her, "Mrs. Qosta is it..." and gave her a looky-lou, "well met Toots. Dorian Zibowski, your hubby's right hand man. You can call me Zib."

They'd stuck him with about half a dozen needles and stim-shots of drugs. Bacta straight to the bloodstream. He was coughing up blood now.


"But you know what, I'm going to do you a favor and I'm not going to put a bullet between your eyes," Pa pointed at him, squinting his eyes, "because there's something about you that I don't like and until I figure out what the fuck that is ... well, a little mystery keeps the day fun. Just don't go expecting any favors ... eh, hm, the hell's his name again?"

"Emryc," Archie intoned over his shoulder, shooting a look at Emryc, "Nobody, if you like."

"Nobody. Nobody. Nobody. Well, either way, if you want a chance to earn in you're going to have to prove yourself with the rest of the grunts. Here's a little piece of advice, kid, don't apologize for anything." Pa stood from his chair and picked up his revolver. A relic that Emryc would, many years down the line, come to inherit from the man for some job well done. How ironic. The old bear raised it and, without any preamble, promptly dropped the boy to the ground with a shot straight through the shoulder.

To his credit, Emryc never made a peep, but he was as silver as the moon and paling as the blood began to pool under him. Archie turned abruptly in shock and confusion. "What the fuck?"

"Oh, erm - guess the safety wasn't on after all. Just wanted to scare the little shit, you know. Sorry, kid."

"Now you're apologizing? Give me that before you shoot me with it," Archi reached to take the revolver back.

Pa shrugged his hands and grinned, then rounded his desk to bend down overtop of the boy, "Last piece of advice. Do as I say, not as I do."


EMRYC QOSTA YOU HAVE RUINED YOUR SHIRT!

Fuck.

They'd pushed him to sit up and were presently cutting the back piece of the rebar off just behind his shoulder. Two bleary, stormy grey eyes honed in on Beatric Govan, "You should see the other guy."

SQUELCH. Out came the rebar through the front along with a whooooole lot of blood. Emryc sputtered and keeled forward, heaving for air.

Zib raised both brows now, leaning casually against a nearby cabinet and rolled a coy smirk at Beatrice, "Oh the other guy's a mess. Left him back in the trunk. He's probably fine."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Ah yes, Mrs Qosta, she had forgotten that they had been married by that tailor in very unceremonious fashion.

Zib's knowledge of their sudden matrimony implied that Emryc had actually talked about it with somebody. Did her stone-faced benefactor actually have a sense of humour? Doubtful, he was likely ranting about it and just how mortified the scenario had made him feel.

As he coughed up blood whilst pumped to the eyeballs with drugs Evelynn took back her train of thought, she could be kinder.

Just once.

“I do apologise that you missed the wedding,” she typed with one hand, while the other was elbow deep inside Emryc's mind, “but I can't help but think that my dearest husband has been keeping us apart, Zib.” Why with their powers combined they might have even made Mr Misery crack a smile.

I would love to see the other guy. We should have him round for some soup.

His bravado was compounded by the rebar-shaped hole presumably left in his chest, and Evelynn actively leant forward on her cane and tilted her head to try and get a closer look a what was a very impressive wound. What? She was curious!

“Quick, Zib. Tell me something embarrassing about my dearest hubby,” her datapad declared with a lowered volume so that the medical team could work better (and Emryc couldn't overhear), “it is a life or death situation.”

 

[Emryc]

“I do apologize that you missed the wedding, but I can't help but think that my dearest husband has been keeping us apart, Zib.”

"Ehehehe," Zib sniggered as he graced her with his charming smile through his 4-day-post-shave stubble, "that's cause he's got all the looks but I got all the moves." His hands shuffled about through his vest pockets, seeking out a pack of smoke sticks and his lighter.

I would love to see the other guy. We should have him round for some soup.

"Fuck the soup-" Emryc spat from his hunched position while the doctors and nurses flushed his gaping shoulder wound.

"Woah, easy there Boss," Zib replied through the cigarette pinched in his lips, fingers fumbling with the light that, apparently, had Emryc's blood oozed all over it, "nobody's asking you to have soup. Where did that come from..." clek clek clek.

"You can't smoke in here!" a Nurse hissed at Zib, "Take that outside!"

Zib straightened himself with a melodramatic shrugging sigh, "Alright already, not like he doesn't eat a pack of these a day. What the hell does it matter anyway-"

“Quick, Zib. Tell me something embarrassing about my dearest hubby, it is a life or death situation.”

"Embarassing?" Zib pocketed his lighter and chewed on the cig. A lanky arm bent to itch at his head, "Use to call him Coathanger when he was a kid grunt. All height, no mass. Just a starvin' street rat, ain't that right Boss? But look at you now. You make the Theek Gods weep with envy."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Even now so strongly opposed to soup, what had soup ever done to him? Had he been involved emotionally scarring soup-based accident as a child?

She was willing to let Zib ponder the significance of Emryc's apparent deliriousness as he was scolded for attempting to light up. Stress-related? Habitual? Was this just another day of the week for them? There were suddenly so many questions she had left unanswered, locked away when she realised how many padlocks Mr Qosta carried upon his psyche.

Oh.

A starving street rat.

There was a eureka moment within Evelynn's head, the THUNK of one padlock falling to the floor as a very plausible theory began to emerge in regards to the man's own issues with food. Soup shelters. His part-obsession with her dietary needs came from the impoverished struggle. Did he find her casual disregard for eating flippant? Was it an insult to him? It was somewhat loathsome that he was projecting his issues onto her.

It was still a mere theory, but a terribly plausible one at that. She quickly pivoted on using his embarrassing memories to keep him conscious.

Okay, how about STEAK then. Eight-ounce ribeye. With proper thick-cut chips. How do you take your meat?

As her mental voice pressed, loud and overbearing her electronic voice also spoke. For a split second, Evelynn was impressed with her own multitasking.

“So, Zib. Might I know how often that you two tend to get into these sorts of scrapes? Best to avoid white linen if this is a regular thing.”

 

[Emryc]

Emryc's head tilted up, narrowed gaze settling upon Evelynn's face for several moments in a mixture of censored pain and apparent confusion at her question. Then they closed and he began to choke and sputter in earnest.

"Shit, he's bleeding into his lungs -"
"Give him another dose of the Regeneration Dampener, I can't work faster than his body right now."
"BP's dropping."
"Get him into surgery."

“So, Zib. Might I know how often that you two tend to get into these sorts of scrapes? Best to avoid white linen if this is a regular thing.”

"Stand back Zib-" the same Nurse from before barked at the man as she shoved by him.

Zib watched with lowering brows as they hurriedly wheeled his Boss out on the stretcher and back into the surgical lab. Cortez had been curiously absent the entire time and his eyes searched around for her suspiciously. Where was that creepy broad? Ah well, he gestured to Evelynn to follow him.

"More often than normal but less than usual, I'd say. Well, show's over. C'mon Toots, let's go get a caff, eh?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

If a shrug could be an expression, that was the one that Evelynn gave Emryc as he shot her that look. Right up to that point it had been working, but well, she was more accustomed to keeping people she had been deliberately torturing alive. Not making strange quips about soup and meat. Trying to be kind was exhausting.

With Zib's casual attitude and her faith in the hardiness of Firrerreos, the woman saw no need to chase down his stretcher weeping and waving a handkerchief.

He'd be fine.

Hopefully.

She feared that in not correcting the first Toots she had now become Toots eternal in the eyes of Emryc's right-hand man. It was both disgusting and endearing, like a stray gizka. Also terribly unfamiliar. Was this what people outside the realm of sycophantic Sith did? Gave each other nicknames like Bea and Toots? Or perhaps Zib just called all the women Toots. Maybe even all the men too.

What even was a Toots and did it toot?

She limped after him, cane in hand as they were forced to just put their trust in the hands of the medical staff. Fingers typed in swift motion as she tried to keep up with the man's lanky gait.

“Do you mind filling me in on what exactly happened?”

 

[Emryc]

Zib found the chorus of cane thump and finger tapping an odd sort to be following him around. At first he had to remind himself what it was - so used to just getting up and going he hardly thought to cut his ground-covering stride down a notch. But he did, because he was a bastard but he was not, and I quote, a total dick.

"Mmm?" her question was met with brief confusion before his reeling thoughts caught up with what she actually met, "Oh, right. Well it's like this," and he sort of had to think about what this was in relation to her. She wasn't privy to the business beneath the business. Hell, he wasn't really even sure if she was privy to Qore. Did she even know about Nadir? Clan Qosta? Somehow he had his doubts.

"The competition here on this heavy garbage heap is pretty fierce. The only value this place has is in its mineable resources - that's what we're here for. Em bought out a company that was on the verge of collapse after a series of unfortunate events busted up their refineries but now he's gatta deal with digging it back outta the hole he bought it in. Looootta rivals here that don't want to see that happen because Qore's mines are some of the most profitable."

"So, you know, they wanna cut him down at the knees. Tried to today -" he gestured with a hand as they stepped into the lift, pointing upwards and outwards to indicate the airspace around the tower, "only he got the jump because he's got me watchin' his back. He just eh ... found some rebar to break his fall, buehehehe..."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Well, Zib certainly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

Somewhere out there a finger upon a cursed tach's paw curled. Oh, how she had loathed Emryc and his stony silence. So often he just stood there, offering nothing but judgement with his ridiculous, piercing eyes. Oh, but when he did speak it was in sentences on average five words long, granted perhaps thrice an hour!

Now there was this.

So many words in rapid succession like casual gunfire that ricocheted around her head through the hall. At least she was finally garnering more information on her benefactor's business. Well, or at the very least what seemed to be a mildly filtered version.

“A bold strategy,” she typed in regards to breaking one's fall with rebar, "well, less bold for a Firrerreo, I suppose."


The floor was open and suddenly an entire realm of questioning was available to Evelynn. A hoard of built-up questions and mysteries regarding Emryc Qosta stampeded to the front of her hands, begging to be asked first. What was his deal? Why was he like this? Coathanger, really? Why is he helping me? Has he ever considered therapy?

“Is the other guy really in the trunk, Zib?” Her datapad inquired as she looked up to him, eyebrow raised and expression held in quizzical earnest, “I'd like to have a chat with him.”

 

[Emryc]

"Of course not," Zib replied, but actually he had been, "just a figure of speech Toots."

The lift took them up up up. There was no lift music.

"An I don't think so," the man offered her a wane but crooked smile, "he's being taken real good care of now. No visitors."

Ding.

This floor housed the commons, replete with 5-star chef's kitchen, bistro and cafe, cozy dining area, several lounges and meeting halls, an observation deck for the surrounding facilities, and a visitor drop-off/pick-up area. Evelynn may have eaten here before, but since getting her own studio suite she had the option of ordering in whatever food or meals she wanted.

The Chefs had all been ordered to keep a fresh, rotating list of soups on hand.

Zib took the lead to the nearby cafe, thinking to himself that he'd never had it so good back on Nadir. Not even when he was in Pa's good graces.

"So where you from anyway?" he asked after putting in his order for a cup of dark roast, black.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She frowned.

“That's terribly disappointing. I can be quite stern when I want to be.”

Evelynn left it on that incredibly vague note as the elevator brought them to their destination. She had, perhaps surprisingly to some the woman had on occasion taken a meal or two within the bistro, happy to just decompress with her lunch (yes, usually soup) and watch the lives of the employees pass her by.

There was a simple pleasure in being a fly on the wall, and a welcome change from her usual rehabilitation-based schedule.

She ordered a tea for herself, some herbal concoction infused with shi-shok fruit that had been recommended to her at one point on the basis of antioxidants. Sometimes she was concerned by the investment in her own health and well-being. Perhaps she should have been savouring it instead.

“Dantooine,” Evelynn answered honestly before deciding to elaborate, “think a picturesque cottage in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but sprawling fields.”

It was terribly saccharine.

“Yourself?”

 

[Emryc]

"Oh yeah?" Zib raised those glorious brows. He'd never heard of Dantooine, but then again there were a lot of places he'd never heard of until Emryc decided they needed to go there. Core244, for instance. Though Zib was given the impression this planet was terribly, irrevocably niche. Double standard gravity wasn't a popular thing, but it had done wonders for his physique... once he'd gotten over the struggle of it all.

"That sounds like a pretty painting I saw on a wall in a fancy old opera house once," ah the days of the Marigold were long behind him but he could still remember them so clearly. Mitzy's doey round eyes blinking up at him, getting him to do all sorts of things he shouldn't have done just for the sake of makin' Mitzy May happy. They found an open table in the dining hall and took a seat without any preamble. Zib produced a cigarette and lit up, hooking his right ankle over his left knee and giving himself a good old lean into his chair.

"Old Bayfront City, Coruscant. You know, those lower levels of the undercity everyone forgot about. Smog. Spice. Shit on the sidewalk surrounded by walks forever buckling under the weight of the upper city. A real beaut." He took a sip of his coffee, looked pensive for a moment, then - "Ya ever hear of the Coruscant Rotary Club?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

“A very pretty painting,” she concurred in polite conversation, performing some amazing balancing act as she typed, held a cane and cup of tea all at once. It suddenly dawned upon her that this was some kind of physical progress, an improvement in equilibrium.

How about that.

Ah, Coruscant, a classic. Funnily enough, it was the planet where her back had been broken over a Chiss' knee courtesy of the New Imperial Order. Such fond memories, she thought to herself through gritted teeth.

She sat with a touch more elegance, with closed legs and good posture, her cane sat over her lap on the off chance that Zib would suddenly catch a new thought and go dashing off somewhere else at a moment's notice. Holding her cup below her chin Evelynn allowed the steam to wash over her face, the scent of shi-shok soothing her senses.

“I'm a touch too scandalous for rotary clubs,” she admitted, “but go on.”

 

[Emryc]

Scandalous, her? Zib leveled her with mocking incredulity. "Not Mrs. Qosta."

But then again, the very fact that she was here at all, being taken care of by Emryc, was actually quite scandalous. Zib knew the man to take women in need under his wing, but it had never gone this far before. He'd always kept it separate from work, probably to protect them. Not this time, apparently. When you're your own boss it seemed you got to change the rules. Maybe he deserved that.

"Bah, not surprising. It weren't no big thing outside of Coruscant. A dame friend of mine owned one of the meeting halls they used to frequent. Guess she was an honorary member of some sort. Pulled in a lot of big bankos with deep pockets. Just figured I'd ask. You seemed a cultured thing. At least Emryc's raising his standards."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She silently chuckled into her steam at his faux scepticism. No, not Mrs Qosta indeed, she was a saint that collected canes and drank far too much soup. Probably farted up a storm with all that fibre goodness in her diet.

“High society is a terrible thing,” she typed back with a singular gloved hand, her datapad resting upon the table as she continued to give her face the warming steam treatment, “it's just like low society except with extra cutlery. Everybody sleeps with one another and then sometimes they play cards.”

She had known far too many card-playing Sith in her time. The gambling will set you free.

“He's not raising his standards, Zib. He doesn't even know who I am,” Evelynn admitted freely, searching the right-hand man's eyes for a reaction to the honest truth, “but he's locked himself into some honourable promise to fix me.”

 

[Emryc]

Zib cackled into his caff, slinging a long and lanky arm to rest over the back of his chair. The man took great pleasure in his relaxation.

"It ain't never been about who people are," Zib pointed at her with his cigarette, "it's always been about what they are and Emryc knows better than anyone that you can't fix who people are," the man took a long drag, mulled over the smoke in his lungs before releasing it through his nose, "can't really fix what they are either. Not really. But sometimes you can help them help themselves."

"So how are you helping yourself, Mrs. Qosta?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn was baffled, blowing on her tea with knotted eyebrows as Zib waxed poetic about the nature of people. Were they not curious? Was she alone in wanting to pry all these people open and relish in their secrets and stories? Did wanting an explanation for Emryc's entire demeanour make her strange?

No, no, they were the odd ones.

“I don't know, Zib, I just do what I'm told,” her datapad answered in unchanging static tones, her expression somewhat flustered by the question. Wasn't physical rehabilitation enough? Was she supposed to be soul searching?

“What is it about? Why help anybody help themselves?”