Private I Don't Wanna Be Me

[Emryc]

There was something pedantic about her entire explanation that annoyed the man and he couldn't quite place what. Now that he had his smoking habit to fall back on, the void of expression had returned to his face and somebody-not-quite-Emryc reverted back to definitely-that-nerf herder. His brow did pinch just slightly at her words, whether as a mild note of that irritation or as a way to hint at some expression that might've meant he understood the pain and silently stood there in solidarity of her eaten beast was anyone's guess.

But then he withdrew the cigarette from his lips, blew the smoke through his nostrils, and opened his mouth to say: "How did it taste?"

A third question.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Even she knew that his third question was not normal, and in turn, a part of the woman wished to react in a manner that would have been more than acceptable; by lobbing the bowl at his face and demanding to know, in not so polite terms, what exactly was wrong with him.

Her shoulders curled upwards, uncomfortable, her own distinct lack of normality seeking what might have been the answer to such a morbid and insensitive question.

Like meat.

An answer that was Emrycensian in almost every possible way.

In truth, the woman did not recall the taste, perhaps had she been knowingly force-fed the remains of her loyal companion then the trauma might have branded vivid recollection into the core of her psyche, even beyond death and the abyss. But as such, that was not what happened and Evelynn held doubts that such faded memories were even hers, an intruder in this abandoned home.

I don't think I will keep it, she announced as shoulders relaxed, and the bowl was gently placed back atop the dustless ring that it had left in its disturbance.

Did you have any friends growing up in Point Nadir?

 

[Emryc]

He expected a certain reaction and was strangely surprised to get something else entirely. One that could have meant any number of things that he would muse upon later while he couldn't sleep. Setting the cigarette back between his lips, the man continued watching Beatric Govan on the floor, ever so carefully placing the bowl back in the exact place she'd found it. Better to let the past stay where it was, he might have said if it wouldn't make him a yellow-bellied hypocrite.

Emryc shifted the rifle in his hands to let the stock rest against flat atop the shelf of a shoulder while his hand casually held it at balance from the barrel. He felt the curtain call for the home slowly drawing in. The dramatic crescendo of the show having fallen flat at his last question. Now, ladies and gentlemen, it would soon be time for our hero and our villain to find a way to bring this sordid affair to a close.

But who was the hero and who was the villain.

"Friends weren't something I could afford to have," he replied to the silent tune of billowing smoke. Giving his cigarette a gentle tap, the cinders fell to the floor and smoldered on the spot, smothered and smashed into the old wooden floorboards by the toe of his shoe. Without another word he turned and made his way to the window. He'd let Beatrice have some time alone with her memories - they were here for her, after all.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It explained a lot.

She could have sympathised, knowing that kind of social skill stunting childhood loneliness quite well. Could have. However, Evelynn's already depleted compassion reserves failed to fully gather a genuine sense of sympathy towards the man who just asked her what her best friend tasted like.

Allowing him to leave in silence, the woman remained upon the floor, uncrossing her legs and stretching them outwards as she leaned back and rested her weight upon her palms. After a couple of slow blinks, Evelynn closed her eyes and instead of seeing the passage of time, decided to feel it instead.

She r e a c h e d,

and

found

traces of

light

and

colour.

Like minute specs they fluttered through the house, obscured in nature by the suffocating suffering presences of both the hero and the villain. Traces of souls left in the wake of living, innocuous and meaningless but there nonetheless. She tuned her focus, the Force funnelling through her golden arm as mechanical fingers splayed across the wood, grounding her touch to the cottage.

The colours held sound and feelings, laughter and stuttering prose alongside a symphony of barks and grunts.

Yet something more potent lurked.

Not in this room, no, but in her mother's. Foreboding yet alluring, it was as mystifying as Karin Dorn had been life. A peculiar Sith who merely flirted with the idea of being a parent despite having a child. A terrible mother who was, in all mention of her, wholly disconnected from their time and plane of existence, acting as if she was in on some great, cosmic joke.

Evelynn knew so little about the hand that had placed her into this accursed existence, and yet that presence pulling on the other side of the door could have held the answer. It could have held anything. A lightsaber. A holocron. An ancient tome. A script that spoiled the ending.

She decided that it didn't matter.

Getting up and with cane in hand, Evelynn walked her way to the window and with little fanfare (but some difficulty) left the cottage.

Give me your lighter.

 

[Emryc]

Grass.

After tucking the rifle safely away in the trunk of his speeder, Emryc made a solid effort to soak in the experience of this idyllic landscape he would not likely soon see again. Beatrice would find the man sitting somewhere in the greenery off to the side of the house where he was best afforded a view of the homestead. The cottage, the woods, the sky beyond, the unattended lawn surrounding it. He'd never felt grass beneath his feet, never ran his fingers through the sprigs and reeds, never smelled it or tasted it or taken a nap in it under the warmth of the sun.

All these things and more, as foreign to the man who'd grown up in a world of rusting durasteel, shit, and blood. He felt the prickly sensation of the blades under his palms like his eyes might feel the prickling of written word he'd never been taught to read. What does one do with such things? How did one learn to live the language of nature?

Beatrice found him in that very spot, sitting with his knees up, elbows resting atop them, pale blue gaze peering into the waning light of the day through his cloud of smoke. Nearly sunset.

He looked at her, briefly wondered how she'd managed to climb out through the window, and fished into his inner jacket pocket for his lighter. Might have offered to siphon some fuel from the speeder if he didn't think this old matchstick cottage, dry from no recent rain, wouldn't go up like a torch all on its own. He handed it to her, holding it in his grasp as she moved to take it for only the moment it took him to connect his gaze with hers, to see the intent behind the facade. Was this what she really wanted, asked without words.

Then he released it to her to make her own decision on the matter. He just wanted to know that she really meant it.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

With one gloved hand upon the lighter she looked, emeralds reflecting off of ice and in her face was nothing other than certainty. It was not steeped heavily in any strong emotion, there was no anger, no sadness, no great feeling of vengeance or sense of loss.

This was what she wanted.

As Evelynn made her way back up to the house with the lighter in hand she felt a sense of understanding.

Clarity in looking forward instead of reaching back.

The past had happened, and though thoroughly irreversible and utterly damaging there was little point in spending so much time steeped in it, any of it. From absent mothers and lonely cottages to malevolent fathers and crumbling empires, they were concrete boots that served to weigh her down and keep her trapped in cyclical self-destructive mindsets.

From their point of entry, she reached through and grabbed the half-rotten, dust-infested curtain and sparked the lighter. It didn't take much for the fabric to catch and as soon as the blonde was sure it would spread she released it.

Returning to Emryc she promptly handed his light back, not wishing to deprive a chain-smoker the ability to spark up consecutive cigarettes.

When the grass catches it's going to spread quickly, she told him, doubting he could truly appreciate the immediate danger of a dry bush fire, we should leave now.

Whether or not the man got up was irrelevant as Beatrice made her way to the speeder.

Oh, and thank you, for everything.

 

[Emryc]

Grass was flammable. Good to know.

He didn't linger after her warning - fire wasn't something Emryc willingly exposed himself to - and dropped his cigarette in the grass, cherry still hot. Wouldn't take long for that little flame to catch as he left it smoldering where he'd sat. Moments later he was getting into his speeder, giving Beatrice a glance as she clamored in, and pressing the ignition switch to bring the engine back to life.

No need to leave immediately. They could sit and watch the fire catch for a few minutes longer. Flames licking up the insides of the house, belching out the open window, billowing smoke from the chimney as if it were occupied once again. Emryc had seen plenty of fires overcoming buildings in his days on Nadir - it was a monthly thing if nothing else in the wars between the various clans. But there was something catching about watching something burn to cinders ... if you had the free time to spare.

With the flash of heated gold reflecting in his gaze, Emryc thought on her thank you and what he would do with it. It wasn't something he heard ... ever.

He was supposed to respond with you're welcome, but the words just didn't feel right on his proverbial tongue, spoken or not. So instead he opted for: "Hungry?" and turned to look at her, calmly waiting on her response. There was a really good steakhouse out this way that would hit the spot.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She turned her head to him and pondered his question, their faces bathed in the ever-increasing glow of the past's destruction.

You know, I am, actually.

 

[Emryc]

Turns out the steakhouse he'd recalled from this area had actually been decimated in a recent territory squabble between governments. Emryc silently lamented the loss of what he knew to be a top quality chef who produced top quality meals. If he had nothing else in common with Aver Brand it was his sense of taste for gourmet food. Too bad he didn't also own a chain of restaurants that provided just such a thing.

He sure as shit wasn't going to her restaurants.

Be it ever so humble, there was nothing quite like the thrill of trying somewhere new. They were off-charting it between destinations and taking a gamble that there was something of note or interest in the nearby sector. With luck, the local listings turned up a curiosity that simply couldn't be passed up.

The W H S K

A roving space station of underworldly delights. Upon offloading from his ship with Beatrice in tow, Emryc pulled aside a nearby technician to question him for local eateries. Just his luck, there was a restaurant in the lower levels called Grille 351 that served platters of the illegal selections and acquired tastes. The two were not mutually exclusive.

Emryc briefly wondered if they served kath hound steaks. Ever since her story he found he wanted to try it.

"I read your reports," he said to her while they waited in the lift heading down into the lower levels, "the Doctor believes you will be ready for discharge in a few weeks."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

This was ridiculous.

Terrible, tasteless, tactless, trite and trivial.

Who, just who took all the trouble, all the time and all the resources to construct a pop-up space station (what did that even mean) and then call it W H S K S T T N? There was something deeply offensive in its pretentiousness that bothered Beatrice at her core. Were they too good for vowels? Were vowels considered passé by the eccentric and supposedly fashionable subsections of society? It felt like there was some great inside joke purposely evading her, and it was not appreciated.

It took at least fifteen minutes for the woman's face to unstick from a state of withering distaste into one of light vexation.

Gloved fingers tapped on the back of her voice, the datapad that she deemed necessary to use to talk to people on the more ordinary side of affairs. No need to scar the wait staff with sudden frigid bursts of telepathy.

Oh.

It was as if the woman had forgotten the entire purpose of all of this. It wasn't about soul-searching, soup and snarky conversations, no, it was about her physical rehabilitation. Standing in the elevator with him, Govan glanced down to her cane and considered the state he had first met her in, getting cheap physiotherapy from a perpetually late woman called Barbara. They had come so far, and it was indeed they. A whole bloody team backed by his pocket.

I'd almost forgotten, she conceded, letting her thoughts guide her words, what with your 'accident' and my, well, our arson.

Come to think of it, they had just started a brush fire during the dry season.

 

[Emryc]

He might've argued that it was her arson, but she had used his lighter and he'd given it to her willingly. Knowingly. Besides, apparently they were married. Marriage was implication enough.

Not that he'd known how quickly the grasses would go up, or how far it would spread. His knowledge of ecological threats beyond rusting durasteel structure beams in dilapidated buildings didn't stretch far.

The lift stopped, door dinging open, not their floor. Emryc reached forward to take hold of Beatrice by the upper arm, tugging her back next to him to make room for the people piling in. He turned his gaze down at her and studied her face for a moment, noting how much less sunken-in it seemed; the tint of color to her cheeks; the smoothed texture of her skin. It was almost as if she were healthy and well appointed.

"You should start thinking about your next move," he said to her, referring to where she would go once her recovery was done, "Beatrice."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

For a split second, she was offended, finding the man's need to pull her back an affront, as if she were some hapless cretin that was going to wander off and get in the way. That was, of course, until the actual public started filling the elevator and she found herself blinking away pre-emptive annoyance.

Beatrice had almost forgotten that an entire galaxy of people existed outside of Emryc Qosta's employ.

It at least gave the woman a chance to study the type of pretentious reprobate that would visit a space station called W H S K. All it took was one scan of the lift's collective dress sense to make the blonde realise that it was people like them that visited space stations called W H S K. Oh, the horror.

Thankfully, her silent stare of medium revulsion was already well-equipped as Emryc the walking bloody furnace radiated body heat and continued his pertinent enquiries to life after this. Govan stared into a black hole of thought as the lift continued to descend into the lower levels.

A next move?

Oh.

Oh no.

She looked up to him, taking the chance to observe his fine cut jaw in such personal proximity before offering a slight, faux-innocent smile.

Are you so desperate to get rid of me?

 

[Emryc]

"You are not my hostage," Emryc intoned quietly, releasing the woman from his grasp. That line caught the attention of several people in the lift. Suddenly Emryc wasn't the only one well-appointed, tall, locked and loaded. His gaze shifted upward to three men who were now eyeing him and his date up. He summarily ignored them to look back down at Beatrice.

"You are my guest. I told you I would fix your back and soon," he produced a fresh cigarette from the tin in his breast pocket, "it will be."

The spark of his lighter caught in the gazes presently boring into them, "What you do after that is your choice, not mine." He pocketed his lighter, took a pull of the cigarette, then smoothed his other hand down Beatrice's back to her waist as the door gave another ding.

"This is our floor," Emryc announced to the other passengers in the lift. Several stepped back, two of the men did not.

"Is this man bothering you, Miss?" one of them asked, "I heard the word hostage."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

On the contrary, he was her hostage.

He had bound himself to her broken spine, because he could, and with it did not come a journey of swift surgery and rapid rehabilitation but instead a lengthy struggle. An on-again, off-again constant argument (mostly one way) filled with much trial and tribulation that never really felt like it was going to end.

Not that she particularly wanted it to.

At least here with him, Evelynn felt like she was making progress towards something, which was a feeling she feared would be fleeting in a world outside of Emryc Qosta's. She didn't even know wh-

The ding of the elevator door pulled her out of that horrific train of thought and then, things got a touch spicy. Evelynn raised an eyebrow at the two supposed stalwarts delaying their much-anticipated meal, her expression almost confused by their perception of events. On the other hand, he was ushering a woman with a cane around, talking to himself and saying words like 'hostage'. It made sense on paper.

Of course, as Evelynn ruminated on that she had allowed an awkward silence and in her haste to correct that fumbled with the datapad so that she could give a more prompt response.

"Oh no, we're together. Everything is fine. Don't worry. Please."

Somehow the robotic tone of her glorified speak-and-spell made everything seem worse. Even Evelynn looked down at the device somewhat aghast at the stiff and suspicious statement.

"You can come with us," the second man offered, the whispers of old gang tattoos peaking past well-tailored cuffs "if you don't feel safe talking here."

What universe of strangely chivalrous gangsters was this?

 

[Emryc]

"My wife is hungry," Emryc intoned to the man who spoke last, drawing his attention and his mildly bewildered gaze at the word wife. Emryc leveled him with a stare that weighed as much as the station they presently stood upon, boring into the man's mind through his eyes, "and we're going to be late for our reservations."

There was a moment where the man's gaze went glassy, a sheen overtaking him like a cow walking a chute to into a slaughterhouse. Then he stuttered out a syllable, struggled to form a word, cleared his throat, and stepped back, "D-don't want you to be l-late."

The hand at the small of Beatrice's back pressed her forward ahead of her benefactor while his eyes turned next to the second man that comprised their road block, "Step. Aside."

For a second time that curious look took over like it was infectious. The man dumbly blinked and fumbled his feet backwards, nearly toppling the person standing behind him. Emryc ushered his wife out of the lift, turned to look over his shoulder at the others and jammed his thumb into the close-doors button, "Don't follow us."

As soon as the doors closed with a ding! he dug into his breast pocket, fishing for his cigarettes and lighter like he needed a breath of fresh air, "The welcome committee needs work..."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, suddenly she was his wife again. One second it was 'time for your next move' and the next it was married with dinner reservations, but wasn't that just classic Emryc? Give them the old emotional whiplash and explain nothing later.

She could have laughed.

Or would have had events not taken an intriguing turn within the awkward confines of the scenario. Her golden fingers fluttered as an invisible lobotomy seemingly took the mind and courage of stalwart criminal number one. Beatrice had to contain her amusement as such strange affliction took hold of the second gentleman, pacifying him into bumbling awkwardness

There wasn't much time to savour the moment, as she, the hapless wife was shepherded out of the elevator, presumably because her feet didn't know any better.

I mean, I certainly feel welcomed, Govan crowed having been on the chivalrous side of the almost-altercation as she marched on towards the restaurant. It might have been a trick but it wasn't a lie; his wife was hungry, wonderful de-escalation though, darling.

Might as well milk being his wife once more before it was back to her future moves.

Perhaps it would be better if I used my public voice for the rest of the evening, especially if you're considering using the word hostage again.

 

[Emryc]

The man lit his fresh cigarette with a straight face through her words.

Darling. The syllables slapped upon his mind like a wet noodle, clinging for purchase and reaction before slowly dropping away. An annoying, starchy moistness remained to eventually evaporate from his thoughts, much like any memory of a doting or endearing word from any woman ever did. Still, it left him briefly, mildly, uncomfortable.

He sucked in a fresh lungful of smoke and breathed the feeling out through his nose.

"That's not necessary. We have a private booth for the evening show."

Stepping into the restaurant following his wife-for-a-night, Emryc paused behind her at the Hostess' podium, "Qosta."

The Hostess smiled, looked between the pair with an odd expression of someone looking upon a particularly poorly matched patterned suit, and lead them off. Their private booth was, in fact, it's own room with an extravagant but intimate round table setting next to a domed floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the central arena below. There were two creatures presently duking it out in the area which was covered in blood and pieces of viscera.

"Tonight's stakes match begins in twenty minutes. Would you like to view the preflight matches for betting, Mister Qosta?"

"Yes," he answered as he pulled out Beatrice's seat for her, "and a bottle of Whyrens."

"And for you Missus Qosta?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

A private booth for dinner and a show.

The look granted to the pair by the hostess was only moderately offensive in nature as Beatrice attempted to fathom just what it was that bothered the station employee so. Did she perceive them as out of place? Or only one of them? It was her, wasn't it? What, did she think he was out of her league? Oh no, this actually bothered her. The woman's nose crinkled, her train of thought a bad smell that lingered.

Caring about such trivial matters implied that...

The arena below them was a much-needed distraction as Govan made her way over to the window, gaze firmly settling upon the gratuitous violence that raged below them. Had they not burned enough symbols of the past?

A cottage.

An arena.

He'd take her to a castle at this rate.

Upon taking the offered seat, she plucked the drink's menu and perused the house specialities. The wine list was perfectly up to high-class restaurant standard, a blend of exclusivity, vintage and pompousness. The house cocktails, however, were...

JUB

Pričakovanje

X

moonjuice

C L A I R

...well, they were certainly something.

"A pitcher of pričakovanje," she typed, her device no doubt butchering the strange word. Visible confusion was writ large upon her judgemental features as the blonde's mind tried to fathom what kind of concoction would ultimately end up greeting her. Because of course, the menu didn't actually specify any detail, or flavour, or anything useful really. This could have been a pitcher of toilet water for all she knew.

 

[Emryc]

Emryc didn't have a castle, as it were, and castles had never really fit his aesthetic. He was a modern man of modern devices and answers to modern problems. Castles were old, filled with the obsolete, and inarguably vibe-tied to every over the top, edge-Lord the galaxy had ever known. Definitely not the image he wanted for himself. He took his seat with a muted sigh and turned his attention not to the arena below, but the datapad with the evening's lineup and betting sums.

Gambling wasn't one of his vices, but he partook from time to time for the novelty. Stars knew he'd put plenty of decimal points into the bank accounts of lower criminals in his days on Nadir fighting in the pits on taungsday night brawls.

"A pitcher of pričakovanje,"

"Am I going to have to carry you out of here tonight?" Emryc questioned without looking up.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

The woman's disused voice hummed as he correctly estimated her frame's tolerance for alcohol as she finally looked away from the enigmatic cocktail list. Settling elbows upon the table, Beatrice laced gloved fingers together and leaned forward, resting her chin upon the digit bridge that bent under the weight. Her emerald eyes narrowed, the wife studying her husband.

Well, if you're offering. Perhaps.

Chiselled elegance caught in the analysis of numbers; odds, forms, heights, weights and reaches. It was all very clinical and sophisticated. Govan considered the contrast from when he had lost his fight with the rebar, the glimpse of dishevelled pain, confusion and contempt for soup.

I should take advantage of your generosity while it lasts, after all, she said after the brief pause, her own attention being drawn once more out of the window and down towards the arena.

A small scoff.

Who would even put a window here? It was one layer of separation too many. Why partake in blood sport if you sanitised the brutality? One should have been able to smell the copper, sweat and fear all mingling together in magnificent aroma; Eau de violence. There was no occasion, no roar, no personal stakes. It was all calculated business ventures, a backdrop to a steak and a pitcher of nonsense.

Where was the passion?