Meri Vale
Character
The library was quiet in the way only old places could be, filled with a stillness that settled into the structure itself. To most, the hum of distant systems and the soft flicker of holoscreens were calming.
To Meri, they were merely a backdrop to her growing frustration.
She sat rigidly at a long table, her posture a mask of composure that hid a deep, vibrating tension. Before her, a holopad projected pale glyphs that scrolled upward at her command. She had read the same passage three times now, and with each pass, her irritation sharpened.
"…no," she murmured, her voice a low exhale.
She made a sharp motion to reset the text, dissecting the words as if they were a cipher she could break through sheer force of will.
The Force is not something one commands, but something one aligns with.
Her jaw tightened. It wasn't a definition; it was a riddle. Vague, circular, and functionally useless. She reached for her personal datapad, her stylus tapping against the screen with clinical precision as she jotted down a jagged note: "Mechanism? Measurable input?"
She looked back at the projection, searching for a logical anchor.
The Force flows through all things, binding them together.
"That is not an explanation," she whispered, the edge in her voice more pronounced.
Her hands moved in a blur, pulling up secondary references and cross-referencing terminology. She was looking for a system, a set of rules, a predictable structure, but found only more metaphors. She switched back to her datapad, scribbling a frustrated observation: Lack of consistent terminology. Sources rely on abstraction over application.
The irritation did not explode; it simply condensed, radiating off her in cold, focused waves. To anyone with even a modicum of empathic sense, whether through instinct or training, the pressure she projected was unmistakable, sharp, dense, and utterly unyielding.
She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she stared at the glowing text. "…it doesn't resolve," she said to the empty air.
But she didn't close the files. If the Force existed, it had to follow a pattern. It had to have a foundation that didn't rely on poetry. She returned to her notes, taking the text apart piece by piece, her stylus moving with a relentless, rhythmic intensity. She wasn't moving on until she found the logic buried beneath the noise.
Jacob Solay
To Meri, they were merely a backdrop to her growing frustration.
She sat rigidly at a long table, her posture a mask of composure that hid a deep, vibrating tension. Before her, a holopad projected pale glyphs that scrolled upward at her command. She had read the same passage three times now, and with each pass, her irritation sharpened.
"…no," she murmured, her voice a low exhale.
She made a sharp motion to reset the text, dissecting the words as if they were a cipher she could break through sheer force of will.
The Force is not something one commands, but something one aligns with.
Her jaw tightened. It wasn't a definition; it was a riddle. Vague, circular, and functionally useless. She reached for her personal datapad, her stylus tapping against the screen with clinical precision as she jotted down a jagged note: "Mechanism? Measurable input?"
She looked back at the projection, searching for a logical anchor.
The Force flows through all things, binding them together.
"That is not an explanation," she whispered, the edge in her voice more pronounced.
Her hands moved in a blur, pulling up secondary references and cross-referencing terminology. She was looking for a system, a set of rules, a predictable structure, but found only more metaphors. She switched back to her datapad, scribbling a frustrated observation: Lack of consistent terminology. Sources rely on abstraction over application.
The irritation did not explode; it simply condensed, radiating off her in cold, focused waves. To anyone with even a modicum of empathic sense, whether through instinct or training, the pressure she projected was unmistakable, sharp, dense, and utterly unyielding.
She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she stared at the glowing text. "…it doesn't resolve," she said to the empty air.
But she didn't close the files. If the Force existed, it had to follow a pattern. It had to have a foundation that didn't rely on poetry. She returned to her notes, taking the text apart piece by piece, her stylus moving with a relentless, rhythmic intensity. She wasn't moving on until she found the logic buried beneath the noise.
Jacob Solay