Phantom Pains
The ship’s hull was creaking against the strain of hyperspace, but her captain knew she could take it. The nameless hunk had been through worse, as had her captain. In fact, he might’ve been going through worse now. Alone in his cabin, Cale Gunderson sat in the dark, not with his legs folded and his mind in some meditative state like he’d have been trained to, but instead simply atop his bed with a wicked thing in his hands. The lightsaber was too familiar.
Though the lack of frills on the Inquisitor’s blade was likely a result of his station being more tool than person, with all that he had being issued rather than made, it struck a chord. After all how couldn’t it? He’d always kept his sabers simple, and when the One Sith had given him one to mark his new station, it’d been the same as the one in his palm now. Standard issue, if a weapon such as a lightsaber could ever be such a thing. It mortified him to think of, industrialized lightsaber creation by the Sith meant the industrialized bleeding of kyber crystals, industrialized torture of a living thing.
Were they alive in the same he, or any of the strange assortment of people onboard his ship? Perhaps not, but they were alive nonetheless. And to make them the red of darksiders, one had to make them bleed. Channeling hate, pain, anger, and suffering into them through the force until the very weight of it broke them into something cruel, rather than beautiful.
Empires of darkness had risen and fallen within a decade at best on a loop in recent history, but their methods of securing blades never changed. So much in their galaxy was constantly changing, rulers, orders, nations, allies, enemies, the damned existence of certian planets or the presence of tears in the fabric or reality itself. But so much stayed the same too, the cruelty of those lusting for power one of them.
Cale couldn’t believe he’d thought he could stop them, that he could’ve made some difference. It was laughable, even those in the light stained their hands so deeply with blood that the stains would color their hands for eternity. He’d been the street rat’s age when he’d been a full Jedi Knight, years too early in a war years too long, and he’d been the padawan’s age if not a tad older when his whole life became a lie and he became a prisoner within his own minds.
He’d only lived with his adoptive parents on Naboo until he was four, but he’d only ever remembered their kindness and love, but he supposed if he’d remembered them converting him into a sleeper agent and the planting of control phrases into his psyche through what could only be called psychological torture, then their plan wouldn’t have worked as well. It’d been so long, yet the pain was still fresh.
Even with her consolation, he still saw the way she looked at him that day on Coruscant in his nightmares. The horror, the betrayal, and his own deafening mental scream as he begged his body to comply with his commands whilst some other presence commanded his form. He’d been trapped in that hell for a decade.
Ten damned years.
The worst part was that he’d never been stronger then that, especially near the end. Cale had been a capable Jedi, but nothing special, there was a reason his brother had been raised to Master despite half the amount of time in the order, and the fact he’d been Sith once. But as Darth Venatorum, the Dark Lord’s puppet on a string, he’d been frighteningly dangerous. Pain, fear, and hesitation were gone in the sense that whatever was controlling him had no regard for if he felt them, and perhaps the control of the ominous overlord of the One Sith had empowered him further.
But in the end, he’d been the fuel that fed his prison’s fire.
After a decade as a solitary prisoner in his own body, all semblance of Jedi discipline abandoned him. Cale had become angry, furious even, and every waking moment he was conscious his mind was drowning in a sea of rage. And it became stronger for it, whatever it was.
Unconsciously he flicked the ignition, and with a snap-hiss the blade came to life, its steady hum the only sound in the room, the crimson glow the only light. It washed over him, bathing him in a haze of red which reflected off blue-green eyes. Cale stared into it, watching, wondering if it might’ve been easier to just throw his head onto it and be done with it. Tup Tup could keep the ship, he didn’t care.
But he saw her eyes again, looking up at him, somehow begging him to let go of that weight. He couldn’t, he’d failed her there, but he at least had to continue on, he had to see this through. Cale thumbed the ignition, and the saber collapsed into itself. He tossed the thing back onto his bed and rose to his feet, stepping out of his quarters to see what his passengers were busying themselves with.
And to figure out what to do with them.
Hector Vale Aleksandr Stirsea Ronan Calore
Though the lack of frills on the Inquisitor’s blade was likely a result of his station being more tool than person, with all that he had being issued rather than made, it struck a chord. After all how couldn’t it? He’d always kept his sabers simple, and when the One Sith had given him one to mark his new station, it’d been the same as the one in his palm now. Standard issue, if a weapon such as a lightsaber could ever be such a thing. It mortified him to think of, industrialized lightsaber creation by the Sith meant the industrialized bleeding of kyber crystals, industrialized torture of a living thing.
Were they alive in the same he, or any of the strange assortment of people onboard his ship? Perhaps not, but they were alive nonetheless. And to make them the red of darksiders, one had to make them bleed. Channeling hate, pain, anger, and suffering into them through the force until the very weight of it broke them into something cruel, rather than beautiful.
Empires of darkness had risen and fallen within a decade at best on a loop in recent history, but their methods of securing blades never changed. So much in their galaxy was constantly changing, rulers, orders, nations, allies, enemies, the damned existence of certian planets or the presence of tears in the fabric or reality itself. But so much stayed the same too, the cruelty of those lusting for power one of them.
Cale couldn’t believe he’d thought he could stop them, that he could’ve made some difference. It was laughable, even those in the light stained their hands so deeply with blood that the stains would color their hands for eternity. He’d been the street rat’s age when he’d been a full Jedi Knight, years too early in a war years too long, and he’d been the padawan’s age if not a tad older when his whole life became a lie and he became a prisoner within his own minds.
He’d only lived with his adoptive parents on Naboo until he was four, but he’d only ever remembered their kindness and love, but he supposed if he’d remembered them converting him into a sleeper agent and the planting of control phrases into his psyche through what could only be called psychological torture, then their plan wouldn’t have worked as well. It’d been so long, yet the pain was still fresh.
Even with her consolation, he still saw the way she looked at him that day on Coruscant in his nightmares. The horror, the betrayal, and his own deafening mental scream as he begged his body to comply with his commands whilst some other presence commanded his form. He’d been trapped in that hell for a decade.
Ten damned years.
The worst part was that he’d never been stronger then that, especially near the end. Cale had been a capable Jedi, but nothing special, there was a reason his brother had been raised to Master despite half the amount of time in the order, and the fact he’d been Sith once. But as Darth Venatorum, the Dark Lord’s puppet on a string, he’d been frighteningly dangerous. Pain, fear, and hesitation were gone in the sense that whatever was controlling him had no regard for if he felt them, and perhaps the control of the ominous overlord of the One Sith had empowered him further.
But in the end, he’d been the fuel that fed his prison’s fire.
After a decade as a solitary prisoner in his own body, all semblance of Jedi discipline abandoned him. Cale had become angry, furious even, and every waking moment he was conscious his mind was drowning in a sea of rage. And it became stronger for it, whatever it was.
Unconsciously he flicked the ignition, and with a snap-hiss the blade came to life, its steady hum the only sound in the room, the crimson glow the only light. It washed over him, bathing him in a haze of red which reflected off blue-green eyes. Cale stared into it, watching, wondering if it might’ve been easier to just throw his head onto it and be done with it. Tup Tup could keep the ship, he didn’t care.
But he saw her eyes again, looking up at him, somehow begging him to let go of that weight. He couldn’t, he’d failed her there, but he at least had to continue on, he had to see this through. Cale thumbed the ignition, and the saber collapsed into itself. He tossed the thing back onto his bed and rose to his feet, stepping out of his quarters to see what his passengers were busying themselves with.
And to figure out what to do with them.
Hector Vale Aleksandr Stirsea Ronan Calore