Dion Kayl
Member
[[OOC: This is open to anyone who wants to join!]]
His brain simmered nervously; for nearly two decades he'd been under the influence of non-stop drug cocktails designed to manage his behavior, and now he wasn't. He knew that the substance-delivery system was still there-- still attached to the top of his spine with its tiny needles-- and part of him wanted to rip it out, while another was afraid of even touching it. Without the mad scientist and his remote-control it would probably remain inactive, though Dion was pretty clueless when it came to technology. And this sucked right now because, as a cyborg, he needed repairs, and had no one in the Galaxy to turn to.
He was on a junkworld. That much was obvious from the miles and miles of piles upon piles of garbage-- ranging from the mechanical to the definitely organic-- in loosely-organized regions according to (it seemed to him) the whims of a local barony of trash-lords, each of which controlled its own territory. He'd arrived here after awakening in a gigantic dumpster a few hours ago; he'd been buried in bio-mechanical waste and barely had enough oxygen to fuel his desperate clawing for the surface, and yet he eventually emerged and gasped for a few lungfuls of rancid garbage air. He'd then spent a long time clambering for the edge of the dumpster-- which was incredibly vast in scale, he knew not how wide and had never seen nor imagined so much trash in all his life-- and in the process gunked-up one of his cybernetic hands when it plunged into an open vat of black goop. He was very aware that his cybernetic jaw was broken and hanging loosely, leaving his mouth open and revealing the sharp metal teeth which had replaced, one by one, his real teeth. At some point he had the good-fortune to find a slightly-tattered leather jacket, which he put on over the stained beige jumpsuit that had been his only attire for all his time in that psycho's lab. Later, he found a hovering dump-truck whose owner seemed to be picking through a patch of charred pod racer parts-- he stowed away in the back, and was transported to a place that seemed relatively civilized-- a trash town amidst the trash mountains.
No one gave him much attention as he moved through the town square-- there were species of all sorts here going about their business. Local merchants were hawking scavenged wares to individuals who were obviously off-worlders (they were not smeared with garbage) here looking for something specific. He had the realization that he was really worth no more than any of the other discarded trash on this planet if there was no one who placed any value in him. He was literally the same as the display of defunct droids nearby that nobody seemed remotely interested in. This thought was more than a little depressing, being one of the first original, non drug-induced or survival-based self-realizations to occur to him in a long time. He sunk down next to the defunct droids and sat there, staring blankly out at the lively bazaar. The owner of the stall, a drunken Rodian, seemed not to notice him.
The complex emotions Dion struggled with, as he sat, shifted from blue shades of lonely dejection to bright-hot rage. The Force-- a concept which his father had mentioned to him long ago but which he had long since forgotten-- flowed through him now in his state of anguish, and had he been aware of it, perhaps he could tap into it. Yet he felt utterly powerless and, more than anything, feebly alone.
His brain simmered nervously; for nearly two decades he'd been under the influence of non-stop drug cocktails designed to manage his behavior, and now he wasn't. He knew that the substance-delivery system was still there-- still attached to the top of his spine with its tiny needles-- and part of him wanted to rip it out, while another was afraid of even touching it. Without the mad scientist and his remote-control it would probably remain inactive, though Dion was pretty clueless when it came to technology. And this sucked right now because, as a cyborg, he needed repairs, and had no one in the Galaxy to turn to.
He was on a junkworld. That much was obvious from the miles and miles of piles upon piles of garbage-- ranging from the mechanical to the definitely organic-- in loosely-organized regions according to (it seemed to him) the whims of a local barony of trash-lords, each of which controlled its own territory. He'd arrived here after awakening in a gigantic dumpster a few hours ago; he'd been buried in bio-mechanical waste and barely had enough oxygen to fuel his desperate clawing for the surface, and yet he eventually emerged and gasped for a few lungfuls of rancid garbage air. He'd then spent a long time clambering for the edge of the dumpster-- which was incredibly vast in scale, he knew not how wide and had never seen nor imagined so much trash in all his life-- and in the process gunked-up one of his cybernetic hands when it plunged into an open vat of black goop. He was very aware that his cybernetic jaw was broken and hanging loosely, leaving his mouth open and revealing the sharp metal teeth which had replaced, one by one, his real teeth. At some point he had the good-fortune to find a slightly-tattered leather jacket, which he put on over the stained beige jumpsuit that had been his only attire for all his time in that psycho's lab. Later, he found a hovering dump-truck whose owner seemed to be picking through a patch of charred pod racer parts-- he stowed away in the back, and was transported to a place that seemed relatively civilized-- a trash town amidst the trash mountains.
No one gave him much attention as he moved through the town square-- there were species of all sorts here going about their business. Local merchants were hawking scavenged wares to individuals who were obviously off-worlders (they were not smeared with garbage) here looking for something specific. He had the realization that he was really worth no more than any of the other discarded trash on this planet if there was no one who placed any value in him. He was literally the same as the display of defunct droids nearby that nobody seemed remotely interested in. This thought was more than a little depressing, being one of the first original, non drug-induced or survival-based self-realizations to occur to him in a long time. He sunk down next to the defunct droids and sat there, staring blankly out at the lively bazaar. The owner of the stall, a drunken Rodian, seemed not to notice him.
The complex emotions Dion struggled with, as he sat, shifted from blue shades of lonely dejection to bright-hot rage. The Force-- a concept which his father had mentioned to him long ago but which he had long since forgotten-- flowed through him now in his state of anguish, and had he been aware of it, perhaps he could tap into it. Yet he felt utterly powerless and, more than anything, feebly alone.
