C'il
Character
Location: Pitann slave mining operation
Alina Tremiru
C'il stood utterly confused before the slaver, "Dance? I don't know-" the pain in her neck sent her to the floor from the collar. Some trandoshan slime, a dishonor to his race. Fat and weak for the reptilians.
He hissed through his teeth, gripping the datapad. A single collar alert was not enough. He had to be able to shock any slave whenever he wanted. A substitute for his lack of any real power. But enough of one. "I did not ask what you know, I did not ask at all. You mine, you fix, you dance, you sing, you starve, you live, because I tell you too." she glared at the floor trying to regain herself, she hated this. If she so much as touched the collar it went off, an attempt to counter those cybernetic limbs of hers. And they had an explosive in them, something she'd seen first hand he was eager to use at any opportunity. It wasn't about his entertainment, he never even watched even the actual dancers. He seemed to tell everyone to do it, no matter their race or appearance, male or female. Just to prove where he was in the food chain. Disgust-she screamed in pain again, barely having time to recover from the last shock before he decided she took to long to react, "I told you to dance!"
"But I..." again jolts through her even the instant she realized her mistake, "I DID NOT ASK YOU TO SPEAK." he roared. Weak for his kind though he was, he still dragged her towards an exit all the same and hurled her out the door into the pen locking it behind him before she could think of what to do. It was full of others, miners or kitchen staff or all the other slaves. Coughing, it hit her lungs fast too. The gravity already weighed heavy on her, as it did most here leaving them always tired and weak. But the atmosphere was even worse, you were supposed to wear breathing masks. But when he was upset, he made sure you went without. The pen had plenty of work to be done in, all the while barely getting anything good into your lungs. Some had figured out how to delay or push through the constant pressure to cough or hold their breath, C'il was still figuring that out as she choked on it.
Her hatred for him and fear of her circumstances boiled in her. Ever since she'd lost connection to her ship life had been nothing but trouble, first the spice. And now this. She barely even remembered how she got here, but it didn't matter. She was far too tired to figure out what to do about it. Because if she messed up, it was pain or death. And it was so easy to mess up. The collective hatred for him from all the slaves was only drowned out by how exhausted or ill they all were from working on this place, all too often unaided by the equipment they needed to do it right, and then punished more for it. Filth of a creature, filth of an organic, filth of a trandoshan, filth of a slaver. A hutt would be a better operation manager than that.
Alina Tremiru
C'il stood utterly confused before the slaver, "Dance? I don't know-" the pain in her neck sent her to the floor from the collar. Some trandoshan slime, a dishonor to his race. Fat and weak for the reptilians.
He hissed through his teeth, gripping the datapad. A single collar alert was not enough. He had to be able to shock any slave whenever he wanted. A substitute for his lack of any real power. But enough of one. "I did not ask what you know, I did not ask at all. You mine, you fix, you dance, you sing, you starve, you live, because I tell you too." she glared at the floor trying to regain herself, she hated this. If she so much as touched the collar it went off, an attempt to counter those cybernetic limbs of hers. And they had an explosive in them, something she'd seen first hand he was eager to use at any opportunity. It wasn't about his entertainment, he never even watched even the actual dancers. He seemed to tell everyone to do it, no matter their race or appearance, male or female. Just to prove where he was in the food chain. Disgust-she screamed in pain again, barely having time to recover from the last shock before he decided she took to long to react, "I told you to dance!"
"But I..." again jolts through her even the instant she realized her mistake, "I DID NOT ASK YOU TO SPEAK." he roared. Weak for his kind though he was, he still dragged her towards an exit all the same and hurled her out the door into the pen locking it behind him before she could think of what to do. It was full of others, miners or kitchen staff or all the other slaves. Coughing, it hit her lungs fast too. The gravity already weighed heavy on her, as it did most here leaving them always tired and weak. But the atmosphere was even worse, you were supposed to wear breathing masks. But when he was upset, he made sure you went without. The pen had plenty of work to be done in, all the while barely getting anything good into your lungs. Some had figured out how to delay or push through the constant pressure to cough or hold their breath, C'il was still figuring that out as she choked on it.
Her hatred for him and fear of her circumstances boiled in her. Ever since she'd lost connection to her ship life had been nothing but trouble, first the spice. And now this. She barely even remembered how she got here, but it didn't matter. She was far too tired to figure out what to do about it. Because if she messed up, it was pain or death. And it was so easy to mess up. The collective hatred for him from all the slaves was only drowned out by how exhausted or ill they all were from working on this place, all too often unaided by the equipment they needed to do it right, and then punished more for it. Filth of a creature, filth of an organic, filth of a trandoshan, filth of a slaver. A hutt would be a better operation manager than that.
