Si Deus Me Relinquit...

[Zak Dymo]

continued from First Day, First Order​

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_JEMyIa_dM​

D O S U U N
Prosperia Junior Academy

The Pau'an sat toward the back of the library.

Day after day, more of the same. The bitter disappointment of a single mistake. A singular failing that had damned him to this thrice forsaken post, where he was expected to somehow create a marvel from among fields of mediocrity.

Atop his desk was the latest dispatch from the academy on Skye. The Ren were most displeased with his apparent lack of progress. Among other things, the censure strongly hinted at a visit -- "inspection" -- of his recruiting efforts by some insufferable presence known only as [member="Castor Ren"] should the Third Librarian continue to prove so ineffective at feeding the machine that worked in the space between shadow and shadowplay.

The Knights of Ren needed agents for the field, and liked to mold their charges young so to see to their proper upbringing within the ethos of the First Order. Those who succeeded their expectations were rewarded. Those who failed them, and lived, were sent to find their successors. Talent that could succeed where theirs had failed.

The enemies of the Order were plentiful. Their potential recruits... not so much.

He wondered if the Jedi ever had such problems.

Beneath the dispatch was the thin dossier on his applicant for this morning. A depressingly stark and lackluster glimpse at a youth who was certain to be yet another bastion of disappointment. Some starved, Pantoran slave picked up from the rubble of Coruscant by a well-thought-of medical doctor who'd taken up residence on Dosuun. Uneducated, hardly literate, the admissions exam would doubtless be both formality and futility. But for the Supreme Leader's mandate as to compulsory education, no doubt this wretched urchin would be tossed back to the rubbish that so aptly described everything the Pau'an saw in the file.

Then he felt it.

A disturbance in the Force.

A faint odor lingered somewhere on the edge of perception. The smell of blood. It assailed his senses, even before the Pau'an's sunken gaze had risen to glance up at the youth standing awkwardly in the middle of the library. It was a Pantoran. His blue skin a stark contrast to the monochromatic elements of the Stormtrooper-inspired uniform he wore.

It was a moment before the Pau'an reacted. He couldn't be certain if it was marvel or madness that caused him to feel the flesh crawl along the spine. It was barely a spark, but it was there. The Dark Side of the Force. And it was a miasma of fear centered upon one gangly child.

Perhaps [member="Castor Ren"]'s inspection of his program at Prosperia Junior Academy would be postponed after all. Pity. There was a new Valkyri-Mandolorian fusion restaurant on the corner of 12th and Tarkin that he'd hoped to show the man. They did a fantastic lunch.

"It is Cadet... Chiyo, isn't it?"

The nosferatu-like alien had risen from his desk as he spoke, his voice summoning the lost youth's attention toward where the large man now moved from out of the shadows of the corner. Sharpened teeth were bared in a hideous grin, in contrast to the feigned warmth of his greeting. "My name is Zsasz. I'm a librarian here, but think of me as your... guidance counselor while you go through the orientation process."

The eyes.

The great poets of Alderaan described the human eye as a window to the soul. Eyes could reveal much about the nature of the person. The Pantoran's were dead, lifeless orbs of hard amber. The boy had seen death, stood witness to mortality...

...no...

Murder.

How very interesting. That thin dossier put a shoddy cover on a most intriguing book, the pages of which the Pau'an looked forward to peeling back and reading.

The boy said nothing. His posture both rigid and awkward. Fidgeting frequently, unsure of himself. Unsure of where he was. Unsure of where he belonged.

What a wonderful, vulnerable place to find a Force Sensitive than this. Taking a step back, the Pau'an motioned to a room off to the back. "I'll be administering a test so we know where to place you as you get started on your education," the librarian intoned in hollow, deliberate tones.

"Now... shall we begin?"

 

[Zak Dymo]

For most younglings his age, independence was a brave new world.

It was true for him as well, albeit from a somewhat different perspective. As a slave, even when he'd been sent on errands for his master, he'd always had a shadow. Someone watching over him, ready to reign in the illusion of freedom. It had kept him in bondage without chains. A prison without walls.

Now, those ethereal chains had been broken. As he'd walked away from [member="Irajah Ven"] at the transport stop, no one had followed him. He was aware of no presence lording over him. For the first time, he was alone.

It should have been liberating. Instead, he found it intimidating. Frightening. He had been alone before. On the streets. In the alleys. In the lightless reaches of Coruscant's forgotten Undercity. Starved. Eating out of rubbish bins and sleeping in flimsiplast boxes along rivers of chit flowing through the planet's sewers.

Like the tasks he'd performed for his master, they had practiced what he would do. The route from the house to the school that he would take. The stops on the transport. His ticket and fare. He had a comlink with limited functionality. It allowed him to call the Irajah and the school, with the option for the Irajah to expand the options for calling select friends when, or if, he made any.

His first day was supposed to involve something called an 'orientation.' The start of which was some kind of test. The Irajah had been going over reading and writing with him in preparation for that, as his scores on the test would determine his placement in the school. He was supposed to go to the library for the test, and then they'd give him his schedule of classes and introduce him to his teachers afterward.

From what he could tell, he was the only blue kid at the school. The disheveled mass of purple hair was cause for a number of reactions, the child withering under the realization that people were staring. Perhaps at the azure tone of his skin, or the three yellow lines that marked either side of his face. Everyone here seemed human, a word that the boy would have used to describe or include himself on Coruscant. But this wasn't Coruscant, and it seemed that aliens were so marginal that even the Near-Humans stood out in the crowd.

The effect didn't alter when he arrived at the school. The boy found a bubble of vacant space around him as he made his way into crowded doorways and halls lined with students coming and going with the start of classes. There was a buzz of whispers as he passed. Was that a Chiss? A Wroonian?

If he'd thought that the atmosphere had been awkward when he'd given the Irajah a hug in parting, the level of unease had only escalated further as the child arrived at the library.

They had only practiced his coming this far. So, now that he was here... what was he supposed now?

He fidgeted, head turning as he looked around and saw only faceless strangers passing by amid rows of holobooks stacked from floor to ceiling. He'd started to question whether he was where he was supposed to be, when the voice called out to him.

"It is Cadet... Chiyo, isn't it?"

He wasn't accustomed to people sneaking up on him. Whether on the streets, enslaved by the Sith, or even at home with the Irajah... the Pantoran was typically wound tight. Anxious like a nervous feline. Constantly alert. Glancing around, as though always expecting the devil in the dark to be somewhere close. Somewhere watching.

That's what he felt now. The devil in the dark.

He'd jumped, startled. Then shaken, obviously unsettled as his head whipped around to gaze toward the voice that had spoken. He found himself at eye-level to a midriff. Above which was a chest, that gave rise to a ghastly alien visage as the violet-headed child craned his back to peer up at the Goliath now peering down over the proverbial David.

He hadn't expected the devil to appear so... literal.

He found himself beckoned to take the test that would decide his future. It seemed strange, the emphasis that the Irajah and others put on words. Words and books and numbers. They seemed to be what normal people held important. They took food for granted. Were oblivious to the privilege they held by virtue of guaranteed shelter alone. And lost track the thin line between life and death that many struggled to keep ahead of.

Once, his life had been determined by his ability to end the lives of others. Now, it seemed his ability to answer questions about reading comprehension would decide his fate.

It seemed a rather odd way of doing things.