[media]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihDkZC5PmiA[/media]
"Nyx, let's have you enter her and say 'I will not maim'."
The Zorren looked up, eyes misty with tears.
What could Vanessa mean? Was this some sort of game?
Perhaps she should be minding her old fears.
Of betrayal, of death, of a moment in a fiery war zone.
Still the idea made her start to wonder,
What was it like inside another's head? And if you're alone?
There was not much time for her to ponder.
"I'll do it. I'll enter my cousin's barren mind,"
"Then we shall see what is there for me to find."
Slowly, yet surely, the ghost closed her eyes. A step, and then another, was taken, moving towards the one who would have given her a clone. That fate seemed far out of the question. If a Zorren body was unused, it could not be left to rot, not when it's one of the few our galaxy's got. Still Nyx tried to hold some hope within her. Even if it seemed so very, very distant. It wouldn't be her fault if she gave up. So many before her already had. Oh, but look at her, this is not the type of woman to abandon her friends, her loved ones, or the thing she considered destiny. To do so would be terribly, terribly rude... and she had been raised in polite society. Maybe her horrid childhood had done something right after all. Life had given her something to many already had, and what so many might have needed: A push. A shove. A forceful thump on the back to get her going. And it had been rough. She had ended up as damaged as her sister seemed to be now. Hell, she had gotten worse. What her father had 'gifted' her with was a thousand irons in the fire. Among the flames there had been a single sliver of duty, of strength, of a drive that few had. The sliver, that little shard, was still there. Hiding. Waiting for her to ignore the burning for once and just... take it. As if it was actually that simple. As if reaching out to latch onto a piece of a mirror could mean something. Yet there it was. Lying in wait for a woman it didn't believe in.
Nyx felt her hands clench. Felt them tighten, her nails digging into palms that weren't there. She felt real. Was this a memory? It couldn't be, she had yet to try to mingle with her kin, she was still there, in the hospital room, staying perfectly still. The blaster bolt hit her about as fast as the realization did. Twas a flashback. When her eyes shot open she stood on the field of battle. Dozens of soldiers were besides her. They were standing in a valley of bodies. Corpses seemed lined up on every side, filling every gap, their faces contorted into horrid expressions. Quietly a few workers counted the bodies, others starting to carry them to the shuttle. Lots of boxes coming home tonight... Nyx thought, flinching as the medic stitched up her shoulder. Part of her wanted to slip into the thrum of the past. To pretend she was really there again. But the sting of needle against flesh reminded her that the injury had healed a long time before. All the soldiers around her were gone, buried in the ground, or left lying on the grass, perhaps little more than ashes or old bones. This wasn't real. Not in the sense that Vanessa was. Not in the sense that she had once been. Who knew that ghosts could still dream? Another moment passed. Another bit of flesh patched up. Then she was done, left to wait for a transport, the doctor moving on to his next patient. And the woman closed her eyes once more, letting herself come home.
"I'm not sure how to go about this. But I will try."
With a deep breath she reached out with her mind, connecting it to that of her kin's.
She tried to communicate. She reached and reached, stretched and bent herself, to no avail.
It was deathly silent. They had been far to late.
"All that remains is a heartbeat. There is no soul left. Not that I can find."
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,,˙puᴉɟ uɐɔ I ʇɐɥʇ ʇoN ˙ʇɟǝl lnos ou sᴉ ǝɹǝɥ┴ ˙ʇɐǝqʇɹɐǝɥ ɐ sᴉ suᴉɐɯǝɹ ʇɐɥʇ ll∀,,
˙ǝʇɐl oʇ ɹɐɟ uǝǝq pɐɥ ʎǝɥ┴ ˙ʇuǝlᴉs ʎlɥʇɐǝp sɐʍ ʇI
˙lᴉɐʌɐ ou oʇ 'ɟlǝsɹǝɥ ʇuǝq puɐ pǝɥɔʇǝɹʇs 'pǝɥɔɐǝɹ puɐ pǝɥɔɐǝɹ ǝɥS ˙ǝʇɐɔᴉunɯɯoɔ oʇ pǝᴉɹʇ ǝɥS
˙s,uᴉʞ ɹǝɥ ɟo ʇɐɥʇ oʇ ʇᴉ ƃuᴉʇɔǝuuoɔ 'puᴉɯ ɹǝɥ ɥʇᴉʍ ʇno pǝɥɔɐǝɹ ǝɥs ɥʇɐǝɹq dǝǝp ɐ ɥʇᴉM
,,˙ʎɹʇ llᴉʍ I ʇnq ˙sᴉɥʇ ʇnoqɐ oƃ oʇ ʍoɥ ǝɹns ʇou ɯ,I,,
˙ǝɯoɥ ǝɯoɔ ɟlǝsɹǝɥ ƃuᴉʇʇǝl 'ǝɹoɯ ǝɔuo sǝʎǝ ɹǝɥ pǝsolɔ uɐɯoʍ ǝɥʇ pu∀ ˙ʇuǝᴉʇɐd ʇxǝu sᴉɥ oʇ uo ƃuᴉʌoɯ ɹoʇɔop ǝɥʇ 'ʇɹodsuɐɹʇ ɐ ɹoɟ ʇᴉɐʍ oʇ ʇɟǝl 'ǝuop sɐʍ ǝɥs uǝɥ┴ ˙dn pǝɥɔʇɐd ɥsǝlɟ ɟo ʇᴉq ɹǝɥʇou∀ ˙pǝssɐd ʇuǝɯoɯ ɹǝɥʇou∀ ¿ɯɐǝɹp llᴉʇs plnoɔ sʇsoɥƃ ʇɐɥʇ ʍǝuʞ oɥM ˙uǝǝq ǝɔuo pɐɥ ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ ǝsuǝs ǝɥʇ uᴉ ʇoN ˙sɐʍ ɐssǝuɐΛ ʇɐɥʇ ǝsuǝs ǝɥʇ uᴉ ʇoN ˙lɐǝɹ ʇ,usɐʍ sᴉɥ┴ ˙sǝuoq plo ɹo sǝɥsɐ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ ǝlʇʇᴉl sdɐɥɹǝd 'ssɐɹƃ ǝɥʇ uo ƃuᴉʎl ʇɟǝl ɹo 'punoɹƃ ǝɥʇ uᴉ pǝᴉɹnq 'ǝuoƃ ǝɹǝʍ ɹǝɥ punoɹɐ sɹǝᴉplos ǝɥʇ ll∀ ˙ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɯᴉʇ ƃuol ɐ pǝlɐǝɥ pɐɥ ʎɹnɾuᴉ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝɥ pǝpuᴉɯǝɹ ɥsǝlɟ ʇsuᴉɐƃɐ ǝlpǝǝu ɟo ƃuᴉʇs ǝɥʇ ʇnq ˙uᴉɐƃɐ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʎllɐǝɹ sɐʍ ǝɥs puǝʇǝɹd o┴ ˙ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo ɯnɹɥʇ ǝɥʇ oʇuᴉ dᴉls oʇ pǝʇuɐʍ ɹǝɥ ɟo ʇɹɐԀ ˙ɹǝplnoɥs ɹǝɥ dn pǝɥɔʇᴉʇs ɔᴉpǝɯ ǝɥʇ sɐ ƃuᴉɥɔuᴉlɟ 'ʇɥƃnoɥʇ xʎN ˙˙˙ʇɥƃᴉuoʇ ǝɯoɥ ƃuᴉɯoɔ sǝxoq ɟo sʇo˥ ˙ǝlʇʇnɥs ǝɥʇ oʇ ɯǝɥʇ ʎɹɹɐɔ oʇ ƃuᴉʇɹɐʇs sɹǝɥʇo 'sǝᴉpoq ǝɥʇ pǝʇunoɔ sɹǝʞɹoʍ ʍǝɟ ɐ ʎlʇǝᴉnQ ˙suoᴉssǝɹdxǝ pᴉɹɹoɥ oʇuᴉ pǝʇɹoʇuoɔ sǝɔɐɟ ɹᴉǝɥʇ 'dɐƃ ʎɹǝʌǝ ƃuᴉllᴉɟ 'ǝpᴉs ʎɹǝʌǝ uo dn pǝuᴉl pǝɯǝǝs sǝsdɹoƆ ˙sǝᴉpoq ɟo ʎǝllɐʌ ɐ uᴉ ƃuᴉpuɐʇs ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥ┴ ˙ɹǝɥ sǝpᴉsǝq ǝɹǝʍ sɹǝᴉplos ɟo suǝzop ˙ǝlʇʇɐq ɟo plǝᴉɟ ǝɥʇ uo pooʇs ǝɥs uǝdo ʇoɥs sǝʎǝ ɹǝɥ uǝɥM ˙ʞɔɐqɥsɐlɟ ɐ sɐʍ┴ ˙pᴉp uoᴉʇɐzᴉlɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ sɐ ʇsɐɟ sɐ ʇnoqɐ ɹǝɥ ʇᴉɥ ʇloq ɹǝʇsɐlq ǝɥ┴ ˙llᴉʇs ʎlʇɔǝɟɹǝd ƃuᴉʎɐʇs 'ɯooɹ lɐʇᴉdsoɥ ǝɥʇ uᴉ 'ǝɹǝɥʇ llᴉʇs sɐʍ ǝɥs 'uᴉʞ ɹǝɥ ɥʇᴉʍ ǝlƃuᴉɯ oʇ ʎɹʇ oʇ ʇǝʎ pɐɥ ǝɥs 'ǝq ʇ,uplnoɔ ʇI ¿ʎɹoɯǝɯ ɐ sᴉɥʇ sɐM ˙lɐǝɹ ʇlǝɟ ǝɥS ˙ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇ,uǝɹǝʍ ʇɐɥʇ sɯlɐd oʇuᴉ ƃuᴉƃƃᴉp slᴉɐu ɹǝɥ 'uǝʇɥƃᴉʇ ɯǝɥʇ ʇlǝℲ ˙ɥɔuǝlɔ spuɐɥ ɹǝɥ ʇlǝɟ xʎN
˙uᴉ ǝʌǝᴉlǝq ʇ,upᴉp ʇᴉ uɐɯoʍ ɐ ɹoɟ ʇᴉɐʍ uᴉ ƃuᴉʎ˥ ˙sɐʍ ʇᴉ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇǝ⅄ ˙ƃuᴉɥʇǝɯos uɐǝɯ plnoɔ ɹoɹɹᴉɯ ɐ ɟo ǝɔǝᴉd ɐ oʇuo ɥɔʇɐl oʇ ʇno ƃuᴉɥɔɐǝɹ ɟᴉ s∀ ˙ǝldɯᴉs ʇɐɥʇ ʎllɐnʇɔɐ sɐʍ ʇᴉ ɟᴉ s∀ ˙ʇᴉ ǝʞɐʇ ˙˙˙ʇsnɾ puɐ ǝɔuo ɹoɟ ƃuᴉuɹnq ǝɥʇ ǝɹouƃᴉ oʇ ɹǝɥ ɹoɟ ƃuᴉʇᴉɐM ˙ƃuᴉpᴉH ˙ǝɹǝɥʇ llᴉʇs sɐʍ 'pɹɐɥs ǝlʇʇᴉl ʇɐɥʇ 'ɹǝʌᴉls ǝɥ┴ ˙pɐɥ ʍǝɟ ʇɐɥʇ ǝʌᴉɹp ɐ ɟo 'ɥʇƃuǝɹʇs ɟo 'ʎʇnp ɟo ɹǝʌᴉls ǝlƃuᴉs ɐ uǝǝq pɐɥ ǝɹǝɥʇ sǝɯɐlɟ ǝɥʇ ƃuoɯ∀ ˙ǝɹᴉɟ ǝɥʇ uᴉ suoɹᴉ puɐsnoɥʇ ɐ sɐʍ ɥʇᴉʍ ɹǝɥ ,pǝʇɟᴉƃ, pɐɥ ɹǝɥʇɐɟ ɹǝɥ ʇɐɥM ˙ǝsɹoʍ uǝʇʇoƃ pɐɥ ǝɥs 'llǝH ˙ʍou ǝq oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ɹǝʇsᴉs ɹǝɥ sɐ pǝƃɐɯɐp sɐ dn pǝpuǝ pɐɥ ǝɥS ˙ɥƃnoɹ uǝǝq pɐɥ ʇᴉ pu∀ ˙ƃuᴉoƃ ɹǝɥ ʇǝƃ oʇ ʞɔɐq ǝɥʇ uo dɯnɥʇ lnɟǝɔɹoɟ ∀ ˙ǝʌoɥs ∀ ˙ɥsnd ∀ ˙pǝpǝǝu ǝʌɐɥ ʇɥƃᴉɯ ʎuɐɯ os ʇɐɥʍ puɐ 'pɐɥ ʎpɐǝɹlɐ ʎuɐɯ oʇ ƃuᴉɥʇǝɯos ɹǝɥ uǝʌᴉƃ pɐɥ ǝɟᴉ˥ ˙llɐ ɹǝʇɟɐ ʇɥƃᴉɹ ƃuᴉɥʇǝɯos ǝuop pɐɥ pooɥplᴉɥɔ pᴉɹɹoɥ ɹǝɥ ǝqʎɐW ˙ʎʇǝᴉɔos ǝʇᴉlod uᴉ pǝsᴉɐɹ uǝǝq pɐɥ ǝɥs puɐ ˙˙˙ǝpnɹ ʎlqᴉɹɹǝʇ 'ʎlqᴉɹɹǝʇ ǝq plnoʍ os op o┴ ˙ʎuᴉʇsǝp pǝɹǝpᴉsuoɔ ǝɥs ƃuᴉɥʇ ǝɥʇ ɹo 'sǝuo pǝʌol ɹǝɥ 'spuǝᴉɹɟ ɹǝɥ uopuɐqɐ oʇ uɐɯoʍ ɟo ǝdʎʇ ǝɥʇ ʇou sᴉ sᴉɥʇ 'ɹǝɥ ʇɐ ʞool ʇnq 'ɥO ˙pɐɥ ʎpɐǝɹlɐ ɹǝɥ ǝɹoɟǝq ʎuɐɯ oS ˙dn ǝʌɐƃ ǝɥs ɟᴉ ʇlnɐɟ ɹǝɥ ǝq ʇ,uplnoʍ ʇI ˙ʇuɐʇsᴉp ʎɹǝʌ 'ʎɹǝʌ os pǝɯǝǝs ʇᴉ ɟᴉ uǝʌƎ ˙ɹǝɥ uᴉɥʇᴉʍ ǝdoɥ ǝɯos ploɥ oʇ pǝᴉɹʇ xʎN llᴉʇS ˙ʇoƃ s,ʎxɐlɐƃ ɹno ʍǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo s,ʇᴉ uǝɥʍ ʇou 'ʇoɹ oʇ ʇɟǝl ǝq ʇou plnoɔ ʇᴉ 'pǝsnun sɐʍ ʎpoq uǝɹɹoZ ɐ ɟI ˙uoᴉʇsǝnb ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇno ɹɐɟ pǝɯǝǝs ǝʇɐɟ ʇɐɥ┴ ˙ǝuolɔ ɐ ɹǝɥ uǝʌᴉƃ ǝʌɐɥ plnoʍ oɥʍ ǝuo ǝɥʇ spɹɐʍoʇ ƃuᴉʌoɯ 'uǝʞɐʇ sɐʍ 'ɹǝɥʇouɐ uǝɥʇ puɐ 'dǝʇs ∀ ˙sǝʎǝ ɹǝɥ pǝsolɔ ʇsoɥƃ ǝɥʇ 'ʎlǝɹns ʇǝʎ 'ʎlʍolS
,,˙puᴉɟ oʇ ǝɯ ɹoɟ ǝɹǝɥʇ sᴉ ʇɐɥʍ ǝǝs llɐɥs ǝʍ uǝɥ┴,,
,,'puᴉɯ uǝɹɹɐq s,uᴉsnoɔ ʎɯ ɹǝʇuǝ ll,I ˙ʇᴉ op ll,I,,
˙ɹǝpuod oʇ ɹǝɥ ɹoɟ ǝɯᴉʇ ɥɔnɯ ʇou sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥ┴
¿ǝuolɐ ǝɹ,noʎ ɟᴉ pu∀ ¿pɐǝɥ s,ɹǝɥʇouɐ ǝpᴉsuᴉ ǝʞᴉl ʇᴉ sɐʍ ʇɐɥM
'ɹǝpuoʍ oʇ ʇɹɐʇs ɹǝɥ ǝpɐɯ ɐǝpᴉ ǝɥʇ llᴉʇS
˙ǝuoz ɹɐʍ ʎɹǝᴉɟ ɐ uᴉ ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɟo 'ɥʇɐǝp ɟo 'lɐʎɐɹʇǝq ɟO
˙sɹɐǝɟ plo ɹǝɥ ƃuᴉpuᴉɯ ǝq plnoɥs ǝɥs sdɐɥɹǝԀ
¿ǝɯɐƃ ɟo ʇɹos ǝɯos sᴉɥʇ sɐM ¿uɐǝɯ ɐssǝuɐΛ plnoɔ ʇɐɥM
˙sɹɐǝʇ ɥʇᴉʍ ʎʇsᴉɯ sǝʎǝ 'dn pǝʞool uǝɹɹoZ ǝɥ┴
,,˙,ɯᴉɐɯ ʇou llᴉʍ I, ʎɐs puɐ ɹǝɥ ɹǝʇuǝ noʎ ǝʌɐɥ s,ʇǝl 'xʎN,,
[member="Enigma"]