The Scientist

[Cira]

The Disciple - en-route to the Unknown Regions
[member="Sarge Potteiger"]



I remember it all.

The words would ring through Cira's mind, echoing within. Resonating with the sting of guilt and shame.

Cira would lean back in a chair comfortable enough to sleep in, its leather as soft as grey butter, and stared at the stars. Twin suns bore through the glasteel, deep in her thoughts. The blast shields were withdrawn from the oversized viewport of her private office, and the chamber itself was dark, giving her an unencumbered view of space. Her office was on the port side, the bow was oriented toward Fondor's sun, and the stern was pointed back toward Fondor and it's five moons, so she’d be looking towards Faliar, Sefon, Alisandor, towards the Rimma Trade route and beyond.

Astronomy wasn't her strong suit, but her life had been cast on scientific thought and exploration. She could trace her life among those stars, recount expeditions, archaeological finds...

For almost five centuries Cira had been able to discern her identity. Be assured in the role she stepped in and out day by day. Perhaps a laughable distinction, seeing as the private woman had worn many identities as one would wear clothes. But it was in that ability that allowed her to flourish in her true passion and blend into the crowd, embed herself in it. Her Shi'ido birthright of natural curiosity fed on her human half. It also weighed heavy on her immense necessity for privacy.


She let her eyelids sag, but her mind continued to race, as it had every day since she'd been rescued off of Alderaan. Since Zhaera...

Lids rose, and the golden orbs of her eyes bore into the star studded velvet of space. No, she was still there. Always there, laying in wait.

Maybe that was the reason for leaving Fondor. For getting away. A dire need to express that she wasn't who Cira was.

A wince drew over her lips.

However, one couldn't deny that dark familiarity.

That whisper in the dark.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

I'm the driver...

That whisper materialized a moment later in the calloused palm of her shadow as it settled onto her shoulder as it often did. Her warmth bled through the protective growths that hardened his skin, filling him with a sense of belonging. Each moment with her was a quiet blessing from the Force, as they'd both survived where they should not have.

...bringing this circus to town.​

He had called the swamps of Dagobah his home for three months, it's legacy evident in the shimmering voids of his eyes and the inky rivers of his veins. The scars of healing had come with the Jedi, in forgetting who he had been and where he had come from.

First one in and the last rolling out; shutting down.

His pain had been in forgetting her, in accepting her as lost to him.

The up-allnighter. All the stars and sunrises I've seen. Every starport and hyperlane in between.​

And she had stormed back into his life on Eriadu, a whirlwind of anxiety and repression, an unfamiliar flavor from the woman with the defiant chin and hard eyes softened by the curves she seemed to so favor wearing.

West to east.

"Let's get going." He whispers, the gentleness of his voice the shifting of gravel before a rockslide.

Oh, easy come and easy go, yeah we rock then we roll out of town.​

And then, just as he had done when he'd tendered his resignation, he leaned down to plant his lips against the side of her head. He had suffered his recovery alone, but he had vowed she would not have to do the same. It was time to get her back in the saddle.

[member="Cira"]

 

[Cira]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]


There was comfort in the brush of his lips. Seemingly innocent as it was weighted with far more than words could relay. Twin golden eyes would draw upwards, lids lifting to catch the shadow of his face, the stubbled line of his jaw.

If it was difficult to discern her own state of mind, whatever lay between he and she was only the tip of the iceburg. The calm of the storm. They were in this curious dance, she and he. One she wasn't sure exactly where it would end and what it all could be. At times she had a dire need to examine it, dissect so. Study it, hesitantly so at times. At others, she simply wanted to meld skin to skin. Sink into his heat, feel the strength of his arms and the stroke of his hand in her hair.

What sort of crazed female was she now?

Zhaera. Cira. Talia. Countless of lives and countless names. The majority of which would tug her in different directions. Confound her so.

"The plot course is to the Wild Regions." she said simply, rising to her feet. There wasn't much honestly to say aloud. The majority of their discussions would slip to and fro, cutting the silence and hang heavy in between. They read each other in the depths of the eyes. In actions.

In the steady persistence that simply said this.

I'm here.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Casting his gaze down to the tendrils of her hair, a shallow nod of his head was given in confirmation. Blinking out the glasteel, he couldn't fight his naturally inquisitive mind. He'd never been deemed 'scholarly' by anyone, but he'd always considered himself to be it - his art was war, but his passion was people. Every mind was a puzzle, every interaction a carefully orchestrated dance.

The most complex puzzle of all sat next to him, on a vessel made in her image.

Eyes shifting, he blinks, then looks to the stars as they turn and elongate, and his palm brushes over her shoulder before he kneads his fingers into her skin. "Where to, [member="Cira"]?" He's distracted, voice distant, already fathoming any of the places that she could be taking them right about now. Endless options lay before them, more worlds than he could ever hope to visit, and he knew wherever she chose, she'd have a good reason for setting her destination there.

"...anywhere?"

Was she running to a discovery, or running from one? It was so hard to tell with her.

 

[Cira]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

Anywhere?

Likely. Possibly.

Things were far more simpler back then, Cira would tell herself, her shoulders rising as she took in a deep breath. She'd yet to skinshift the long length of those insectlike dreadlocks. It was a symbol. A penance. One that she'd yet to fulfill. Perhaps one day that will change, but until the time came when she could forgive herself, it was hardly likely.

There were just some things one could never make right.

"Zakuul." was her eventual answer. Quiet, pensive. A small flutter of her lashes and a furrow of her brow.

"Ever heard of the Eternal Empire?"

Talia would be more apt for an excavation excursion. Perhaps doing so would help with... well everything.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Cira"]

Had he ever heard of Zakuul? Probably, once upon a time. Galactic civilizations had extended at least to close to forty thousand years ago, and each and every one had met it's inevitable end before fading into the anonymity that was the musty tomes of history. Eternal Empire? That sounded more familiar. Mostly because it was evident it had no longer existed, and thus the irony of it's name had stuck in his mind.

Lips pursing as he exhales a breath, looking out to hyperspace before the viewport closes - staring too long into that transdimension often resulted in madness. "Once, perhaps. Though I know next to nothing of it.

But such is the nature of history. There's always a new angle to it."

 

[Cira]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

A brief flash of humor would glint in her golden eyes, that strange ethereal glow still lingering about them. When he set his eyes upon her, did he think of what she was back then? Did he see the Hydra Queen? Did the dreadlocks that had taken over instead of the flowing auburn locks make him pause? There were a multitude of questions, and honestly maybe the answers didn't really even matter.

Ultimately, Brandon was here standing beside her. Ever steady. Ever there.

Always.

How does one come to terms to that. Much the less, wonder on the why. Truth be told, both of them were broken in their own way. Cast off by the galaxy and wearing a testimony of scars, a multitude of lies, and masks never ending.

Ever since he came into her office, she could vaguely recall how he had been a thorn in Cira's side. My side. A frown drew over her face, a subtle shifting of thoughts.

"They had a ruler. " she began, leaning forward to gently manipulate a nearby holoarray with all of her notes. Research and scientific study helped her, made her push away the dark thoughts.

"To the people of the Eternal Empire over which he ruled in his later life, he was His Glorious Majesty, Slayer of Izax, Immortal Master and Protector of Zakuul—their Immortal Emperor." a few items would pull up, gleaned from her archives of the Order of the Selab.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

And there it was, the brief glimmer or amusement in [member="Cira"]'s eyes. No matter how much one maintained control over their face and body, the eyes were still the weakness. The trick lay in understanding what caused that brief flicker of good humor. No questions came from him, however, and he just curled his lips upward into a smile - the warm smile he kept hidden away for the most joyous moments in life.

Weddings. Seeing an old friend. Making her smile - even if only on the inside.

"It goes without saying that most Empire's have an Emperor of some sort." He says, placing a hand on the back of her chair to lean forward, studying the information she brought up. His eyes flickered, scanning, and to his absolute lack of surprise, the 'Immortal Emperor' was killed.

"Well, I guess they did name him Immortal, not Invincible." Exhaling quietly, he cocked his head to one side. "He seemed to have been quite the personality. So what are we hoping to find on this journey into the past?"

 

[Cira]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

There were few moments that would prompt Cira to find humor now a days. There were still things she had to work through, hand to come to terms with.

Forgiveness of the self was rarely ever the easiest path to take.

Yet there was something about the man who was hovering beside her, the weight of his hand upon the back of her chair, the scent of his body as he drew close, at the rumbling tenor of his voice. Low, terse, but when he spoke it did so in volumes.

"Clarity." Cira would finally answer. Archaeology had been one of the few things that had managed to settle her. Maybe... maybe if she set herself up on that path again, whatever she found in the past could be laid to rest with hers.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Cira"]

Blinking, he reached up, fingers sinking into the tendrils atop her head until he could find her scalp. Massaging gently, he gave a slow sigh. "Well, we'll look together. Because whatever this 'Eternal Fleet' was, I'm certainly interested. I'm not Ayden, but I still do appreciate a finely made ship.

And it sounds like anyone who could control that is worth studying."

Whatever 'clarity' was, he'd find out. "How long are we planning on staying?" He was coming along for her sake, and when she'd told him to jump he'd never asked when he was supposed to land. But specifics were good to find out now.

Maybe there was still civilization there. Maybe not. It was hard to tell.

 

[Cira]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

If there was one weakness, one that would express a singular act that could lull Cira into a calm state, it would be when Brandon ran his fingers across her scalp, massaging her through the thick dreads that she had yet to skinshift into actual hair.

That he did so spoke volumes, considering his abhorrence of anything Yuuzhan Vong. All the more when it only served as a reminder of what she did as Zhaera Shai. Her lids fell half shut, and it took a moment to register his question.

"...As long as it takes, I suppose." it was a vague answer, but truthfully, Cira wasn't sure for how long. "Archaeology never really has an end point."

She bit her lip gently, lifting her eyes as the coordinates were imputed. The jump to hyperspace wouldn't be long now.

"There is always one more thing to uncover. Another layer to remove."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

A gentle 'hrmph' of amusement rumbled up a from a throat forever scarred by years of trying to be heard over the sounds of blasterfire. He understood now, though. You stayed until there were no more answers to find; the parallel was actually the reason he was amused. "Get us into hyperspace then, [member="Cira"]." Leaning down, he kissed the crown of her head gently once more, and then leaned down to plant a kiss against her temple, too.

Lips hovering near her ear, he smirked - she'd hear it in his voice. "Because if there's one thing I'm familiar with... it's knowing there's always another layer to push through."

 

[Cira]

The bright embers of Cira's eyes rose, her head turning to meet the black void of [member="Sarge Potteiger"]'s eyes. There was humor there. Most would miss it. She would not. He enjoyed doing this. He had his moments, bouts of underlying humor.

It was hard to determine at what times she found it amusing and which she simply found it aggravating. If she was honest with herself, the bulk of the time it was both. It was something to consider. Then again, a part of her that she still had to go through.

"Among other things..." she mused with notable wryness. The Disciple had been designed to be controlled by an astromech crew. Simply typing in the coordinates and allowing the droids take over. It made it easy for her to be able to travel quickly and surreptitiously throughout the galaxy. It served her when she was the Lady Protector.

It served her now.

"So what is it about this Galactic Alliance I'm hearing about?"

Rumor had a way of traveling. While Cira might have squirreled herself away within the walls of Brandon's home, it didn't mean she didn't get the direct feed of the current events in the galaxy.

Truthfully the most infamous of events happened whenever she was in bed.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He could see the mental math being done, as to whether or not she should be amused or offended. Perhaps that was why she kept him around, though. He was the only one who seemed willing to take that step, the one that crossed into the familiar and left behind the unknown. She was the galaxy's greatest puzzle, and if all he could get out of her was a glare, that was still better than not knowing what was going on inside the beautiful mind.

The automated ship was prepping for hyperspace - or, rather, it seemed it had already gone - and just like that, they were on their way.

"Among other things." He repeats dryly.

Pushing himself up to stand, moving over to the viewport, staring more at the floor than the elongated stars. "It's a hope, @Cira. The Republic has it's head up it's ass, and the One Sith seem to be doing the same.

I need the credits, and they need the muscle. You really think a faction meant to fight the Sith is going to forgo someone as dangerous as me. My hatred of them is known, almost as well as my admittedly ephemeral 'skills.' Killing isn't a skill - it never could be - but it is an artform. There's a certain grace to it; the way you move around a corner, the way a gun pans across an empty room.

Time slows down, blood fills your ears. Most of these people are new, untested. They need someone who's been there, who's been around that block. Someone who knows the pain that comes from war, and more importantly, the pride that comes from triumph. The Republic never knew how to win.

The Galactic Alliance needs to learn how to."

 

[Cira]

He could be poetic at times. It still unnerved her.

Everyone had their first impressions and certainly, 'Cira' had her own about [member="Sarge Potteiger"] the moment he had broken into her office. What came after had been a clash of wills and a distinct desire to see the man flung from her balcony. That there was a deep abyss full of profound thoughts and contemplations beyond simply doing Ayden's will had never occurred to her then.

Truth be told, Cira only had to look into a mirror to be reminded of the fact that still waters run deep.

A small tap of her foot upon the floor would swivel her seat. That slow spin would bring him to face him fully, those twin ember eyes rising to study the high cheekbones, square jaw, and the craggy planes of his bronzed face weathered with dark lines. A thought came to her that they both wore the scars of choices made and those made for them upon their person.

"So is the Galactic Alliance able learn?" came her subsequent query. "I've seen the reports from Aeron... that Fondor, Thyferra, and Yag'Dhul are secured under the Pyre." A little bit of home. Something about that warmed her; perhaps, that bit of pride that her creation had managed to survive.

That it still made a difference.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

As yes, the Pyre - her pride and joy. Part of him had wondered if perhaps collapsing the Protectorate by ceding defense control back to the member worlds had been the right decision to make. In hindsight, it absolutely was, but at the time it had been hard. It was, more or less, all he'd known since being permanently unfrozen. But she'd been there by then - been there to see her former bodyguard take over.

And perhaps there was a bit of poetic justice in letting the man who shot her shoot the future of the Protectorate too.

It's what he did, after all. Kill things.

Hearing her seat swivel, he turned, casting his eyes across her heart shaped face and sharp jawline. Twin voids scanning her face, arms still crossed over his chest, he worried his bottom lip with his teeth. Face adopting a pensive look, he exhaled momentarily. "No, I don't think they are.

They want to attack, but they don't have the insistence necessary to dislodge. It takes more than a vision and a few bodies to move the unmovable. But perhaps they'll prove me wrong in the future."

If you didn't fight for a win, you wouldn't win. It was simple as that. Sure, you might not lose, but not losing and winning were two separate things. "I get the impression that aside from most of the more zealous members, most are tired of fighting. I get paid to fight, and while they do too, it's not to the same degree. Though, I don't believe the Jedi get paid, and that's where the win is going to have to come from.

No army of soldiers will beat an army of Sith; not with the creations those Sith like to bring into play."

There was a safety in speaking in [member="Cira"]'s company. A knowledge that what you said didn't go beyond her. she'd likely swept the place for bugs a million times over. She was, after all, the only person he'd met as paranoid as him.

 

[Cira]

With a deep breath, Cira went leaning back on her chair. Left leg would cross over right in a slow deliberate sweep. It was a tell for when the woman was moving towards contemplative thought. One often done in the past during her role as the Lady Protector. Only at the time, instead of the black and gray body suit she wore, it had been a grey pencil skirt and a modest white blouse.

Fragments of the past.

"Then what do they need?" her slow blink would regard the broad figure of the man before her. It was as if they were taken from a snip-shot of the past. A news briefing and Cira at her desk, processing the information.

Perhaps a silver of hope in healing in that.


[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The man worried at his lower lip, arms folding across his chest as he stared holes in the floor. This was his pensive state of mind put on display, a man so utterly devoted to thought that he forgot the world around him. Blinking slowly, gears turning, he finally lifts his head to look at her. "They need reason." It was a curious statement to make, admittedly.

But as ever, the explanation was quick on it's heel. "They need reason because they seem to have taken for granted that, with the Republic waning, they'd pound the One Sith into submission without much issue. They bought into their own reputation too quick, and while it's true they fought the One Sith to a standstill recently - and it's more than has been done before - it's still not enough.

They need reason because they have problems they need to work out, groundside. Reason is what attracts so called 'Lightsiders' to a banner. It's why the Silvers were created. The Order couldn't agree, and so those who left thought that there wasn't enough 'reason' left in the Order, while those who remained thought the Silvers had given up too quickly on reaching compromise.

Sometimes enough is enough. But you have to be able to apply logic and reason to everything - no fanaticism, no zealots. Just cold, hard logic. If the Sith turns himself over and appears to turn over a new leaf, help him. That will get you the Force Users you need to take on the Sith. Until then, you're outclassed.

In this instance, too, reason also doubles as purpose. Is their purpose to beat the One Sith? Or is it merely to not be the Republic? What do they stand for? What do they want? It's hard to say. They're treading water."

[member="Cira"]

 

[Cira]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

The dark slash of Cira's brows slanted together at the bridge of her nose. The woman quietly let Brandon's analysis of the Galactic Alliance sink in. Those faintly glowing eyes shone with a dark, pensive light.

Eerie, a little bit surreal. Alien. The thick ropes of insect-like dreadlocks gave a slight twitch, medusa-like in their unique movement. While there was no trace of the vongshaping in her body, this was just a manifestation of her guilt. A shape-shift that she could not seem to let go. Zahira Shai would not let her. Not yet. Things were still... trying to register and meld together.

"Time will tell." Cira finally said quietly. As if troubled by that, her hands split from the threading of her fingers and came to rest upon the armrests. She pushed herself to her feet, that frown lingering upon her heart-shaped face. Slowly, she strode forward, the embers of her eyes coming to rest upon the streaks of stars across hyperspace.

"Are there any there that you trust?" she inquired, bringing her arms up and crossing them under the fullness of her breasts.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Cira"]

There was a pause, and it evident from the way he cast his eyes downward that he knew the answer. But knowing and approving of it were two different things, and he didn't like the answer that came to mind. It's why he spoke it, with finality and purpose, letting the words drop from his lips like a condemnation. "Not a soul." He'd not shed blood with them, but he trusted them enough to work for them. "I will work for them." His nostrils flared, and he exhaled, shaking his head.

"But I won't wear their banner."

His eyes lifted, going to hyperspace, destination still unknown to him. "They'll likely win their war.

It's a victory that will come too late, I'm afraid. The cut runs too deep, and the scar will never fade."