First Reply The Stranger

[P O D]

THE STRANGER ​

---

LOCATION: unknown
DATE & TIME: unknown
HEALTH: low, compromised
MENTAL STATE: cloudy, confused
TAGS: open to anyone

OOC: I wanted to leave this pretty open and up for interpretation, so please do whatever you want to do with Pod! He is up for anything. Enslave him, ransom him, barter with him, experiment, get information etc. Could be more light hearted or heavy, either way is good. Also feel free to have mutilated him, removed limbs/fingers/hands n such to subdue him. He will grow them back once he has more energy so it's no big deal.

---

It smelled of blood. His blood.

Some of it was still wet, clinging to his mouth and cheeks like a sticky molasses. Clotting and thick, but not nearly as sweet. The air itself was brisk, chilling the wetness on his skin. It smelled sour and bitter, like it had some sort of vendetta to settle. 'Against who?' Pod wondered, rousing ever so slightly from a subduing sleep. An artificial one no doubt, induced by some alternate means than his normal circadian rhythms. His mind did not seem to remember any prior altercations, but his body did. He ached, whatever pain inflicted on him before was still with him now. Muscles still tense with hurt and anticipation, wincing with relaxation. The excessive bundles of nerves in his skin still felt like they were simmering, electricity swelling through his fibers. Had he been fighting? Had he been shocked? Had he been caught in the middle of some force-user's target practice? Kidnapped? Held for ransom? Needed him or his abilities for something? It was unlikely - yet not impossible - that he was drugged or poisoned, he had a remarkable resistance to most poisons, and considering the extent of his soreness it would be peculiar to have been drugged and then beat after the fact. One thing was clear, he had been bested. Pod tested his hazy proprioception as attempted to shift forward - a move to try and spit out the accumulating blood/drool mixture that was pooling in his open monster mouth; With all those teeth he was notoriously a horrendous mouth breather, especially as he slept.

Pod was stopped short by straps. Straps around his forehead and neck, loose enough that he could turn his head around but not lift it higher than metal headrest he leaned against. The rest of his body reflected these restrains. Heavy chains coiled around him like a snake, a cobra that was playing with it's prey, it's forked metallic tongue tasting his skin and teasing his limited mobility. He was sitting in a reclined metal chair, industrial and mechanical in it's build, it was well suited for this purpose. At first he didn't quite realize he was being held back, his mind was still slow and delayed in it's processing as he was still barely awake. He pushed against the straps weakly and without urgency, a halfhearted effort that he eventually gave up on when it became apparent he wasn't going anywhere. He coughed. He coughed again and rolled his head to the side, allowing the coagulated blood and spit to stream and drip from his carnivorous teeth onto the head rest. The dollop would slide its way down the cold metal and leak onto his shoulder, a filthy sensation he would not immediately process or notice at all. He tried to open his eyes, and again the fluttering of eyelashes was met by the resistance of a dark cloth. Something was tied 'round his eyes just tight enough that he could maybe open his eyes halfway, allowing him to pear at the simulated darkness through small blurry slits. He was blinded, weakened, immobilized, and remarkably vulnerable. His mind was murky and pathetic, not even capable of acknowledging how dire this situation might be. In this disarmed mental state his shapeshifting abilities were extremely limited if not impractical, the most he might be able to do now with his shortage of concentration is maybe change colors or textures on his skin. His abilities would be stripped back to their most primitive form until he regained some form of active consciousness.

Pod was in a pickle... even if he himself had not yet come to that conclusion. He let out a groan, annoyed with the pain and wishing he could go back to sleep. His body tested the restrains passively, trying to shift into a more comfortable position to no avail. Pod continued to drool on himself. He fluctuated between consciousness and sleep, wanting to escape the swarming pain that stung his body but fighting his awakening senses. The antennas on the side of his head, hidden stealthy in his mop of sweat and blood streaked hair, were seemingly upset. They were one of his most sensitive extensions, keen to not only subsonic ranges but also surges in the emotion of his environment. His powerful intuition tool that could pick up on danger or the presence of unknown beings. It was one of his most primitive senses, and clearly now as the rest of him struggled to stay alert, these antennapalps were fighting to stay engaged. They began to unfurl, flimsy and wavering. They vibrated just slightly, a weak wobble at first but as time began to pass, the wobble turned into more of a shake. Then rapid pulsate. They were sensing a great negativity in the air, something had changed.

Someone was in the room with him. They stood behind him in the chair, looming over his seedy form. Pod was finally claimed by consciousness as a cold finger gently touched his cheek, a finger nail dragging upwards towards his eye through the caked blood. Pod stirred, instinctively trying to shy away from the touch and straightening his head so he faced the person leaning over him. Presumably their other hand began to undo the knot tying the cloth around Pod's eyes, and by the time their finger nail curled around the edge of the fabric it was loose. They pulled the cloth free from his skin, Pod went still. He felt the cold air on the bridge of his nose, it tried to seep into his flesh. Hesitate. Silence. A second or two go by. Pod's golden eyes languidly opened, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes as he stared at his captor.

---

 

[Shey'da]

Shey’da had to learn early on how to be patient when it came to things like these.

Duna and his lackeys clearly hadn’t pulled their punches, nor seen it fit to brief her on exactly what kind of sedative they’d jammed into their victim's neck before dumping him here. The longer she waited the more she had to wonder if the slumped body before her would ever rouse.

That seemed like something her Master would do; send her a corpse and demand she perform miracles.

With one arm stretched out across a raised knee, her gaze lazily focused on the man before her. She was seated on the far side of him on a square slab of concrete jutting out from the wall. His subconscious mind was a restless thing, like a wave hammering against rock, the violent thrum of pain loud enough to press against her skull like a locked jaw. It made the waiting harder, but it also made her astutely aware of when he finally began to stir.

Finally

It was slow going at first, his presence in the force taking a tentative dip into the waking world before finding the restraints placed generously around him. She’d done this long enough to recognize the patterns. The initial confusion and disorientation, the way it bled into an agonizing realization, and then more often than not evolved into a blinding rage or fear. With a sigh, Shey’da shifted from her spot and closed the space between them. A thin hand found its way to the blindfold, letting the strip of fabric loosely fall to the ground.

With his vision unobscured, he would see a rather unimpressive figure before him. A young woman, her eyes pale and clouded with a jagged line tearing from one end of her face to another. Maybe that’s why she didn’t pull away at the sight of his abnormality. To her, he was just another flickering light against a background of dark muddied colors.

She let a moment pass, allowing him to orient himself before she spoke.

“I’m surprised you’re alive.” Was all she said, her voice level and devoid of a pinpoint emotion.

It was an honest remark. She may not have been able to physically see every injury and bruise marring his skin, but the force held no secrets. He was a fighter, this one, which would unfortunately make her job much harder.

“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea?”

Despite the offer she made no effort to move, instead positioning herself right outside his line of sight, arms crossed and expression impassive.

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

The toxin that plagued his system must have been incredibly powerful, and injected in highly lethal amounts. It is a remarkable feat to not only have found a poison that would affect the Balosar and his genetic partial-immunity, but also have injected enough that it would leave the man so immobilized to the point of knocking him out. Not to mention how on earth they were able to get close enough to stick him, those antennas of his would've surely warned him of any sneak attack his captor had planned. The needle they must've used would've also had to have been quite large and reinforced, the thickness of Pod's skin would have shattered any regular needle. When looking back and trying to put the pieces of it all together, Pod would later realize how intricate and pre-planned this take down must've been. Whoever had done it must've known of him and his unique vices prior to their encounter. They must've known he was some sort of half breed, with enough diluted Balosarian blood that they could get some specific mix of venom to work on him. They would've had to calculate the exact amount to down him and still keep him on the brink of life... it seemed to be a fascinating amount of work to put into taking down the shapeshifting ruffian. Or maybe they were just incredibly lucky, pumping him with enough drug to kill a bantha and had no intent on keeping him alive... although that last theory did seem a bit outlandish when you considered his current situation. Who would chain a presumed dead man to a chair and cover his eyes? Pod was no angel, that was as plain as the sandhills of Tatooine. He had crossed many, many, many sickened souls in his travels and hunts. He was ruthless and selfish when it came to his jobs, be it a treasure hunt or a hired hit. It would not surprise him if someone was exacting some sort of twisted revenge on him. It would also not surprise him if he had made some new, unknown enemy along the way.

Either way, the variety of drug in his system was extremely potent. Not only exacerbating the pins and needles of pain that pricked bones and soft tissues, but also layering his mind with enough haziness to prevent concentration or solidly formed thoughts. It blocked the use of his most critical abilities, his shapeshifting was near impossible without decent enough mental strength to trigger and direct a specific change. Whoever had done this to him was covering their bases, and doing it well.

When he had turned his head to the side to drool, a drumming pain streaked across his neck - stemming from the injection site. It oozed a clear liquid, similarly to the drool and blood that oozed from his mouth. Maybe the needle had snapped off in his initial struggle with them, lodging deep into his toughened skin and irritating the flaring wound with each faint movement. One of the joys of shape shifting was his extensive web of nerves and tendons, far more extensive than a normal humanoid his size. The idea was that if he grew into anything larger than his baseline the nerves and tissues would expand outward as well, giving him an accurate proprioception for whatever he becomes. That was all great in theory, but at baseline his sensitivity to the physical world was intense and at times difficult to handle. Touch from another, or coming in contact with something inanimate was incredibly uncomfortable to experience. Pain on the other hand, was a whole other ballgame. His pain tolerance was notably low, his emotions to injury were vividly enhanced and he had a hard time processing it reasonably. Surely his current injuries weren't actually all that gruesome, but the sensitivity he had to it made him feel like all his nerve endings were being roasted alive.

So when Shey'da touched him he would react, stirring not only to her unwanted touch but to the vibrations reverberating into his skull from flimsy antennas. He was coherent enough that he could identify this as a warning, a gut feeling that made his hair stand on end. His eyes opened, met hers. They felt as cloudy as hers looked. Pod's vision blurred, and he absently blinked a few times to try and get some kind of focus on her face. One of his eyes could open more than the other, soft flesh puffy and swollen around it. He stared at her blankly for some time, and he didnt form any pure thought when she finally became a recognizable shape. He might've been surprised by her stature. Thin and lithe, feminine by all counts. Her face was a juxtaposition between sharp and soft, gentle and harsh. A scar marked her face rather prominently. A mask to be worn when hiding hurt and exhaustion, a mask he might recognize all too well could he see her a little better. He did not know what to make of her. This was the captor? The one who had seemingly tortured him and tied him to a chair? It could not be... why?

She spoke. Her voice was like a peculiar lullaby, monotone but somehow comforting in it's lack of emotion. Pod's eyebrows furrowed slowly in response, as if he struggled to really make any sense of what she was saying. The words seem to seep into his head slowly and he had to ponder them with what little concentration he had. His facial expression twisted ever so slightly into one of confusion. Seconds passed again, and all he managed to muster up was a soft 'What?' his accented words slurred and croaked from his throat as if someone had squeezed it out of him, forced and painful. It seemed like this was more so a response for himself than her, speaking aloud his reaction rather than internalizing it. She asked him her second question, and once again he physically reacted in a manner that might display his confusion. Peering up at her with a vacant gaze, eyebrows pushing together and lips beginning to pull downwards into a disapproving frown. He didnt answer. The sentence too complex for him to comprehend at the moment. Tea? Water? Drink? The drugs still wracked his system, continuing to leave his mental capacity lacking. Only time could help this. Or an antidote

As she pulled out of eyesight he squirmed meekly in the silence, his mind and body slowly coming to life as his heart pounded louder and louder. He could hear it now. The danger finally starting to soak in little by little, stimulating what little fight or flight he could muster."Don't touch me again" He finally choked out, his tone trying to be as demanding as possible. No sign of fear or unease. His eyes closed, the rise and fall of his bare chest laborious and long.

---

 

[Shey'da]

Shey’da couldn’t help but notice the way he jerked away from her touch, as if her hands were fire blistering skin. Anyone waking up restrained in a dark, unfamiliar, dungeon-esque cellar was bound to be a bit jumpy–but Pod proved strangely reactive even then. The Force ached and flexed around him as if the air itself was drilling into his skin– as if every sensation was rife with agony.

It was an alarming thing to experience second hand, a sensation she couldn’t help but clamp down on, wanting to sever every thread the Force cast out from her. Her breath came out a little more sharply now, vacant eyes regarding the man with an accent of caution.

Silence ruled her for a moment.

It wasn’t often she found herself wanting to understand more about her victims' positions, but the man before her was definitely an anomaly. Why had Duna been so persistent about him? Why had he taken such measures to make sure he was subdued? Even by her Master’s metrics this was distinctly aggressive for someone who supposedly had just run off with stolen goods.

Shey’da blinked, regaining her bearings.…Why was he in so much pain?

He clearly didn’t have much control over his mental faculties, gurgling up confused and guarded responses. Duna had said to leave him to flounder, but the man wasn’t exactly of any use in his current state. Incoherent babbling did not translate into deliverable answers, and that’s what Duna was expecting. Answers.

"Don't touch me again"

“I can’t promise I won't." She answered, an involuntary wrinkle forming in her brow. “I don’t intend to hurt you though, for whatever that’s worth.” ...Probably not much considering everything he’d experienced thus far would brand her a liar. “I just want to talk.”

From behind her she felt for a syringe. Antidote. She figured it wasn’t worth voicing a warning for him to squirm to, instead plunging the needle into the side of his arm before withdrawing.

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

Pod was still wearing his street clothes, at least some of them. The valuables he proudly adorned himself with had been stripped from his form, rare statement necklaces, rings, cuffs and earrings he had collected through his travels. The light orange shirt he wore was thin and soft, large in size and almost see through. It draped down his chest like a curtain. It had been completely unbuttoned, likely occurring during their strip-search on an unconscious Pod for any hidden goodies. His pants reflected a similar style to that of the shirt, a darker red color that sagged off his waist, tied up with another loose piece of fabric. His pockets emptied. He had originally worn an ornate belt, but that too seemed to have been poached. The makeshift belt he wore now was cut from the same cloth of fabric that had been tied about his eyes. The pants themselves were much to baggy for Pod, and left him looking disproportionate. Small upper half with a big lower half. The man looked so disheveled without his luxurious accessories, a simple man wearing cheap clothing that did not fit him. An inaccurate depiction of the extravagant treasure hunter to say the least.

On pod's exposed skin he had started to glean with sweat. His chest, his neck, his cheeks, his arms, his forehead. It liquidized any dried or crusting blood, allowing the crude mixture to slip down any edges or curves it might find. His body became streaked with pinks and reds, it continued to reek. It was unknown wether the excessive sweating was a symptom of the drug or his diseased physiology. His body was warm to the touch, hot like a reactive chemical mixture building up to explosion. The air was still cold...so cold that there was no relief from the heat. Two extremes that tormented him, leaving him in that horrible middle ground of boiling and freezing. Another overstimulation that overwhelmed his nervous system. A torturous reality.

His head swirled with half formed thoughts and emotional outbursts, wanting to cry and scream but not able to form the will or provide the instruction for any desired action. He seemed almost trapped in his own body, struggling to get any reaction out without an internal struggle. Every breath seemed to be fought for, his lungs ripping with every exhale and drowning with every inhale. Seeing Shey'da was at least nice because he knew he wasn't dead. Seeing her dainty silhouette sparked a realization of reality, a haunting and hopeless one but a reality nonetheless. She wanted him to stay alive for something. Or maybe it wasn't her that wanted him...maybe someone else.

She seemed off put by him. Taken a back by his silent anguish, by his thorough restraints and sensitivity to the environment - sensitivity to her. In his immediate and misguided perception of her, he could pick up that maybe this was their first time meeting after all. That she had not driven the needle into his neck or carefully calculated his downfall. Perhaps instead she had carefully plucked the jewlery from his neck and ears, raided his pockets or tightened the chains and secured him to this chair. Or perhaps she had simply sat watching him for hours, knowing as much as he did about his current condition. Either way under the command of a higher entity, something more corrupt and cruel. The girl seemed timid. Sacred. Intriguied. He could feel her gaze traveling across his troubled expression, the tightening of aching muscles and the clenching of fists. She couldn't understand. And believe me, Pod didn't understand either. All he knew now was misery.

“I can’t promise I won't." She answered, an involuntary wrinkle forming in her brow. “I don’t intend to hurt you though, for whatever that’s worth.” ...Probably not much considering everything he’d experienced thus far would brand her a liar. “I just want to talk.”

Pod scowled, obviously not pleased with this. Just 'wanting to talk' was never a good thing... especially when tied down to a chair in chains. What had Pod gotten himself into this time? Who had he managed to piss off? "Bullshit" he wheezed in response, wincing as the words dribbled from bloody lips. Finally the confusion on his face slowly ripped into something more sinister, something angry and irascible. His eyes still closed. He was trying to focus. Trying to shift. "Don't." pause for a shallow breath "Touch." ...for another breath "Me." ...for a cough. The delivery of each word built upon the last, becoming more forceful and agonistic. He spoke through clenched teeth. Threatening. A warning. He began again... "Don't -"

A cry escaped his body before he even could process what was happening. It was a guttural, animalistic cry that he at first didnt realize was his own. The needle was big and thick, strong enough to withstand his toughened skin. It at first didn't go in all the way, she had to dig the needle in manually to get it in far enough to reach his muscle. Shredding through mass, piercing. He pulled away harshly and explosively, for the first time challenging the restraints with what full force he could manage. At first the pain was very localized, spreading lethargically from his arm. It burned and seared, shooting webs of white lightning down the limb. The stab alone would've been manageable, of course still hurting like hell but not debilitating. It was the antidote that really did a number on him. The onset was remarkably quick, he could feel it spread from the injection site in almost concentric waves. It felt like ice mixed with fire in his veins. A vicious dousing, almost like the static feeling you get when your arm goes to sleep. It tingled in the most horrible way, prickling and stinging like a swarm of hornets. It engulfed his entire body, encompassing him like a suffocating wave. His back arched trying to escape from it. His neck flexed and head forced backwards, his body trying it's best to go into opisthotonus despite the wall of restraints. The veins and tendons popped across his skin, all muscles tensing and rippling with engagement. Textures of rock and crystal flickered across his shoulders and arms, protruding rapidly before sinking back into his flesh and moving just under the skin, moving to a new location and protruding again. It looked like something was trying to break free - clawing from the inside, trying to rip it's host apart. He roared. A ghastly sleuth of noises filled the room, slipping through clenched jowls. This went on for maybe 30 seconds. It felt much longer than that.

As this episode subsided, Pod now seemed to be drenched in sweat. His body spasmed and twitched. "Bastard!" he spat and hissed, eyes now open and shooting daggers at the girl. He seemed noteably more alert, and likewise more pissed off. He was also out of breath, likely from all the screaming he had done. "That didn't feel like 'just talking' " Pod growled.

---

 

[Shey'da]

For perhaps the first and only time in her life, Shey’da felt grateful to be blind.

She didn’t have to witness it. The way his body writhed and his spine bowed as if trying to invert itself. There was a sense something was happening– the Force outlining some cruel and graphic transfiguration. But all Shey’da really had to form that conclusion were vague feelings and screams. He was just a brutalized, shifting form ready to tear her to pieces if given the opportunity.

She didn’t blame him in the slightest.

He then called her a bastard and Shey’da stared back in that same blank, unflinching manner. Either entirely unbothered by the homicidal look she was receiving or otherwise unaware of it.

“Relax, it was just an antidote. I figured you’d prefer to get through at least one coherent sentence.”

Her head canted to the side, blind eyes not quite meeting Pod’s own.

“So, not a big fan of needles huh?” Clearly that was a criminal understatement, but Shey’da moved past it with ease. Instead, she took a seat opposite of him, drawing her knees to her chest and letting her chin rest atop.

It almost made her realize how pathetic it was that this was her closest approximation of a casual conversation she’d had in well… forever.

Almost.

“You must’ve really pissed off my boss.” The woman spoke, confirming the suspicion she wasn’t at the helm of this operation. She didn’t know why she felt the need to make that degree of separation clear, but she nonetheless gave into the impulse. Her voice was light and calm, with the theory that his hearing might just be as sensitive as the rest of him. “I mean don’t get me wrong he’s a violent guy, but even this seems like overkill.”

It must’ve been the drug that made him so hypersensitive right? Where else was this debilitating pain coming from?

His voice was bloody and raw, another tick eroding at Shey’da seeming indifference. She paused for a moment, as if in deliberation.

“If I give you some water, will you try and bite my hand off?” She gambled, cloudy eyes acting as if they could still get a read on him. “Because I’d prefer to have my other senses remain intact.”

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

It was like an exorcism. The antidote dared to cleanse his soul (impossible), banishing some great darkness within him. The demon was trapped and trying to break free, pushing against bones, pulling on tendons and clipping his wings. A gruesome fight between good and evil, albeit entirely ugly and mad. Chemicals combined and toxins unbound from receptors, the unreasonable pain he felt was subdued, but not entirely gone. He still had physical wounds that oozed of crimson and serous drainage. His eye, his chin and lips, his neck, his arm now. Superficial scratches and bruises that tore up his form, some old and some brand new from his thrashing and squealing. Pig.

A warmth of remedy blanketed him, extinguishing the flames that seared his nerve pulps. Not to say the fire was put out in entirety, it still simmered, embers glowing bright and jumping from the ash with excitement. Pod's hypersensitivity to surroundings was unchanged, the drug had not impacted his emotional reaction to things. That was simply his baseline physiology. Rather the drug had put his mind to sleep and kept his body awake, attacking from the inside out. Sending false signals of pain to a disoriented brain, causing mass confusion and hurt. The pain itself was artificial and system wide, a torturous tool that kept him alive while made him feel like he was dying.... clever. At least it was over. As his near-epileptic episode came to and end, he did feel better. His senses no longer submerged in high-intensity mixed signals. They had been replaced with a dull thrum. A murmur from each open wound, a call for attention that now sounded like a casual call rather than a horrific scream. They each bartered for his focus and will, asking for him to close them up with his skin shifting skills. He would not do so yet. He wanted to save his energy for something useful, for something that might get him out of these chains. He could handle this hurt for now, it felt like nothing compared to what he had just endured.

Pod still had not quite gotten to the conclusion that she was blind, as up until now he had looked at her through dim and gloomy eyes. His eyesight had been blurred, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He just saw big grey orbs in place of her eyes, but no further investigation had taken place as of yet. He did not care much of what she looked like, really there was no reason for him to prioritize understanding her shape and form. She already seemed smaller than him, weaker, naive...and that was all Pod truly needed to know.

Despite the sudden relief he seemed to experience physically, his mind seethed - newly awakened. The veil of murkiness lifted slowly, revealing a pure rage and frustration of his situation that had not been so apparent before. Where did these chains come from? Where was he? Who did she think she was, stabbing him? He decided he hated her. He snapped at the girl with a predatory slip of teeth, bloody and rotten. It was a display she seemed to not care for. While still a bit blurry and unclear, Pod could at least now look at the girl in a new lens. He could see her well. She stood still, unmoving, unflinching and unreacting. What?!? Pod had never met a single person that hadn't at least drawn back in subconscious disgust at the sight of his rows of teeth. She simply stared at him...at his blood thirsty eyes....at his sharpened teeth...at his prickly mug...at the wall behind him. He actually couldnt quite tell where she was looking. Looking at him, looking through him....looking everywhere and nowhere all at once. It frustrated him greatly. Torturing him and she couldn't even give him a single ounce of satisfaction from her reaction. She couldn't even look at him. Bastard.

“Relax, it was just an antidote. I figured you’d prefer to get through at least one coherent sentence.”

"Antidote?" He boomed ferociously, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. "Antidote?" He repeated breathily, the anger that laced his voice faltering. His eyebrows furrowed again. Confusion. Antidote? "But I...I cant be...You poisoned me? How did you...?" While the general nature of Pod's body was built to be ever changing, he was still more or less pretty keen on it's inner workings. On it's strengths and weaknesses, on the biology that made him remarkable. He knew about his 'immunity' to toxins. It's arguably one of the best qualities he got from the Balosarian genetics, it was what allowed him to partake in death sticks in the substantial amount he did. He was an addict of course, any good drug dealer ought to be. Consumption of death sticks in most species over time will shorten their lifespan by years. They rot the spirit and plague your soul, a powerful and addictive hallucinogen. Balosars, of course, weren't impacted by any of this. Save the addiction and the hallucinations, the toxins that the drug released had no effect on them. Their lifespans never shortened and their bodies maintained at base health, their immunity allowed them a seemingly consequence-free addiction to one of the worst illicit drugs on the market. Pod had picked up this perk from his parents, his immunity not as strong as a pureblood sure, but still enough that death sticks weren't having any ill effects on him otherwise. In 133 years of wandering the galaxy and finding himself in many peculiar situations, Pod could count on one hand how many times he'd been successfully poisoned. That kind of incident was exceeding rare for him, and I mean rare. The 'success' of the poisoning usually only meant he grew a little woozy and had to sit down, or hurt for a bit and brushed it off within an hour. The effects were often mild and metabolized quickly in his system. Never had he experienced something like this. Incredible.

“So, not a big fan of needles huh?” Clearly that was a criminal understatement, but Shey’da moved past it with ease. Instead, she took a seat opposite of him, drawing her knees to her chest and letting her chin rest atop.

"Im not a big fan of YOU" he grumbled, still clearly hassled but his mind now elsewhere, still hung up on the anomaly of being poisoned. She sat across from him now. Again, he could see her well. She was young, clearly. A minion. A servant. A slave. Asking silly questions to the man strapped down with industrial restraints. A weapon of mass destruction. Not a big fan of needles... Hah. Pod scoffed at her.

“You must’ve really pissed off my boss.” The woman spoke, confirming the suspicion she wasn’t at the helm of this operation. She didn’t know why she felt the need to make that degree of separation clear, but she nonetheless gave into the impulse. Her voice was light and calm, with the theory that his hearing might just be as sensitive as the rest of him. “I mean don’t get me wrong he’s a violent guy, but even this seems like overkill.”

"Your boss must know me pretty well then..." The makeshift cage Pod found himself in was incredibly on par for a successful immobilization of the man. Whoever had done this knew his achilles heels. Knew to weaken his mind before placing him here, taking away his most valuable asset (his focus for shifting) before sticking him with this fool. "...and you don't know me at all." He wanted to ask her, 'Does that scare you?' but figured it would be a waste of breath.

“If I give you some water, will you try and bite my hand off?” She gambled, cloudy eyes acting as if they could still get a read on him. “Because I’d prefer to have my other senses remain intact.”

"Would you really be gullible enough to trust me if I said no?" Pod almost smiled now, his ill temper turning taunting, wickedly playful. This was surely the most anomalous kidnapped-and-tortured scenario he had ever been in. Never once had he been offered anything out of kindness in a situation like this. He wanted to refuse her but she seemed persistent, and upon further consideration he'd prefer to take advantage of her lack of guile. Besides, if he wanted to regain any strength a cup of water was a step in the right direction. "Fine. Get me some water" a command. From one slave to another.

---

 

[Shey'da]

Shey’da remained still, arms folding in a guarded wrap around her body. So it was anger with this one. Good. She preferred that over fear. It made it easier to give oxygen to her own fire.

"Your boss must know me pretty well then......and you don't know me at all."

“No.” she conceded. “I would love the opportunity to though. You must be fun at parties.” Her sarcasm was dry and indifferent like the rest of her facade, as if she was making an observation about the weather or reciting a grocery list. His previous comment did cause her to hesitate, however. What exactly was the nature of Duna and his relationship? Quietly– while staring into the abyss she assumed he occupied–Shey’da regarded the stranger. He was certainly head strong like her boss. Brazen and demanding. But unlike Duna, his sly, belittling comments seemed disingenuous. She could almost visualize it. The undercurrent of pain and hurt thrumming under that mask of his. Her Master would squash that weakness like an insect in his palm if he was here. He had a bloodhound’s sense and a drill sergeant’s tolerance for vulnerability.

The woman hummed, trying to keep her own faults from surfacing.

"Fine. Get me some water"

She made no comment on the authority in his voice, almost as if she’d never been spoken to any differently. And yeah, condescension and scorn were fairly commonplace in Duna’s vocabulary. So, it was with little resistance she shifted to retrieve a wooden bowl from the table behind her, filling the basin with water from a spout attached to the wall.

“I trust you not to ruin your only chance of getting out of here relatively unscathed.”

Approaching the man now, she rested her hip on the side of the chair, her form sat upright compared to his reclined one. From this distance there was no mistaking it. The way her eyes rested aimlessly to some point in the distance, unable or unwilling to meet his own. Unable to see the hate and biting vitriol ready to slice her open.

Not that she didn’t assume it was there. Not that she didn’t know full well she was dangling herself over an unpredictable beast. Stronger than her, larger than her, and capable of doling out pain far more severe than whatever ripples Shey’da had felt.

“Like I said. I just need us to have a conversation. I ask questions, you answer.”

She dipped the bowl in the best approximation of where his lips might be, uncaring if some spilled before setting the object down at the ledge of the chair. Her eyes then found his own, gaze strangely intense and present for someone who couldn’t make sense of what was on the other side.

“Where did you take the holocron.”

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

She sat across from him now, resting her chin lazily. Emotionless and still. Like some kind of carved statue, marbled and cold in appearance. So nonchalant. So unaware of the weight that her current, 'casual' attempt at conversation would end up having on the way Pod conducted himself from here on. This air of unimportance that seemed to settle around her was likely the last thing her boss wanted to come of this interaction. She was a poor interrogator, allowing her captive to feel like he may have some perceivable one-up on her. Like if he entertained her juvenile attempts at dialogue she may just let him walk free, for the sake of having a new friend. She seemed eager to interact. To question him, but in a way that one might question a close pal after not seeming them for many months. She wanted to catch up, to see hear what he had gotten up to last week. To gossip and hear about all the girls he'd kissed, the pockets he'd picked, the fight's he'd won. Although, Pod didn't really peg her as a gossiper.

Inexperience reeked from her pores, he could almost smell it wafting off of her. Inexperience in social interaction, and clearly in life itself. She was drab and uneventful, her clothes worn and monochrome. They left almost everything up to the imagination (not that he would imagine anything, Pod was a gentleman of course. There were also much more pressing matters at hand), clothing falling loose and yet somehow heavy on her malnourished frame. Her dress covered every possible feminine curve or form, stripping her of individualism. At least in Pod's over-critical stylistic opinion. Pod would note that despite the rest of her, there was a small semblance of singularity in her face. Emphasis on small. Had he been looking at her through emotionally-unbiased eyes he would've noted the dainty upturn of her scarred nose, the flare of her jawline and sharpness of cupid bow. He could've noted the color of her hair and the natural skeletal beauty in her face. Maybe he would've even noticed her blindness, observing the extent of her far-off stare and storm-ridden eyes. But that would be a generous 'maybe'. For now, he looked at her through a malice-soaked gaze, despising every broad detail he could find in her withered wrinkles and folds.

She did look muscled, as muscled as one could be on a starvation diet. In the dim light overhanging his chair he could make out the curves of brawn on her arms and shoulders. He was wise enough to know he shouldn't be judging her from immediate impression. She gave off a good facade of weakness, but Pod had a feeling she could be a formidable opponent if given the chance. A deceiving little bugger she was. Maybe she wasn't even aware of it, she didnt seem to be taking him or the current, rather tumultuous situation seriously. Pod suspected it might've been her first time doing anything like this...but was it first time interrogating or first time talking to someone new? He couldn't tell.

“No.” she conceded. “I would love the opportunity to though. You must be fun at parties.” Her sarcasm was dry and indifferent like the rest of her facade, as if she was making an observation about the weather or reciting a grocery list

"Im sure you would know all about that. You seem like you get out a lot." He scowled, his tone harsh and cutting, delivering a present wrapped with sarcasm. Like scolding a child or something of the like. She was one to fucking talk. Pod was the life of parties. He couldn't believe this. Being patronized by this girl, and having to take it because he was strapped down was the real torture. At least it was a good distraction, the physical hurt that rippled through his soft tissues was now seemingly negligible when compared to his sheer frustration and resentment. Im sure if she touched him again the pain would jump right back up to the forefront, but for now he was in the clear. She turned to heed his command. Thank god, he hated the way she stared at him. It was horrible, almost demeaning in it's absence of contemplation. She studied him, but without any proper indication of doing so. What information had she gathered on him thus far? What was her impression? Pod could not read her, and that unnerved him. Even her lack of defiance was off putting, the sentient acceptance of his imitation of authority. Droid-like and mechanical, second nature. But maybe it could be used to his advantage...get this slave wrapped around his finger. Or rather, his tentacle.

While she filled the bowl, Pod's mind finally caught and snagged on a corner she had placed. Her boss. Her boss which he must've really pissed off. Who could it possibly be? It was true that there was not a absence of names that came to his mind, in fact there was an overwhelming amount that etched themselves across his minds eye. But he questioned the resources and effort that had gone into this operation. The hit, the drug, the straps, the (attempted) interrogation... only a few of those names he recalled might've filled the criteria of being able to successfully pull all of this off. He was lost on who it was. Or what he had done to deserve this. He tried to peer down his nose at the rest of his restraints, gauging the sheer size and weight of the chains. He tested them once more, rattling them while he assessed. The meat of his arms and legs pushed against the wraps as he flexed and extended, searching for weak spots. He did not find any before Shey'da hovered above him, bowl in hand.

“Like I said. I just need us to have a conversation. I ask questions, you answer.”

She dipped the bowl in the best approximation of where his lips might be, uncaring if some spilled before setting the object down at the ledge of the chair. Her eyes then found his own, gaze strangely intense and present for someone who couldn’t make sense of what was on the other side.

Pod's eyes shifted from down to up, avoiding her own. His gaze landed on the ceiling. Again, he would miss the obvious indicators of her blindness. He didn't like how close she was now, clearly uncomfortable and distrusting. Who even knew if it was really water she was about to shove down his gullet. Pod's lips pulled back again into a filthy sneer, displaying the snarling predator he was. His mouth continued to open slowly, perilously. A black hole daring her to fall in head first. I wouldn't be surprised if some animalistic rumble reverberated from his throat as he complied to her. He didn't seem to be in much of a conversatin' mood.

The bowl at first bumped the wall of his bottom teeth, her approach clumsy and careless. Like she wasn't even aiming to make it in his mouth. Pod grunted in annoyance, the noise soon drowned by the downpour of water. He opened his mouth wider to accommodate the stream. Even still she moved the bowl slightly upwards to avoid his teeth, as if she hadn't noticed his own adjustment. The water spilled, still hitting teeth and skin. It poured over his face, water pooling and going up his nose and down his cheeks. He sputtered and snorted, gasping for air. Some water did end up going in his mouth - which he choked on while trying to swallow - but only before he turned his head away from her water boarding. Was this part of the torture?? The remaining spurt of water traveled down his jaw and neck, running down between his shoulder blades and down his spine. The cold wetness was a horrible sensation that made him squirm and groan. Pod figured he should've expected that.

“Where did you take the holocron.”

If he wasn't visibly upset before, he sure was now. Smoke ought to have started billowing from his nose, fire erupting from the depths of his mouth. Turning to face Shey'da he could finally meet her eyes up close, his golden gleam clashing with her darkened gloom. She finally looked at him in a way he could handle, direct and intense. He paused, frankly just astounded by her boldness. He stared at her, dripping. She's just going to start asking questions? Just like that? No demanding, no intimidation, no torture (well, a little bit of torture), no nothing? Had she caught him on a better day she might just have gotten him to laugh. Poor kid, she was in way too deep. "I dont know what you're talking about" He spoke bluntly and clearly, hissing out each word through clenched fangs. He in fact did not know what she was talking about. Despite his anger, a sickening grin started to cut across Pod's face. A joker smile that ripped through the mass of his cheeks. You could almost hear it, a creak and stretch of his leathery skin. "Refresh my memory, wont you?"

---

 

[Shey'da]

He was a strange, paradoxical thing. She didn't have to so much as breath his way for his body to spasm-- affiliated by some invisible fire brand on all sides.

And yet here he was meeting her quips resolute as ever. As if the synapse firing pain gave clarity to his anger instead of keeping it some unformed raging ball of fire. Even without being able to truly take note of his physical characteristics, the girl could tell he was more creature than man. Like a restrained wolf– biting and snarling at air in the hopes one of his canines would catch on a stray sleeve and drag her down to feast. There was the bestial hum in his chest, the enamel scraping against itself anytime he spoke. Try as she might to put a name to whatever he was, there was no species in existence that fit her imagination.

Sure, he was danger unbound.

But Duna– for as merciless and austere as he was– would not put her in a position she couldn’t survive. Or at least one he didn’t expect her to survive. Whether he put trust in the industrial strength wraps keeping Pod bond, or Shey'da's own abilities, or maybe in the man across from her-- the girl didn't know. She did have her preference though. That despite his threats and frankly solid justification, Pod wouldn’t cause her undue harm... Not while she was so obviously lollygagging. Not while she was stretching time to allow for a glimpse of normalcy.

"I dont know what you're talking about"

“Sure you don’t.” She shrugged. Duna hadn’t been forthcoming with information, and Shey’da had learned long ago not to press. He’d only made her privy to the fact something of his had been stolen in a very boisterous manner. As if Pod wouldn’t have the audacity to deny it. As if he’d jump at the opportunity to brag and regal her with details. That’s why Duna kept her reserved for more intimate projects such as these, where the risk of a stray bullet catching her neck ran low. Where the worst she could come by were sneers and jabs and wounded egos.

There was a reason he kept her around --bruised but bubble wrapped– and it wasn’t her radiant personality. Rather the fragile and ephemeral line that connected her to all other living beings. That allowed her to carve lines and leave blisters in someone’s psyche. Through her, Duna could dig and tear through nerve endings, raze memories, and leave a babbling husk of a person behind– taking only whatever thread of information he deemed valuable. There were no scalpels, no fire pokers, no serums left to jab into Pod’s neck. Just a blind girl and her festering loneliness– regarding her counterpart like he was a particularly interesting pod race or an abstract painting. With anticipation of his next move and unapologetic curiosity towards his entire character.

He would survive her–more inflamed and bitter than he was now– but still whole. It was only the weak ones who caved as she pressed into their mind, reading their thoughts like one might sort through vanilla files. She was a house-trained force user– meaning her power couldn’t be anything but rough and unrefined. It was just her luck Duna hadn’t seen fit to ship her off to the Sith or Jedi, or whatever other merry band of occultic child kidnappers happen to be out in the galaxy. It left her stumbling through this ability of hers with a unique obliviousness and total possession. It was hers to navigate, hers to abuse, hers to struggle with.

Duna’s affection– if you could even call it that– was contingent on it. Why else would he keep around a blind, skeletal, dead-weight of a girl. He was not a sentimental man, just a resourceful one.

“You're a collector then?” she gambled, again proceeding like this was a coffee date and not an interrogation. She’d already made the assumption he was a pirate of some sort, one bold enough to poke the bear that was Duna– but now she was beginning to think he could rival him too. “Must be fairly successful if you can manage to misremember stealing a holocron of all things.”

Force, what she wouldn’t do to get her hands on one. Duna had never allowed her near the more highly sensitive pieces he pedaled for auction. She was still too young and naive in her power for them to be any use to her. Or so he claimed.

“Which I suspect means your hit against Duna was personal?” She shifted then, leaning a bit more into his personal space in order to examine whatever reaction that statement roused from him.

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

The drug was still taking its time wearing off, the antidote in his blood an unflinching soldier that sought out any cowering survivors. Pod was still feeling a bit out of it, the first immediate relief he had felt from her cure was obviously a smothering of exaggerated global pain, now the relief was being felt elsewhere. Every time Pod blinked, his eyelids seemed to wipe clean the windshields to his soul. His gaze was getting clearer with time (which, wasn't saying all that much. His baseline eyesight was not 20/20 by any means) and his mental fog was slowly being lifted. He was keeping up with her and the environment around him. Capable of responding lucidly, but unable to take in and analyze any abundance of details. He wasn't reading certain tones of her voice or fine shifts in her expression, he saw and experienced everything quite broadly. It perhaps subconsciously played into his frustration of her, a bitterness directed at himself himself for missing things. He could feel it happening, he could feel split-second moments of importance going by unaccounted for, and that hassled him greatly. Pod was generally highly skilled at that, scanning through and interpreting situations in a manner that was sure to benefit him in his endeavors. Maybe you could consider him a manipulator, a puppet master. Pod just happened to know what he wanted, and knew exactly how to get it. At least, that's what he would tell himself. He knew how to hold his cards close, how to perfect a poker face and how to sneak a peek at his opponent's hand when they weren't suspecting. So far, he had been very successful in this regard. He had 100+ years practice of reading deceptive mannerisms and red herrings...granted his sensitive antennae intuition was often a good assistant to him in times like that, it couldn't possibly all be his ever sharpening mind. He could read almost anyone like a book, what a wise 'old' man he was.

But now, looking at Shey'da he could barely catch any details from her. She gave him no threads to follow, no hidden clues to further investigate. He stood there dumbfounded with his Sherlock hat and magnifying glass. He could barely comprehend any more than the dim atmosphere illuminated by the low hanging light above him, let alone this incredibly stonewalled and unembellished female. His mind was feeling particularly guarded around her, as if it fought back prying tendrils...much like one of his own. He did not consider it something of concern, nor did he connect the strange psychogenic touch to her. Brushing it off easily, as he was still overcoming one of the worst narcotic experiences he had ever been through. Almost all of the sensations he experienced were new, a heightened mental restraint was not the most remarkable side effect.

Instead he was being rendered rather primitive in this moment, a raw shell of himself that came out in his most animalistic form. In growls and curt replies, impulsive and harsh. He was forming distinct thoughts and clear opinions, but seemed to have trouble filtering anything through his extensive conversational sieve. Pod was in general not a very talkative man. Nor was he outwardly frank or impudent. He usually kept unmannerly comments to himself, as he thought a show of brazen-ness might've indicated some form of weakness. Short sentences commonly dictated his discussions with others, and he never revealed anything of importance to an onlooker. He was a reserved man, a wily one. Unfortunately, based on this interaction alone I doubt anyone would come to this conclusion. Undoubtedly due to a derailed train of thought and system-wide reboot, Pod was not acting overly cunning at this moment. Shey'da (and the rapping of pain that he could feel in bones and bruises) brought out the worst in him. The anger, the annoyance and the sass, all things that had bottled up inside him for a time like this. A time when he was tied to a chair, being interrogated and tortured by a puny little rat.

"If I was a thief, which I am not admitting to be..." The alien said coyly, still smiling ear to ear "...I would be so successful that a single holocron would not be remarkable enough to jog my memory. A mere holocron would pale in comparison to the rest of my resplendent collection." He spoke slowly, his tone demeaning and dripping with honey-like absurdity. "A real collector would not pride themselves on such a measly gadget" He downplayed the 'gadget', demeaning her commentary and trying to direct her back to her place, which was obviously beneath him. It seemed like a game now, her manner of interrogation was unorthodox and harmless, something that seemed to spark a level of humor in Pod. He was amused and found her wretched and pitiful, anything but frightening. If she was going to ask dumb questions he figured he had a right to play with her. What else was there to do?

Alas, his jackal smile only lasted for so long. Duna. Pod hadn't heard that name in years. His face cracked like a doll's, his taut grin falling and eyebrows pulling together with a draw string. Duna. He knew that name well. He knew it well 30 years ago when he first met the rusticly colored togruta during a smuggling gig in a port at Nar Shaddaa. The boys had been rambunctious back then, even more than they were now. Duna's aggresive and Pod's passive went well together, their opposites counterbalancing in a toxic friendship. It was a relationship of hot and colds, of back stabbing and jealousy. The boys were competitive and hard on one another, and at the time their shared drive for success and accolades benefitted greatly from their constant and exhaustive pushing of one another. A unrelenting strive and pressure to be better than the other. Their partnership was a strong one, the boys both had their own unique and complementary strengths and weaknesses that led the duo to be formidable. They worked together for years on a multitude of jobs, their heads big enough that they had felt like kings of the illegal underground. Despite the countless good times, Duna was renowned for his attitude. His harshness and cruelty, a stark contrast to a level headed and generally reserved Pod. It had all gone south after a bad hit, one where their near constant bickering and nit picking led to the loss of precious cargo and countless credits. Pod blamed Duna, Duna blamed Pod. It was then that they split, both spitting in the other's direction.

For years after that Duna seemed to be the thorn in Pod's side, always 2 steps ahead of him. He was stealing his contacts and interfering with work, bad mouthing him and planting seeds of distrust in his clients. He was the competition, dominant competition that seemed to know Pod better than himself. He had to rebuild himself. He removed himself from Duna's now self-proclaimed turf, casting a new net of business elsewhere in the galaxy. Hurt and bitter, Pod had moved on from him...but not without a vendetta. He never forgot of the seedy of the alien, unforgiving of how he had treated Pod. If Pod had an opportunity to get back at him he would.

That very opportunity would present itself at the same port that they had met at. Nar Shaddaa. After a night of excessive death stick and revnog consumption, Pod would stumble back to the hangar his ship was at. Meandering down the hangar's hall, he recognized a certain space scoundrel's ship. Duna's. 'What are the odds?' He thought, wearing a ghoulish grin. He wondered if his finger print was still in the ship's database, if it would grant him any entry. It did. The ship seemed empty. That, or everyone on board was asleep. It was just as he had remembered, the ardent Pod leading himself effortlessly to the ship's cargo bay. Despite his inebriation he was silent and nimble (these were his strong suits of course) and he made quick work of Duna's most recent haul. Force artifacts it seemed to be. Rare idols and plants, books, papers, tomes, data cards, ritual items and lightsabers. Pod drooled over the mere sight of it all, knowing how difficult it must've been for Duna to get his hands on all this. 'This could've been mine' Pod thought, licking his chops. Soon it would be his, fore he started stuffing just about everything he could into his pockets. It had been cold that night on Nar Shaddaa and Pod was wearing a cloak. A big one, one with lots of pockets. He took the papers and tomes, the idols and muses. He took the data cards and lightsabers, any item small enough to be carried easily in hand. He was the grinch that stole Duna's christmas, doing his best to not let out a villainous cackle. Then he found the holocron. The artifact of all force artifacts, a cube he had only been able to encounter a few times in his career. For a non-force user to get their hands on something like this was truly incredible, and Pod easily gave Duna credit where it was due. So he took the holocron, slithering from his rival's ship and into his own undetected. He reveled in the perfectly executed revenge, surrounded by treasures as his ship peeled from the port. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

That had been a handful of years ago by now, and there had been little to no repercussion for his actions. No sight or sign of the disgruntled togruta...until now it seemed. Duna. Of course he would do this. It made sense. He knew Pod's weaknesses like the back of his hand, knew about his shifting and his immunity to toxins. Knew how heavy the chains needed to be, knew of the hell he'd put Pod through by having Shey'da deal with him. She leaned over him now, close enough that she might smell the stench of sweat and salt on his skin. "Duna..." Pod breathed, the words billowing from his mouth like a puff of smoke. A whisper, a puff of smoke beckoning her closer so she might hear. He paused, his eyes glazing over as he briefly recounted his heist. It all came flooding back. The holocron. He did not feel remorse or regret. But suddenly everything wasn't so fun anymore. Pod unfroze, scowling "If he really did all of this...he's the same sick pig I remember him to be" with that he tried to lunge at her, bracing himself against the restraints as he went after her tender flesh. His teeth were barred, lashing out once more with malicious intent. He wanted to draw blood, to evoke some kind of emotion from her. Emotion he could understand. She was close enough now that he saw a chance to nick her. He snapped his monstrous maw at the air, teeth clinking and clattering. He got so close she could've smelled his rancid blood breath, felt the warmth and wetness of his hardened skin. Now he knew that Duna was involved, he was most definitely not letting any information slip. Especially to little miss, only Duna himself could squeeze any secrets from Pod's skull. "Now you'll really have to cut off a finger and toe to get me squealing" It was about time Pod starting thinking he wanted out of this chair.

 

[Shey'da]

They knew each other.

It is an admittedly proud victory to find a nick in his chassis– one that kept his mouth shut even if just for a moment. It wasn’t all that difficult to imagine his smug-arse smile, nor the way the mention of Duna’s name caused it to invert so quickly. And so Shey’da finally displayed some sign of emotional involvement in this conversation– the corner of her mouth twitching up into a smirk. An unpracticed and awkward attempt, but a smirk nonetheless.

"If he really did all of this...he's the same sick pig I remember him to be"

“Yeah, that hasn’t changed.” It was whispered under her breath, as if indulging in an inside joke with herself. She knew next to nothing about Duna’s life before she was so generously taken in by him, but from the pieces she was given– it was easy to picture that a steady rhythm of violence and backstabbing was just as foundational to his early years as it was now. What that said about the man before her made her equally unnerved. Clearly, he had no reservations about levying threats and flexing his physicality, regarding her like an ant to be squashed under his boot. Which yeah, given the context seemed warranted. Even through her minimal insight from the Force, he gave the impression of raw strength. The type someone could wield to with brutal and serve intent, to cause others to submit with unrelenting force. People like her.

She hadn’t made the conscious decision to hate him yet, but she was both slowly and surely getting there.

That said, the man before her seemed quite young. Young enough to where she likely should've remembered a partnership between him and Duna. She knew of most of his business ventures, even if just second hand. But she could confidently say Pod had never been mentioned. Just from their brief interaction, he seemed entirely impossible to forget.

She was given very little time to ruminate however, a lurch of motion in front of her causing an instinctive recoil away from Pod’s chair. She wasn’t fast enough though, enamel scraping against the meat of her arm in a very clear message. Animalistic and swift.

He bit her. Bit. Her. Like a fething dog with rabies.

Shey’da went deathly quiet for a moment. Tan fingers ghosted around the bite– a graze really– but Pod had gotten what he wanted. A trickle of blood and a rapidly increasing heartbeat.

She took a deep breath through her nose, and then another one.

"Now you'll really have to cut off a finger and toe to get me squealing" ​

“You almost sound like you want it.” Her stoicism pissed him off, that much she’d picked up on. So, in the interest of pettiness, she fought the surge of shock beating against her chest and spoke the words in as controlled and delicate of a manner as she could.

Putting more distance between the two, those grey eyes never left Pod.Her eyes didn’t need to close in focus, instead she went deathly still– like the marble statue he read her as. It was a sudden, unannounced thing. A sharp pain pressing against his mind like an icepick, or more accurately a drill, trying to find the flex and bend in whatever mental shields he may have had. She expected push back– lashing and vicious like the rest of him. But a part of her invited it. She spent entirely too much time swallowing her pain rather than inflicting it. She wanted an excuse to rage and slam her fists into something.

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

There had been a time where Pod considered Duna one of his best friends. Two corrupt little aliens taking on the galaxy, both silently terrified of the unknown. He didn't know much of Duna prior to them meeting, Duna being somewhere in his early 20s and Pod in his early 100s. Like any boy friendship they had bonded over things like girls, guns and ships, gushing over gadgets and gear that they had collected. They shared stories of their most extravagant adventures, herculean moments and inconceivable achievements. Pod, with more than a lifespan's worth of years on Duna, had understandably a little bit more to share. He had always felt like that bothered Duna. No matter what Duna might accomplish in his aging years, his list of accolades would always be dwarfed when compared to Pod's. Pod's name would always be around longer, more remarkable and remembered. There was just simply not enough time to accomplish everything Duna wanted to, and there seemed to be a brewing resentment for Pod.

Likewise, Pod's gripe would be that he always felt like the togruta's shadow. Duna was a big man, strong and trained with militaristic precision. He was unyielding and mean, his face stitched into a permanent sneer. His presence was imposing and frightening, his silhouette enhanced with his crown of head-tails. He was emotional in a ferocious way, handling his own anger and fear by taking it out on others. He constantly reminded Pod why it would be a bad idea to get on his bad side. A young buck uncomfortable in his own skin. He demanded a room, striking unease into anyone's heart with the boom of his baritone bark. He always had something to say, commentary that would rip you to shreds and stomp on whatever was left. Pod, at the time of their first meeting, was not this. He was more of a deceptive existence. Humanistic and plain in baseline appearance, it was easy to overlook him. Quiet, composed. His teeth and antennas were the only real indication of peculiarity, both of which Duna made great fun of. He felt ugly in Duna's presence. No one knew what kind of evil lurked just beneath Pod's surface, what kind of beasts could break and stretch through the man's chest. No one knew of the tentacles that spearheaded from his fingers, the ones that constricted around enemy's throats, picked difficult locks or swiped hard to reach antiquities. He was remarkably useful for a multitude of circumstances. Pod had always considered that a good thing. Duna had always tried to make him feel guilty for this. His abilities were powerful, arguably more so than Duna's pure brawn. Perhaps Duna knew this as well. Knew that his anger and pain could only get him so far in this world of treasure hunting and smuggling. A delicate touch was needed, something not so in-your-face. Pod was keen to secrecy and keeping onlookers in the dark, blending into a scene or improvising as someone else. A shapeshifter was only as good as his trickery. The man was quiet and calculating, a watchful eye that caught any silent changes in mood or thought. He could detect and warn of danger, like a geiger counter when presented uranium. It was safe to say Pod's skillset paired perfectly with his list of achievements - extensive.

Extensive and yet, Duna was always in charge. Always the hero in every story, always the one saving the damsel or disarming the bomb...at least this is the impression he gave everyone. Pod was useful to him and was worth keeping around, but the friendship itself would grow into something he would find advantageous. Duna's dominance shuffled Pod into submission, which ironically would've been a very comfortable place for him to be had it not been for an underlying and ever present contention. He wanted to feel like Duna's right hand man, not a hired hand. A friend is all that he really desired, and as time passed their casual days of endless discussion and carefree chumming became less and less frequent. Instead, a deliberate snuffing of Pod's individual life, pushing him to stand squarely in Duna's penumbra.

There was more to this sure, and Pod was no angel either. It took time for things to get bad, their breeding ground of insecurity and angst festering like a budding yeast. Pungent and sour, it would take years to expand. But when things were good, they were really good. Pod had confided many things to his partner in crime, had recounted his dismantled childhood and history in slavery. He discussed his problems openly with Duna, one good thing about being loud and blunt was that he gave incredibly honest and reasonable advice. Duna was sage in his own right, even if it took a little digging to get to. He was hard to please. He was hard on himself and others, something that Pod had tried to work with him on. They grew to learn how each other's minds worked, adapting and learning about one another in the way any good friend might. They were both profoundly curious about the world around them, independently eager to explore as much of it as they possibly could. Duna seemed well versed in life. Eloquent, well read. A military man, a lifestyle that fit his punctuality and pugnaciousness. Pod respected and admired this greatly, he could certainly appreciate a fellow intellectual. Ultimately they would both impact each other in some way. Pod liked to attribute his newfound assertion and brazenness to his rival, he had at least taught him how to be a little more brutal in his endeavors. Both men were charismatic and fascinating, two polar opposites of the same yarn. It's truly unfortunate that things would wind up leading them here, to the kidnapping of the poor, sweet, not-so-innocent Pod.

The weariness of his situation spiked when he made the connection to Duna, realizing just how much pain and torture truly lay in store for him if that hot-tempered devil stormed into the room. The mood had been heavily dampered. Pod had seen him antagonize enough adversaries and knew exactly how it would end. A death at best, a vicious and long lasting session of abuse and torment. Duna would know exactly how to punish him, to pluck his nerves one by one like a violin, strum them like a guitar. Skin him alive and wait for his shifing mass to replenish the flesh, only to skin him again. Pod would be hard to kill by most physical means, but that just meant that torturing him could be so much more fun. Duna would know how to make this piggy squeal.

She must be working for him then. His slave or minion...surely not some concubine crossover. She didn't seem like his type. Hell, she didn't seem like anyones type. Pod wondered about her age, she seemed so young. Duna must've gotten her some time after they had burned bridges, otherwise he too would've recognized her. He could only imagine the torment she must live under. Maybe later Pod would look back on all this and feel bad for her. Maybe. He still hated her.

So he bit her.

It was quick, Pod utilizing the maximum potential of his coordination and effort at the moment. He hadn't aimed for anywhere in particular. Hoping to simply land on something soft and living. Success. He rolled the dice, and he got an arm. He tasted her blood, a bead or two navigating through his rows of teeth while more beads rolled down his lip and chin, a stripe of triumph that he wore proudly. She tasted cadaverous, her blood unpalatable and iron deficient. Sickening. He was inclined to spit it out, but he didn't want to take his eyes off her. He finally saw her pain. A broad pain, a flinch and recoil, a moment of humanity that he had been searching for. While she had spotted his chink he had spotted hers. A split second of flustered anger. A flare of nostril. His antennas - now shriveled and hiding in his hair - would start to shimmy again, detecting a surge in emotion. She could feel something after all. He didn't show his smugness this time, as hard as that was, and rather his face maintained it's precarious tension. The monster's trap closed tightly, his jaw clenching and chin raising so that she might see the blood on his face a bit better. Her blood.

“You almost sound like you want it.” Her stoicism pissed him off, that much she’d picked up on. So, in the interest of pettiness, she fought the surge of shock beating against her chest and spoke the words in as controlled and delicate of a manner as she could.

He growled in response to her, a low growl that came out thick and guttural. Her monotone was mind numbing. He could practically feel her heart beating against it's bony cage, smell her concealed vehemence. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. His mouth opened once more. He squeaked out the beginning of a syllabic sound, a sound that was quickly cut short by a sudden strike to his head. A piercing arrow point against his skull, daring to drive between his meninges and into his brain. He looked distantly at her, his center of attention getting swiftly captured by her mental offense. It wasn't painful at first, the shock of it all taking him by surprise, but within seconds he could feel her trying to split his head like a coconut. Akin to the 'pins and needles' pain that he had felt on the drug, his mind was engulfed with a dense blanket of barbed wire. Sharpness dug into his head, clawing and prying at his cognitive defenses. A sudden pin point of stab and sting, forcing him to once again slam his head back on the chair and groan. It was white hot pain, blinding and consuming. Her weapons felt dynamic, the poking and drilling tested his cerebral framework. Striking one area and then moving to the next, pressuring him so that his shields may crumple like an aluminum can. A horrific moan came from the man, his eyes cinching shut in anguish. He squirmed, fists clenching again and arms pulling upwards on his restraints. As if he could try to cover his head with his hands.

A force user. He'd encountered it before, but usually he wouldn't be as weakened and vulnerable as he was now. Their mind tricks were daunting and formidable, a challenge that frightened him greatly in the moment. She could probably sense that. His defenses were not remarkable by any means, he had only gained consciousness presumably less than an hour ago and had been weakened by a significant amount of neuro toxin. His impairment was obvious, and playing incredibly well to her advantage. He tried fighting back, lashing out at her attacks with some of his own. His were desperate and rapid, his mind swatting harshly at her with what little energy he had. Of course this was not sustainable, her stable and unrelenting advance weakened him with ease. He grew tired easily, feeling fragile and frail in comparison. He resorted to upholding his measly defenses. Set up to fail no doubt. The pressure and pain would increase gradually, his sensitivity to it causing him to cry out, more primitive noises escaping from his pitiful form. A plead for mercy you might call it. It did not seem to do much. He could feel her crushing him, his body writhing under her control. He was faltering, her claws finding purchase in his growing cracks and prying them apart with vigorous aptitude, eager to see what he was hiding inside. It was excruciating. Like he was being ripped a part, a dismemberment of mind from body.

He roared, an ear splitting scream that rattled the room around him. It was visceral and raw, a sound that released all the suffering he felt into a physical form. He hoped it would break her focus. She was winning, he was the maimed antelope in the lions jaw, seconds away from having a set of knife-like fangs sink into his soft brain matter. There was nothing else for him to do but suffer.

 

[Shey'da]

His pain was consuming— a thick, coiling smog which Shey'da tracked through like lead boots sloughing in tar. Her composure, and her faithful effort to keep it in tack, finally collapsed with a sneered lip and furrowed brow. He'd gotten what he wanted– a reaction–even if he was no longer in the state of mind to enjoy it. Not with every mental impulse of his bucking against her pokes and prods like cells attacking a virus.

Shey'da was not a warrior. Not in the way Duna was, standing tall and proud in those burly shoulders and muscled limbs. A scarred bull, demanding everything including space. With a physique like hers, spindly and waned like it was– endurance was not to be expected.

But she fought anyway. Duna had trained her better.

Shey'da had done this plenty of times before, and usually in her exploration found enough distasteful skeletons to not feel remorseful. The criminals Duna shoved her way all shared that same inherent corruption blackening their thoughts and memories. But the moment Shey'da dove into the black water, there was nothing but fog. His mind was cavernous, memories sprawled and tangled and overlapping. A flashbang of emotions– far too intense and heated for her to make sense of. Whatever reigns she had clutched between her fingers slipped and suddenly she stood alone, assaulted on all sides by a near century and a half of information. Her throat closed, entertaining the worst. That she'd dug too deep. That Pod's mind had trapped them in a vicious Twilight where she'd spend the rest of eternity. It was an easy assumption to make in how his memories stretched beyond a time she thought possible. Inconceivably ancient compared to any other mind she'd dipped into.

Any thoughts of a holocron were quickly abandoned, Shey'da instead pedaling back into the waking world with a prey-like instinct. Heavy breaths escaped her as she fought to reorient herself. The familiar darkness that awaited her was oddly comforting.

She took her sweet time before forming a sentence. Wide-eyed and skeptic.

"What are you?"

Her body moved before her mind did, hands scrambling for a commlink from the ledge behind her. A distress signal. The moment it was pressed her fingers recoiled as if it had been burned, a quiet "Feth" slipping from under her breath.

That wasn't in either of their best interest.

P O D

 

[P O D]

---

Shey'da​

---

It was a classic race of the tortoise and the hare. Pod's speed and spurts of frantic effort stood little chance against Shey'da's steadiness and focus. It was obvious this technique of hers was practiced and routine, she knew the convoluted patterns of a man's mind. She knew how to poke the bear, how to locate a point of weakness and exploit it to her gain. Her skill in this was ironic, a stark contrast to the impression she had given Pod. This is where her experience lay, her supposed value to Duan no doubt. She didn't need to be good at interrogation when she could simply peel whatever information she wanted from the slimy walls of white and grey matter. Her onslaught of probes was never ending, efficiently striking down Pod's defenses and allowing her to delve into the expansiveness of his mind. She cracked open his dome like an egg, his subconscious leaking out like a cloudy yolk.When his walls finally came crumbling down, Pod let out one final cry of defeat before ceasing in his floundering. A piteous bellow from a fallen beast. As she stepped in his mind, his body quieted, breathing slowed. Her presence was all encompassing, temporarily drawing him inward with her, shackled to her. His jaw would go slack, falling open with webs of spit and drool spanning across his teeth.

He lost all physical feeling, disconnecting from the kinesthea of his physical form. His consciousness would trap him in a similar vacancy that it trapped Shey'da, but they would not see nor experience once another. He felt like he was swimming in a dense fluid, thick and causing his movements to become slow and arduous. Drowning, suffocating slowly. Caught in resin like a prehistoric mosquito, meant to be preserved and inspected later. All he had left was his panicking mind. His nervous system had found solace in the maze of muscles and tissues it had once burrowed into, but now it had nothing to soothe it. It sensed no immediate body or form, and it began setting off alarms. Rods of lightning struck his neuronal cell bodies, a phantom pain that he seemed to inflict upon himself to see if he could still feel anything. In the moment, all he could feel was the emotional manifestation of the pain. It was tumultuous and reeling, thundering through the crowded hallways of his memory. Pod himself was understandably used to the vastness of the space he now accompanied. He had spent an unsurmountable amount of time with himself over the past century or so, spending days and months in solitude on his ship as he floated through the unending depths of space. He had often found himself wandering through the convoluted folds of brain, more often than not high and hallucinating on death sticks. It was that high that opened the minds eye, allowed deep periods of introspection. He knew his mind well, the maze-like twists and turns. He recounted his memories often in an effort to remember the extent of his life, it was a practice that seemed to sharpen his ever-aging thought process. Everything was stored neatly and in good order, books ready to be pulled from the shelf and read at any moment.

So, Pod wasn't scared. He wasn't scared of the darkness he now found himself in, as it was a darkness he bathed in often. He also wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of being stuck here forever. It was a peaceful place for him, quiet. Familiar. Although, at the moment it felt sorrowful and disrupted. His mental anguish reverberated through the halls like the wail of a banshee. He hoped it wouldn't be like this forever. A torturous existence of eternal unrest.

Pod could feel Shey'da's presence vaguely. He knew she had stepped into the saturated bog of his mind. Felt the soft impression of her body as she waded through the swamp, felt her sinking into the ceaseless depths. Like a quicksand that clawed at her clothes, pulling and dragging her down. It dared her to get lost, to stumble through a never-ending maze, to flutter cluelessly into the jaws of a fly trap. It beckoned her with honeyed song, a siren hoping to lead her into ambush and baited trap. For how weak his outward form was at the moment, Pod's mind was a formidable opponent. It was rife with danger and unknown, monsters hiding behind every twist and turn. He could feel her flounder. Felt her unease as the sinking sand gripped at her boots, felt her realization of perilousness. When she pulled away Pod followed, getting yanked viciously from the weightless prison he was suspended in.

He gasped desperately, having only been barely breathing for the entirety of the experience. He sucked in air like a fish, his breaths as heavy and fleeting as her own. His eyes had shot open as well, meeting hers almost immediately, looking at her as if to confirm they had both just gone through the same thing. The silence was mutual as they both gained their bearings, Pod eventually squeezing his eyes shut and wincing with the aftermath of the phantom pain that he had inflicted on himself.

"What are you?"

Her body moved before her mind did, hands scrambling for a commlink from the ledge behind her. A distress signal. The moment it was pressed her fingers recoiled as if it had been burned, a quiet "Feth" slipping from under her breath.

"Let me go" he whimpered softly, answering so promptly that he almost cut her off. You dont want to know.

While she fumbled with her commlink, Pod's body seemed to start morphing uncontrollably. The strikes of energy he had stunned himself with when caught in Shey'da's cross hairs had seemed to act like some sort of defibrilator, rebooting his system. An electro shock therapy that made his muscles twitch and jolt uncontrollably. Not only his muscles, but the shifting matter that lay just beneath the skin. His skin writhed, like there was some trapped creature testing the walls of his enclosure. It moved like his whole body was alive, rippling in raised spikes and texture. Blotches of color spotted his skin, like droplets of paint that has been splattered and waited to be mopped up. His body would absorb the color after some time, making him look like some abstract painting with ever changing colors and brush strokes. Just as before, the texture of of rocks pressed outward on his skin, traveling like a wave over his chest and arms. They raked against the restraints, the sharp edges of the rubble catching on the leather that wrapped about his wrists and biceps. It was like they had a mind of their own, secondary beings held within Pod that had only just awoken. They were frantic to escape. The dynamic spread of rock and crystal texture had sensed the bindings, now seemingly testing the durability. The rocks shifted back and forth beneath the restraint, raising it's jagged edges farther and farther until it could gain purchase on the strap. Without much delay, the skin on his arm and hands started to grow spines. They burst through his skin with a sickening rip. Akin to the now extinct Spiner, the spines grew into sharpened points, quill-like extensions that pierced the binding leather. It littered the hide with holes, disrupting it's integrity enough that Pod could tear his wrists free. He grunted, wrenching his forearms up with enough forward momentum that it shook the chair. The bindings snapped loudly, whipping his spiky flesh in one last act of affliction. Likewise he brought his arms up, flexing his bicep and allowing the strength of his form to pop the binding off with another loud crack.

His next course of action would be shocking to say the least. A man of flamboyance and excessiveness, Pod was always going to prioritize putting on a show. If even just for himself, what fun was there in doing boring things. At this point in time, his arms and hands were now free and littered in spikes. He brought his hands together, his right hand wrapping around his left hand's middle and index finger. In a display so rapid you would've missed it if you blinked, he yanked them backward. Hard. Pod exclaimed monstrously through clenched teeth, groaning in pain. A hollow crack could be heard - his joint space, his bones were much to dense for him to break - and it would be observed that his fingers now contorted in a unnatural manner. They twisted stretched backward from his knuckle, laying on the back of his hand. Pod successfully dislocating the two fingers from his metacarpophalangeal joint. With the amount of sheer force he had put into trying to rip them off, he had also tore some skin, revealing a glimpse into the joint space where bones had once sat snugly. Unbeknownst to the onlooker, Pod had redirected the joint's tendon and ligaments from the area to allow an easier dislocation. Blood pooled in his lap now, streaming from the gaping wound. He raised the maimed hand to his mouth, the spikes on his still now shying from his hand and retreating to farther up his arm so as he wouldn't injure himself. As demonstrated before, Pod's carnivorous fangs were good for something after all. He bit down on the fingers, teeth wedging themselves between his phalanges and knuckle, prying them a part. In a similarly smooth motion he tore them off, yanking his hand away and pulling his head to the side at the same moment. It seemed like he had done this a time or to, the amputation of limbs was surprisingly efficient. You could hear the tearing of flesh, the smell of crimson rot filling the room as blood sprayed freely. All the while Pod howled, wailing in response to the excruciating injury he was putting himself through.

He whimpered in the aftermath of it all, spitting his fingers into his lap as well. Disgusting.The spikes and textures on his arms soaked back into his flesh, their volume needed elsewhere. Almost immediately, two tentacles sprouted from the mutilated joints. Slowly at first, but as his resources rushed to the area they lengthened with remarkable speed. One reached towards Shey'da, slimy and dripped with bloodshed. The other reaching for the commlink. The first tentacle extension found the girl's neck, wrapping like a boa constrictor around her supple tissue. The tip of the tentacle would wipe itself across her face, suckers searching her skin and smearing the ichor. The second tentacle extension slipped around the commlink, bringing it slowly to his face and dropping it into the palm of his good hand. There was a moment of hesitation now, Pod staring intensely at Shey'da through bloodshot eyes. He tried to manage his ragged breathing, slowing the expansion of his lungs so he didn't sound so out of breath. He was trying to compose himself.

Pod pressed and held the button on the commlink, speaking into it "That was an accident. I have it handled. Subject is subdued" The voice that came out of him was quiet and dainty, feminine. The tone was monotonous and curt, boring in every possible way. It was Shey'da's.