Private Under The Hood

[Darth Virelia]

"Dungeon Delving."

Tag - Zee Caromed



Virelia listened in silence, standing with one hand resting lightly on the edge of the nearest pod, her fingers tracing slow, idle circles in the frost that refused to melt. Her expression didn't shift as Zee spoke—she was not the sort of woman to interrupt—but her stillness held a kind of gravity. Focus. She heard him. All of him.

When he finished—when the last observation hung in the air like dust stirred in sunlight—she exhaled a breath that was too amused to be relief, too self-assured to be indulgent.

Then she turned toward him fully.

"You would've made a very dangerous Sith," she said at last, voice low, curved like smoke off a hot blade. "And I mean that as a compliment."

She took a slow step toward him, the lightsaber glow dancing across the soft lines of her face, throwing gold and red shadows that kissed her cheekbones like war paint. Her tone didn't sharpen. If anything, it deepened—thoughtful. Intelligent. And pleased.

"You're not wrong. About any of it. Your grasp of bioalchemy and transformation tech is well beyond what I'd expect from someone your age. And your moral framing…" She smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. "That's rare. Not because it resists corruption. But because it understands it."

She came to a stop just shy of him again—close enough for her voice to be quiet, yet unmistakably intimate.

"Yes. I know exactly what this could become in the wrong hands. A universal vector. Cross-species, communicable, stable, and—above all—subtle. What I'm looking for in these samples isn't mutation for its own sake. It's compliance. Controlled transformation, keyed to very specific environmental triggers. No necrosis. No death. Just… repurposing."

Her hand lifted, gently brushing the edge of his jacket where it crossed his hip. It was not a caress. Not quite. But it lingered long enough to leave meaning.

"That's the part you're avoiding, I think. Not out of fear. Just caution. You understand the temptation to rewrite flesh. What you don't want to admit is how easily that slides into rewriting will."

A pause. She let the words breathe.

"I do."

Her voice lowered.

"I want to create systems that do more than heal. I want them to remember. I want to build technologies that don't just repair damage, but encode a kind of loyalty. A return to function with a purpose."

She gestured vaguely toward the pods.

"The Sith who built this failed. Because they were too focused on the end-state—servants, beasts, soldiers. But what they missed was the process. The way transformation itself becomes obedience, if shaped properly."

Her eyes met his again—violet and unwavering.

"I want to master that process. Not because I lack options. Not because I'm desperate. But because every tool that reshapes the body reshapes the mind, and I intend to control both."

She stepped back—not retreating, merely giving space again.

"You're right to challenge me. I don't mind. I welcome it. You've earned the right to speak plainly."

A pause.

"And you're right again: this is not the only path. But the others are cluttered with ownership. Corporate patents. Institutional gatekeeping. Scientific arrogance. I have no interest in asking permission from corps that see life as a subscription model."

Her gaze sharpened, but not cruelly.

"And I don't ask other Sith for permission either."

She turned then, walking slowly along the curve of the chamber, one hand trailing along the bone-white supports as she moved.

"I will take what they buried. I will perfect what they failed to finish. And then I will make it mine."

 

[Zee Caromed]

Ah. There it was.

He'd almost been having fun for a moment there. Nearly enough to let himself forget the situation he found himself in, or the sort of person he find himself in it with.

While Zee hadn't invested much into his Force training compared to the other pursuits with more of a grip on his heart, he'd studied a bit of the Traditions that made up the galaxy. Enough to know the shame of this or that sort of practice, to have a passing familiarity with the things that were important to them, anathema to them, and what it looked like to have one hate you. When young, he'd suggested to both of his mothers that they had a slightly Sith-like view on the Galaxy - intending to reference their insistence upon bettering themselves, their focus on passions over duty, and a visceral - nearly primal - understanding of the Force. While the Caromed Alor had brushed Zee's questions off with a sharp rebuke, his mother had been angrier with him than he could have ever predicted.

In her usual way, she'd simply corrected him - that she was NOT a Sith, and to please not do that again. He'd pressed, making what he'd felt a the time to be salient philosophical points. She illustrated her position by pushing his ability to defend himself to the very limits of his skill - and then goading him to push harder, go further, hit harder, be stronger. The very moment fear outweighed his ability to break his limits, she'd stopped and explained that if she WERE a Sith, he'd have probably died years ago - and certainly would have that day. She then politely asked him to please not do that again.

She'd never lost control of herself or the situation, but Zee had. He hadn't really understood at the time. But he'd complied. As an adult, he understood a little better.

Here, surrounded by the detritus of ancient misery and drinking in the darkness that had housed it since time immemorial, he perhaps understood the secondary lesson - that he didn't need to understand a thing to know it was wrong. He'd been born to a position of relative comfort and moderate authority. He'd spent his adulthood using the freedom it afforded him to try and uplift as many people as his hands could reach, taking whatever steps he could to make the galaxy a less unfair, arbitrary place for the people who needed help the most. He'd fought back against tyranny in whatever way was most effective and available to him as an individual. He'd have rather died than bind another to his will. The idea of a plague doing so made his guts churn with disgust. The sort of hatred at something offended him so deeply that he blew right past fury and into quiet, frosty hatred.

A dozen biting statements and scalding observations jumped up in Zee's throat. He bit them back sharply. He might die here, no doubt. But he refused to die stupidly. Or for something as useless as his big mouth.

"I have ethical disagreements with your plan. I think you get that." Zee replied evenly. She'd made a little space, so he made a little more. He lowered his saber so that it was parallel with his leg. "Which I do not think will sway you. I won't waste your time."

The Mandalorian narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly in the flickering light of the dungeon. "So I have logical points against this course of action." Zee added, holding up three fingers. "Three of them. So far, you've been open to the sound of my voice - and there's no need to hurry - so I think you might be intruiged enough to donate ten minutes of your time to a convincing argument for getting out of her and grabbing lunch. Are you game?"

"No tricks. No ambushes. I'm not planting bombs and I don't have any backup." Zee listed openly. "You have nothing to lose but ten minutes, and stand only to gain."

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Dungeon Delving."

Tag - Zee Caromed



Virelia stood beside the frost-rimmed pod, one hand resting on its edge, the other stilling mid-gesture in the air. Her posture was relaxed, her profile bathed in the sickly orange glow of Zee's saber. The light didn't soften her. It outlined her.

And for a long moment, she said nothing at all.

Then—

A slow, deliberate turn of her head.

She regarded him—not as a threat, not even as an opponent, but as something more subtle. A deviation. A line she hadn't expected to bend.

Her gaze lingered on him: the posture of resolve, the soft rebuke cloaked in calm, the quiet readiness in his stance. Conviction.

Interesting.

Her lips parted, the faintest trace of amusement curling the edges.

"You would die for your ethics," she said softly, "but you'd rather argue for them. That's rare."

She stepped forward, slowly. No sudden movements. No threat.

"But I'll grant you this, Zee Caromed. You didn't flinch. Not when I said what I meant. Not when you understood what I am."

Another step.

She paused at the edge of his personal space—not crossing it this time. Just near enough that the scent of cold metal and incense clinging to her cloak might catch the air between them.

"You know I want control," she said. "That I am control."

Her head tilted slightly. Not mocking. Just… curious.

"And you still think I'll give you ten minutes to try and take it away."

A pause.

"I should refuse."

She said it almost lightly, as if quoting a rulebook she'd long since memorized but stopped following.

"But I don't need to win this conversation, Zee. I already know what I'm capable of."

She drew back, just half a step. Just enough to gesture, with a single elegant sweep of her hand, toward the threshold behind them.

"You want to change my mind? Good. Convince me. I'll give you your ten minutes."

She moved again, this time toward a ledge near the wall—a long-broken support beam halfway embedded in stone, wide enough to perch on. She sat, one leg crossed over the other with languid ease, cloak falling around her like liquid night.

"But you'll give me something, too."

A beat.

"No double-edged appeals to morality. No poetic sighs about free will. I want logic, Zee. You said you had three points."

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, fingers steepled.

"Make them."

And then, softer:

"You'll find I'm a very generous listener… if you speak well."

 

[Zee Caromed]

"Thank you for hearing me out. I'll endeavor to not waste your time." Honestly, this was probably a losing game. She was intrigued, maybe. Or languid - like a cat might be. But that sort of patience only extended insofar as the playing was fun. Convincing somebody that what they wanted wasn't a good idea when they'd come this far? That was hard to do. Doing so in a way that played within the lines they'd set out while still being intriguing - or fun - enough to not get cut down? Maybe impossible.

Soft as he was, Zalke Caromed was not a coward.

He held up one finger. "My first point - It has been done before." Zee began. "Plagues to mutate, plagues to control - by your own admission - are older than democracy. Older than the Republic, and then some. I'm not a historian - but we're talking millennia, easily." He pointed out. "If they were a safe bet, if they were an effective strategy, wouldn't we know about it by now?"

Zee swept his lightsaber around the room, gesturing to the tubes and vials and ruin all around them. "The Galaxy is filled with the detritus of enterprising alchemists and would-be dark lords who have tried and failed at this exact stratagem. We stand in the corpse of one such attempt now, but we both know that this is not unique. It is not even rare. My mother was born from a Witch alchemist's attempts to create pliable, loyal soldiers - and her creator was top of her field. My sister was created in an attempt to make an even more pliable, useful clone of my mother by none other than Rave Merrill. We joke about the catgirl plague, but it stands out as the closest this strategy has to making headlines. I posit that the goal of creating a plague that afflicts and melds the wills and bodies of entire populaces is not a successful strategy."

Zee took a small breath, steadying his nerves. Two fingers this time as he sank down on a collapsed bit of lab equipment - near to, but facing her. "My second reason: Were there anything of value down here to such an aspirant goal, it would not have remained so." He explained. "This ruin was not unknown to me, which means that my mother absolutely knows of its existence - and if it had any sort of resemblance to the work my grandmother did, she would have buried it behind more than a chainlink fence - if she didn't just rip apart this whole facility and the evil inside of it with her bare hands for the joy of destroying it. My clan has a long tradition of Force cultivation. a longer tradition of medical excellence, a disregard for honor, and a deep-seated resentment of the past few Mand'alors - if it would have been useful to subvert or destroy, one of them would have weaponized it to save us from Ra Vizla's purge. Taris has been host to plagues and dark lords and corruptors for as long as it has been polluted." He argued. "And I know that you know that better than most."

"I suggest that what you seek down here is no diamond in the rough or buried treasure. Dangerous? Yes. But not effective. The way that radioactive remains and biohazardous waste can be used to make a bomb. Powerful, but not neccasarilly useful. Not as effective as a more modern solution and just as liable to make the bomb-maker sick in collecting the poor materials." Zee continued. "If there was value here, it'd have been picked clean, used effectively, or buried."

The Mandalorian nurse held up a third finger, leaning forward on his knee as though a great weight had settled across his shoulders. His lightsaber was left to flicker and blaze across his feet, not touching anything it might carve way. "Third point. Even if we allow for the chance that making this plague would be a worthwhile use of your resources, and even if you believe that there remains a jewel down here worth salvaging, I would wager that you don't actually want this." Zee added firmly. He could not help but mentally hear the sound of himself sliding every chip into the center of the table on one final, audacious bet. "I won't pretend to know your mind or heart better than you, and I promised to avoid fuzzy ethics, so I'll stick to the facts:"

"You are control. You said so yourself." Zee pointed out. "You arrived on Taris and came directly to this place, and you've spoken with easy familiarity this entire time. That tells me you had an idea of precisely what you'd find down here. You dress exceedingly well, and not even the polluted rain on the surface or the dust of the tunnels has managed to stick to you - you remain immaculate. Untouchable. That tells me that you've never felt like you weren't in control of the situation, and that you place a lot of value in presentation and presence." He continued.

Zee leaned forward further. "So what, exactly, should we assume you were you going to do down here? You arrived alone, with no backup. You don't seem the sort of woman who'd start dragging equipment out of here by hand, but you didn't bring goons. You knew what was down here enough to speak at length about it, but at the end of the day... what? Were you going to wheel a the heart of whatever evil lays beneath this place up to your ship on a hoversled? Subsist on whatever snacks you have on you while you repaired the machines enough to study what knowledge they might have on them? Take pictures of profoundly ancient, failed lab equipment home to be rebuilt in a modern laboratory? And if you DID know what was down here and it WAS valuable, why would you come alone all this way on the off chance that there was still something useful down here after ten thousand years, or however long it has been?" Zee asked. "I've met thousand-years-old people before, and you don't seem like one of them. So this is an academic endeavor, not a personal one. And if you're an academic, then my first two points would have already occured to you."

"I suggest that you never planned on leaving here with anything but a memory. Perhaps this is an adventure for you, maybe you're here to settle an old grudge for somebody. Perhaps it's simple curiosity. But I believe that there is no useful utility to you in plunging these ruins, save recreation or satisfaction."

Zee sat upright, exhaled sharply, then stood from his position - awaiting her reply. Halfway ready to defend himself if things went south.

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Dungeon Delving."

Tag - Zee Caromed



Zalke Caromed delivered his case not like a desperate man, not like a prophet on a street corner. He was precise. Measured. Composed. And while he stood in the depths of a Sith ruin—opposite a woman who had all but admitted she could unmake him with a glance—he didn't tremble. Didn't flinch. He argued like someone who had no illusions about his leverage, and no shame about his truth.

It was fascinating.

By the time he finished, Virelia was no longer lounging.

She sat upright, legs crossed elegantly at the ankle, one hand resting against her chin, the other draped over her knee. Her expression wasn't hostile, or even contemplative. It was pleased. That subtle, unreadable smile returned, soft and calculating all at once—like a mathematician discovering an unexpected variable had solved her equation better than she had.

The silence stretched for just a moment longer. Then—

"Well reasoned," she murmured.

She stood in a single, fluid motion, cloak whispering behind her as the chill of the vault coiled tighter for one last breath—then stilled.

"No applause," she added, "but you've earned more than my patience."

Her boots clicked softly on the ribbed stone as she stepped toward him, hands still open, unthreatening. Her gaze didn't sharpen. If anything, it softened.

"You're right," she said, voice low and rich with self-assurance. "About most of it."

She came to a stop a few paces from him—close enough to speak without raising her voice, far enough not to trespass.

"Yes, this place is not unique. Nor was the intent behind it. And yes, the galaxy is littered with failed ambitions dressed as breakthroughs. I know. I've walked among the wreckage of empires that thought themselves immune to entropy. I grew in one."

A slow breath.

"You're right, too, that there's little left here that couldn't be replicated elsewhere. Most of what I'd hoped to find… I already have. In traces. In impressions."

She gestured toward the pods, then let her hand fall.

"But your third point was the most astute."

Her eyes locked with his.

"I did come alone. And not because I was sure of success. Not because I expected to harvest anything worth shipping off-world."

A pause. Then, lightly:

"I came to see what I would feel."

She stepped past him now, moving toward the stairs—but not quickly. Just… forward.

"Some things, even in ruin, still breathe. And there's a difference between possessing power and earning the right to use it."

Another glance over her shoulder.

"And you gave me something I didn't expect: perspective."

Her tone warmed again, just enough to be felt.

"Not because you challenged me. Others have done that. They tend to scream while bleeding. But because you listened, then spoke with clarity. You trusted me to hear you."

She reached the first stair and looked back once more.

"I won't forget that."

A beat.

"Nor will I forget that you stood in my presence, understood what I am, and chose words over worship."

The last flicker of amusement returned.

"Even if I find that very rude."

She descended two steps—then stopped.

"I'll leave. For now. With only what I've learned. And a different victory to the one I set out to achieve."

Then, almost playfully, her voice dropped into a quiet, velvety hum:

"But you owe me a lunch now, Zee. I don't cancel appointments without rescheduling."

 

[Zee Caromed]

When Virelia turned away, Zee's knees nearly buckled and gave out.

How had that WORKED?!

His demeanor improved immediately now that the threat of disappointment-followed-by-death was more or less alleviated. Not enough to make him cavalier, or at least not any more than he'd been before. Slightly dizzy with his unexpected success and the rush of releasing the ironclad energy he'd been accumulating in his core in anticipation of a fight.

Which led to an interesting ethical issue on his end. As loathsome as her (alleged) plan had been to the core tenants of Zee's whole ethos? Without action behind them, they might as well be a thought exercise. And he could hardly hold a conversation against the blonde, not when she'd been so reasonable in turn. Did he think that Virelia might be the sort of person to go through with such a heinous act? Maybe. Probably, even. But she hadn't, and maybe never would.

This meant that Zee did not have an enemy. He had somebody with concerning tendencies that he'd almost had fun plunging into a creepy ruins withm, who still hadn't given him a name to refer to her as. He forced himself to relax. He let himself relax. The tension flowed out, leaving the slightly rubbery amble that he'd initially approached her with. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a saber for light.

A little lighter with the idea that today wouldn't end by making the galaxy a worse place for anyone, and that started with compensating the Sith for her fine judgement with an enjoyable lunch.

"I know a passable noodle place not far from here." Zee promised, falling into comfortable step beside the Sith once more. "And ordinarily, I wouldn't suggest mediocrity - but they make the best dumplings I've ever had there - and I've had loads of dumplings. More people need to know about them." The Mandalorian promised. "There's this perfect spot that overlooks the southern half of the Talinn district, too. Can't be beat. Every time I get my ass kicked or party too hard, or after a long shift, I always seem to wash up there. Can't recommend it enough. Best-kept secret on Taris."

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Dungeon Delving."

Tag - Zee Caromed



She had just finished ascending the last stair when his voice caught up with her—buoyant, casual, like a bottle uncorked. She didn't turn. Not at first. Just paused at the lip of the dais, head tilted slightly to the side, listening.

"Passable noodle place."
"Best dumplings."
"Overlooks the southern half of the Talinn district."

The cadence alone told her everything she needed. Bright. Familiar. Working-class. Exactly the kind of place that thought flickering neon signs and questionable hygiene were part of the "charm."

Her shoulders rose in a slow inhale.

Then turned.

And the look she gave him was not cruel, or scathing—no, it was worse. It was disappointed.

"I'm sorry," she said, with the precise cadence of someone who had just heard a child suggest using the family star yacht for mud wrestling, "did you just offer to take me to a noodle stall?"

Her arms crossed slowly, one gloved hand lifting to press delicately to her temple as if the very notion had physically wounded her.

"Zee."

The name was delivered like an accusation wrapped in a velvet glove. Just wounded. Thoroughly, dramatically wounded.

"I agreed to lunch, not culinary exile."

She stepped forward now, slowly, cloak swaying behind her with that regal grace that turned duracrete into catwalk. Her violet eyes searched his like she was genuinely trying to determine if he'd suffered head trauma in the last three minutes.

"Let me be clear. I enjoy noodles. I even enjoy dumplings. But if I wanted to sit on a plastoid stool beneath a rusting heat lamp while the scent of coolant fluid and old caf grease wafted through the air, I could've stayed on Nar Shaddaa."

Her fingers flicked through the air as if dismissing the mental image with offense.

"I want—" she stopped, considered, then corrected: "—require a linen tablecloth. A wine list. Candles that are real, not flickering LED strips stuffed into fake chandeliers. I want silverware with weight, Zee. Cutlery that could pass as weaponry, should the need arise."

Now she was close again, looking him over with theatrical pity.

"You deserve to be seen somewhere with a view. Somewhere where the light catches your cheekbones, and no one is yelling about moisture converters in the background."

A beat. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.

"And if I catch even a whisper of synthwave fusion playing over faulty speakers, I will drag you from the venue myself and restructure your taste buds."

The words were threatening. Her tone was not. It was warm, indulgent, affectionate in the way a disappointed matriarch might be with her most promising, poorly-dressed nephew.

Then—finally—her smile returned. Full. Real. And just the tiniest bit wicked.

"You invited a Sith Lady to lunch, darling. Not your hoverboard mechanic."

A pause.

"Oh. And wear something black."

She descended the outer stair now, head held high, every inch of her already calculating how best to dominate the menu, the wine list, and—if she was feeling generous—the conversation.