Private What in the Nine Hells Were You Thinkin'?

[Danger Arceneau]

“Honoring those who fell in the Battle of Kashyyyk between the One Sith and Republic, so many years ago, I give you the FIRST ROUND of the GALACTIC Kaggath!”

“A solider, a poet, a king…someday, maybe. Today, good audience, we find out if the pen is mighter than a cold heart made of durasteel. He’s the Wayward Bard of the von Ascania royal family. Hailing from Ukatis, LYSANDEEEEEEEER VON ASCANIAAAAA!

Danger nearly choked.

The sip of Corellian Reserve she'd just tipped back hit the wrong way, singeing its way down her throat like a liquid blaster bolt. She swallowed it whole, a slow blink masking the flicker of sheer disbelief behind feline green eyes that narrowed into slits in an instant.

"What in the bloody blue blazes…?" she murmured in that singsong, low and husky drawl, her voice suddenly tight behind a smile so practiced it might as well've been lacquered on.

With a click of her heels and the sweep of her hips, the Queen of Trade left the holotable, weaving gracefully through the crowd. Her datapad buzzed once again, reminding her of the three unread messages from some weapons magnate still trying to lock in a transport route, but she ignored it, eyes narrowing toward the edge of the balcony overlooking the massive Woshyr tree and the various Kaggath fights.

The arena cameras flickered, focusing on the next match.

And there he was -- even if dressed in that armor, Danger recognized him.

"Well, I'll be…" she whispered, lips drawn into a thin line as she stared down at the armored figure of a kid she had definitely not expected to find in a gladiator's ring. Especially a martial death tournament where contestants dueled each other to prove who was the mightiest warrior in the galaxy? Absurd.

She exhaled slowly, nose wrinkling slightly as she set her drink aside, but the longer the match dragged on the tighter Danger's jaw got.

At first, she'd watched with that same cordial poise, one hand loosely around a fresh glass, the other perched delicately on her hip. But as blows landed and the droid opponent moved with relentless, pitiless force, her calm began to fracture. Her fingers drummed sharp and steady against the balustrade, feline-green eyes narrowing with every crunch and clash from the pit below.

Why was he here?

How in the blazes had Lysander von Ascania ended up in the Kaggath, of all damn places?

Danger's lips drew into a razor thin line as the droid advanced again, saw the terrible flash of lightning, the vicious scream. Her gut twisted with a cold, burning mix of dread and fury.

Without ceremony, she snatched up her comm, flipping the cover with her thumb, then jabbed at the button. Her voice dropped low and sharp, lined with durasteel.

"Aeri," she said in a terse, but husky tone, "get me whoever's runnin' these damn Kaggaths. Need a handle on a particular fight to intervene if necessary before this damn fool of a child gets himself killed. And a medic suite"

She didn't need to say who.

However this ended, she wouldn't see it end with his life.

Not on her watch.

Medbay, VIP Recovery Suite

Shortly after the match…

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The medical monitor's pulse was steady, but louder than it had any right to be. In the quiet aftermath of violence, every artificial sound in the room echoed like a hyperspace flare against silence. The sickly sweet antiseptic scent of bacta hung in the air, undercut by the spicy burn of the cigarrillo smoke.

Danger didn't move.

Not at first.

She sat in a low, cushioned chair beside the recovery bed, her posture all that of a Trade Queen despite the storm churning behind her eyes. The room was VIP class, all smooth curves of permaglass and soft, muted lighting, with a view overlooking the wide curve of the Rusaan horizon. Dusk had painted the sky in streaks of lavender and rust, the distant suns bowing low to nightfall.

But Danger wasn't admiring the view.

Her gaze was fixed on the teenager in the bed.

Lysander.

He looked a far cry from the charismatic Jedi Padawan golden boy she remembered. He was a ruin of bacta wraps and synth skin covered in bruises already turning from violet to the sickly yellow of deep trauma. Synthetic flesh had been sprayed across one forearm where the armor plating had fused to skin, as there were rents in his arms and third-degree burns on his palms and fingers where electricity had chewed through flesh. Even the glimmer of a neural spine stabilizer pulsed faintly at his temple, keeping his nervous system from going into shock.

He hadn't screamed when they pulled him out of the fight. Hadn't moved.

He still didn't.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Danger lifted the cigarillo to her lips and pulled a long, deliberate drag. The ember flared a bright cherry red, casting a brief glow across her sharp cheekbones. She exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting like fog between them, curling toward the medbay ceiling in lazy whirls.

"Well, reckon you got quite a tale to tell..." she murmured finally, voice low and sharp with something too brittle to be amusement. She had already instructed Aeri to conduct a deep background check on Lysander starting from when she left him on Naboo until now. What came in the aftermath had prompted the Queen of Trade to down another glass of whiskey and two more Cigarillos before the briefing was done.

What in the gorram Nine Hells have you been through?...And what were you bloody well thinkin'?

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

The acolyte was shrouded in a heavy fog as an oddly familiar voice sliced through the air; it was one he could've recognized among a sea of people, for it was that of Dangeruese. Now, it tried to anchor him to reality.

Slowly, Lysander's senses began to return; he registered the medical bed beneath him, yet all of his limbs felt.. distant. His breathing was shallow and felt sluggish. Atop of that, there were whispers of pain, but they were distant, and somehow familiar, as they were echoes of another concussion experienced on Korriban months back, a cruel lesson delivered by a rival student.

One that was now rotting in the ground.

Nausea slithered through his stomach, a serpent of discomfort, and persistent ringing in the ears cut through him. Every muscle was heavy, as every sensation was like a dulled blade. Being consumed by darkness felt better than this.

His memory was like that of a malfunctioning protocol droid.. unreliable to say the least. He wasn't even sure if the final blow landed before or after he hit the ground. Several breaths were spent trying to recalibrate his awareness, but it was an agonizing affair, making him question just how broken he truly was.

Sequences of the entire day played through the projector inside his skull, blurring together, mixed with bright flashing lights. All the voices were muddled too. And the harder he tried to understand them, the more pressure built, behind his eyes.

Like a corrupted kyber crystal begging for light, emotions that were nearly foreign surged within him, and were more complex than the sting of defeat. Multiple chapters of his life passed since the tradeswoman saw him as a Padawan, a time when he wandered lost without purpose in the Mid Rim. A scar etched across the left eyebrow, and even more inked across his knuckles, he wondered if she had seen those too, aside from the mess he'd become today in the Galactic Kaggath. Still, even if his usual bravado were present, something deeper stirred beneath the surface. It wasn't love, nor was it longing; it was quiet admiration, something that carried warmth.

It kindled now.

His antics were well-known, stretching from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim, but that wasn't to say he was blind to the world around him. In truth, Lysander was always aware, always calculating. Somewhere between a ride to Otoh Gunga in a submersible along with burning down half a swamp together, he did come to one conclusion: she was one of the very few that saw past his recklessness, and one that seemed to actually care about him. And now, lying here, that belief was reaffirmed. But with that, guilt arrived, gnawing at him.

The Dark Side disciple would slowly try to shift from his current position, but all it did was bring a fresh wave of pain across the side of his face. One eye was reluctant to open, barely, but the other remained swollen shut. The concussion's grasp was without mercy, offering only discomfort and more confusion.

Whatever the woman had spoken earlier, didn't quite register, other than the familiarity of voice.

"Your voice," he rasped, "it still sounds like.. Naboo." Like another open wound, just the mention of the planet caused something deeper than physical torment to bloom inside; it still bled heavy with regret and burned like acid in his veins. He forced a slow exhale. "Part of me wanted to disappear," he confessed. "Maybe for good this time." Even scrunching his nose sent ripples throughout his body. The teen's tone became dry. "Ms. Dangeruese, if the afterlife smells like cigarillos.." a weak smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, "I'd much rather go to hell."

Gaze narrowing, he then looked up at the ceiling. "I just want to get back out there."

Yet, he currently had no idea where 'there' even was.

"Where.. am I? Where is Corazona von Ascania ?"

Gravity would not allow him to sit up, for he tried once more.

In the current state, his brain was more unguarded than ever, lest he begin asking for someone who'd already forgotten him. "Where is my Sibylla?"

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Danger didn't speak at first.

Didn't move either, save for the slight shift of weight as she crossed one leg over the other, smoke curling in lazy swirls by her head from the cigarillo perched between her fingers. Once again, thanking the void that she at least ditched the fake vapes and kept to the real thing.

And she needed plenty of the narcotic vice for what was to come.

To anyone from a distance, the Queen of Trade would look composed, almost regal. But up close, her jaw was set a little too tight, her bright emerald eyes a little too sharp. She wasn't watching the machines. She was watching him.

Lysander von Ascania .

Half boy, half man, and entirely too reckless.

Menfolk sure had a way of gettin' themselves killed, she thought with no amount of wry amusement, taking another deep drag, and the young ones? They just did it louder.

She didn't know why he was in that arena. Not yet. But her credits had made damn sure he got out of it. Without them and without a team of medics she'd browbeaten into working overtime, he'd probably be bleeding out under a tarp.

Not exactly a memory she wanted to sit with.

Instead, she watched and listened.

Watched him stir. Watched the pain draw across his brow like storm shadows. Watched his voice rasp out something halfway between poetry and a cry for help.

The words cracked something in her, and her expression couldn't help but soften.

He went on, drifting between confession and broken humor. But she could see right through the bullshit. The humor used as a mask. For there was something hollow in his eye, something lost. She'd seen it before -- in soldiers, in survivors, in herself on a bad year with too many names to mourn. But this? This was fresh. Raw. Like he didn't know whether he wanted to climb out of the crater or bury himself in it.

Her full lips parted, but just barely, the spicy white smoke trailing out between them as she gave a low but barely amused chuckle. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't warm, either. Just real.

"Well, I am hell," she said quietly, the words dry as Tatooine's Western Dune Sea, indicating that he was now with her if that's how he wanted it.

"And you're lucky all you're breathin' is spiced tobacco leaf and not bacta through a rebreather."

She leaned in to rest a forearm to knee, her cigarillo balanced between her fingers with practiced ease, fixing those emerald fire eyes on the boy trying too hard to act like a man who didn't care if he lived or died.

"That fool stunt you pulled down in that arena? That wasn't bravery. That was pain wearin' armor and hopin' no one'd notice the cracks....and it nearly got you killed." She didn't say it to hurt him. She said it because it was true. Her eyes softened then, searching the one green eye that wasn't fully swollen or bruised shut.

"You tryin' to disappear on me, Lysander?" she asked, quiet now, no judgment in the tone, just weight. "You best tell me why."

She took another slow drag, the red tip flaring crimson light before she flicked the ash into the nearby tray. Her background check could provide her plenty of information, but nothing would hold as true as what Lysander would provide. That is, if he so chose to.

Since he mentioned Corazona and Sibylla, the former she could only assume was a relative, but the latter required more information.

"Cause it sure looks like we've got more than just busted bones to sort out."

She didn't move from her chair but she stayed close enough that if he drifted too far, he'd hear her voice again. Close enough that when he was ready to talk, she'd still be there.

Waiting.

Because whatever brought Lysander to the edge of a Kaggath fighting ring, it wasn't just foolish pride.

It was ghosts.

And she wanted to know which ones were haunting him.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

​

Time stretched on, each second tugging at the edges of his willpower. Reality began to feel heavier. The longer Lysander stayed awake, the more he felt like he was stuck in quicksand, for it was exhausting and persistent. There wasn't any improvement in his limbs, and the air around him and Danger thickened as he absorbed her words carefully. As more thoughts unraveled, they only threatened to spiral him into memories that were distorted.

In his sixteen years of this journey called life, Lysander had faced a number of horrors that many would have fled from, but surprisingly, they paled in comparison to this, a mark etched deep with the shame of needing help.

Silence lingered after the tradeswoman spoke, and he was tempted to stop fighting the tide that so desperately wanted to drown him. He lay there, one eye cracked open, caught in a prison between consciousness and what might've been the void. His gaze remained fixed on Danger, searching for something, anything, to hold onto amid the tempest of emotions. Deep beneath the walls he'd fortified, the teen knew he could trust her.

But now, trust was a cage he wasn't ready to unlock.

His brows furrowed faintly, not in defiance as they so often did, but in ways that were closer to melancholy and heartache. The acolyte’s fingers twitched against the blanket over his immobile legs, the same ones that’d curled around his curved lightsaber hilt earlier with all the certainty one could possibly imagine.

Perhaps now, they were searching for something to hold onto besides her voice.

“..No,” he finally murmured, forcing himself to look away, even if for only a beat. “Not from you, Danger.”

Already, he wanted to retreat back under the numbness that her warmth could not penetrate. A slow breath escaped his lips, another crack in his armor revealed. "I was hopin' you'd already forgotten me. The Kaggath didn’t bother me. It’s being seen like this.. before you.. that hurts the most.”

Still, he hadn't broken eye contact. Lysander's stare clung desperately to hers, as it was one of the only things keeping him tethered to the moment.

Looking away would've been like closing a door.

The demons that lurked within his soul hissed, taunting him with doubts. His failures were whispered.

All of this was a consequence of the figure before him now.

The pull of darkness became alluring.

The one orb he peered through became distant and detached, as if it were no longer a part of his being. With a sharp exhale through his nostrils, the blonde looked almost as if the very air itself caused him pain. "You're still searching for the Padawan that once followed you through the swamps of Naboo. But that boy is long gone now. He wouldn't last five minutes in my world." His voice was hollow, like a gravestone without flowers. "I don't mourn him."

Lysander's grasp on the blanket tightened in an instant; though, it was not out of comfort, but out of a need to have control, to quiet the chaos in his mind, which also pulsed through his nerves-endings like a storm. “Whatever you thought I was, whatever you saw back at the Southern Systems Bazaar.. that boy’s long dead. The Kaggath didn’t kill him."

He paused, then swallowed hard.

“I did.”

​

 

[Danger Arceneau]

The quiet in the room had Rancor teeth.

Sharp things they were, tugging at the fabric of time and memory.

Danger watched him, the soft hiss of her cigarillo the only sound breaking the weight. Smoke curled in elegant spirals above her head, catching in the pale medbay light like netherghosts refusing to leave. Her gaze stayed on Lysander von Ascania , steady as a space station in high orbit even as his words came like vibroshivs dulled by despair.

She caught how his gaze drifted away just a moment. No one else in the 'verse would have caught it but Danger. Every man has his 'tell.' Either a woman can read it or not.

Voids above.

Lysander's words hit harder than any shockboxer's fist.

Danger jaw worked slightly, but she didn't speak, not yet. Instead, she brought the cigarillo to her lips, took a long contemplative drag, and let the silence steep between them just a breath longer. The spice leaf carsunum laced smoke burned slow and bitter at the back of her throat.

Then quiet as a dying hyperdrive the Queen of Trade exhaled in a cloud of white smoke.

"Gorram, damn fool boy," she muttered low under her breath, so faint it might've been mistaken for a sigh.

It wasn't meant cruel. No venom behind it. Just the raw, rattled concern of a woman watching someone she had concern for walk into fire and call it a choice. Bha'lairs were less ferocious guarding their young than Danger Arceneau. Especially one she'd taken a fondness to. Makai Dashiell had seen plenty of that the majority of his life even if he wasn't born of her womb. Sure, perhaps she had babied and sheltered him right into manhood, fussing over him and protecting him with teeth bared. But that is just how Danger expressed her affection.

So had Lysander been younger like Makai decades back, still all elbows and snot filled whimpers, her tone might have come gentler. But Lysander was on the cusp. Not a child. Not yet a man. But runnin' headlong into the worst parts of both.

And so her voice when it came next, was durasteel wrapped in velvet. One that was soft but forged in far too many years of loss.

"No," she said plainly in her husky drawl. "I ain't lookin' for a Browncoat Padawan, and I ain't mournin' some wide-eyed-swamp-walker who didn't know better than to follow me through half of a Gungan terrorist hellhole." Her eyes held his, unflinching.

"That boy's gone? Fine. Maybe he needed to be."

Danger shifted and leaned back in her seat, but the weight in her emerald fire gaze didn't lessen.

"What I did see," she continued, slow and deliberate, that cigarillo perched between two fingers painting a smoke trail as she gestured, "was a fire in you. Not the kind that burns hot and burns out, but the kind you feed with grit, and fight, and stubbornness enough to shame a Rancor in ruttin' season."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something more like ache.

"You ever watch a sword get made, Lysander?" she asked, quiet now. It had been nearly the same question she asked Makai when he was seven years old.

"Not one o' those fancy laser sabers, but a real one. You gotta toss the metal in the fire, over and over. Beat it flat with a hammer 'til it screams. Dunk it in ice cold water. Hold it to the heat again. Fold it, break it, fold it again."

Her eyes softened just a shade then as she reached up and flicked ash into the tray on the small bedstand beside her.

"And with every fold? It gets stronger. Tempered. Ain't a Jedi Browncoat code or hooky hoodoo playbook in the 'verse that'll teach you what life will beat into your bones if you let it."

She let that sit between them a second. Let it settle.

"Now you tell me that boy's dead," she went on, taking a deep drag of her vice.

"Fine. But if you think what's left of you ain't worth seein'? If you think bein' seen wounded, bruised, bare ain't the bravest damn thing you've done yet?"

She let that spicy blue white cloud settle between them, before her voice fell lower into that husky drawl again.

"Then you don't know a damn thing about what makes a man."

She tapped the side of her cigarillo, watched the ember flare soft and angry.

"The verse’ break us. But we get to choose what's built back in the ashes. You don't owe anyone a version of yourself you can't be no more. Not me. Not Naboo. Not the ghosts behind your eyes."

She leaned forward again, elbows to knees, her voice gentler now like a current just beneath the surface.

"But you are here. You're breathin'. You can chose to survive. And that kinda choice? That'll tell me there's still somethin' in you that ain't ready to give up. Not entirely."

She paused, let the words linger like coals on a forge.

"So what I want to know," she finished, "is who or what chased you into that pit. And why you thought pain was the only way to make the ghosts stop whisperin'."

Her eyes didn't leave him. Not once.

She wasn't lettin' him drift this time. Not without a fight.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

​

His body refused to cooperate while lying there. Paralyzed beneath the blanket, he was a prisoner in his own mind. And as his head throbbed with a persistent ache, the room appeared to tilt and spin,

The word 'fool' stung, even more so when his pride was bruised. In response, Lysander's brows twitched, irritation being one the first emotions to finally slip through the haze. Yet, despite his annoyance, if there was one person he would tolerate such talk from, the one person in the entire galaxy that he would permit to speak to him in such a way, it would be Danger. Normally, such a realization would have softened his thoughts and kindled gratitude, but instead it only ignited more pain within his fractured mind.

There was a point where her tone sharpened, and his body betrayed him with a wince; the words were like daggers in his ears. This concussion was far worse than the one he had suffered on Korriban.

“You don’t have to shout at me,” he murmured, voice cracking.. even if he knew she wasn’t louder than normal. The acolyte couldn't think of any other way to inform her that even the softest sound had a way of gnawing at his nerves, for they were all amplified. Even with the muddled senses, a familiar note of rebellion flickered in the depths of his soul. It whispered for him to reject her counsel. “Don’t pretend you understand. You weren’t the one broken at the bottom of that stage.”

Lysander's thoughts were like a shattered mirror, distant and foreign. He could feel Danger's eyes locked onto him, her gaze trying to peel back his defenses and unravel all the hidden layers.

After a short stretch of silence, his fingers released their hold on the blanket, having been one of two anchors in this room. “The only hammer is the one you’re swinging at me,” he confessed, as weariness washed over him again. “What I truly needed was someone I actually trusted to sit with me in the dark.. let me bleed out. But that’s already gone.”

There was a joke among his Badawans group back home, that his rants were like grand speeches. Though many listened to his words, few could truly understand the depths of his thoughts, but he still believed that Danger was one who could.

His eyelid then sealed shut, needing a reprieve from her intense stare, but certainly not running away from what he deemed a challenge. Amidst the chaos within, he clung to one thing that remained under his control, being the ability to continue surrender to the darkness that always threatened to consume him, like a blaze capable of devouring all in its path.

“You think the fire went out.. but it didn’t. It’s burning hotter now than it ever did.. I just lost sight of it out there, between the ache, the noise, everything. But it never left.. it never leaves.”

The blonde's frame shifted slightly; an unforgiving bite coursed through his ribs. But this time he didn’t flinch; instead, he leaned further into it. “The Sith use a different forge.. theirs has a way of testing who can survive that heat. They like to shove you in there and just watch, but not everyone gets to crawl back out.”

Familiar echoes of the Sith Code replaced his usual quips and ramblings. “I welcome the pressure. It's a passion that cuts so deep that everything it touches is left stronger.” The words came easily. A pause followed, along with a flicker of something still human in his eye as it reopened. “I didn’t become strong because someone believed in me. Even with a mentor on Korriban, I felt alone. I became stronger because no one else believed in me out there. Every time they broke me, I was forced to put myself back together."

The teen's jaw clenched as a sharp breath was drawn through his nose; the fire in his chest pushed him to keep going, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth was anything but a smile. It was a bitter memory.

Because once, he had handed someone everything. For once, he removed the mask and didn't entertain any games. Just the rawest pieces he could offer, admissions that could’ve been whispered, and truths taken from places he didn’t know he could speak from. But the cup Lysander poured his heart into was left untouched, not a single drop returned.

That kind of rejection cut through the Black Wall when nothing else could, from the Mid to Outer Rim.

“Sure, the forge is real. But it wasn’t love that fueled it. It was survival.. a passion to become a better version of myself. And I’m still standing.”

The first lie since regaining consciousness finally clawed its way free. “That’s the only truth I trust.”

Through Victory my chains are Broken.

A shade of darkness passed over his bright orbs like a shadow, now studying her with the detachment only a Sith could understand, searching for something more than connection, beyond the warmth.

“Did you not see the roster out there?” He shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile gracing the acolye's dry lips. “The first ever Galactic Kaggath.. and only one Jedi with a brass pair willing to test himself.” The tone was soft. A memory resurfaced; it was his final moments with Malum before the match, a moment that’d be with him until his dying breath. “But my cousin.. he’ll kill him too before the day is over with.”

​

 

[Danger Arceneau]

When Lysander von Ascania spoke, his words reflected every bit of ragged, cracked, and hurt he felt. It landed sharp, like a vibroshiv dragged across skin. And that hurt, hurt something fierce to see such one so young be felled so. It didn't even bother her when the boy lashed back using splintered words meant to drive her away.

Danger seen too many young men with fire in their gut and shadows on their back to take it personal. That rebellious edge? That was the instinct to push back when someone finally looked too close.

But when he winced, really winced, his body curling just faintly like sound alone was flayin' him alive… that maternal pull beneath her ribs surged hard and immediate, fierce as a sandstorm brewin' over the Jundland Wastes.

She drew in a slow, steady breath. Brought the cigarillo to her lips.

And listened. Listened as his words spilled out like a dirge, and she took in every bit of it.

Every bitter crack.

Every hollow tremor.

Every piece he tried to bury under fire and fury.

And utterly lost.

He talked about the roster, of the Jedi with no brass to fight, of his cousin waiting to kill him. Emerald fire eyes narrowed in ferocity, but she didn't speak yet. Not yet.

A deep breath would fill her old lungs, and lids fell shut for a moment. Fleeting seconds went ticking by, then umber lashes arose. Then, finally, her voice came, almost more breath than sound, mindful of his raw nerves.

"That so?" she murmured, lids half lowered and staring at the red hot cherry tip of her cigarillo before flicking that verdant gaze back at Lysander.

"You reckon you're the only one's ever been broken on a stage?"

She flicked her ash toward the tray with a practiced motion, eyes never leaving him.

"You think I'm swingin' a hammer at you?" she asked, quieter still, that cigarillo brought back up to hover idle near her temple now.

"Lysander, I ain't swingin' nothin'. I was the anvil for too many years to count. Sat still while everyone else pounded me into somethin' I didn't ask to be. So if you think I don't understand sittin' in the dark, bleedin' out alone?"

Her voice dropped an octave lower.

"You'd be wrong."

The memory flashed like lightning behind her eyes, thinking back to that Hutt prison cell. How the damp and rusted stench of blood and Hutt spice lay thick in the air and a life lost before it could take its first breath. Betrayal still fresh that it singed the heart.

"I know what the Sith call a forge," she continued, voice regaining its edge thinking of every Sith she met in the past and worked with still. "I know that kind of fire ...it don't have no mercy, no method. Just flame 'til you're ash. And what survivin' it does to a soul…"

She trailed off, took another long drag.

"Nah," she muttered. "That ain’t the kind of life I'd wish on anyone. But you can't shove a Kaadu into drinkin' if it ain't ready. Push too hard, they'll buck on pure spite."

And the Nine Hells knew, some lessons just had to be learned the hard way.

Her gaze softened then, but no, not weak, no never that. Just the kind of compassion that came from someone who'd been there, and kept going anyway. She exhaled a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"But I'll tell you this," she said, that husky drawl dipped in smoke and steel. "If you say that survival and desire to better yourself are what's movin' you forward...Then trust it. For now. "

But that wasn't the only truth he trusted.

Danger was able to read between the lines. Catch what bits of truth from the lies.

She didn't blame him.

Sometimes, to keep walkin', you had to weave a story tight enough to hold your own bones together. The question was to call him out on it now or wait for him to figure it out on his own accord?

Mama used to say, 'You keep talkin' pretty lies long enough, even the truth forgets its own voice.'

And from the way Lysander's eye flickered, detached one second, determined the next, he was halfway to throwin' his heart on a losing hand.

No, perhaps it was best to wait, considering how he was at his most vulnerable now. She didn't need to shine a light on his emotions nor connect the navpoints for him when he was raw. He can come to her when he was ready on his own accord.

So with that in mind, Danger leaned back, her lips pressing once more to the filter. The glow at the tip of her cigarillo flared like a signal light in low orbit. She held the breath. Let it settle.

Then exhaled a soft whoosh that curled up and away, vanishing into medbay shadows.

"I’m not hear to drag you outta the dark, Lysander."

She leaned forward, her hand steady as she reached out to snub the cigarillo into the tray, the embers dying with a soft hiss. But her voice in the next second, low as a gravtrain's hum and just as steady finished the thought.

"But I am sittin' with you in it."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

​

His eyes continued burning with the same relentless pressure, feeling as though talons were raking their way out from his skull. Lysander couldn’t recall any other time he sought refuge within his own skin, trying so hard to reconnect with himself, but now it was like only the tips of his fingers belonged to him. The rest of his body was foreign. His glance lowered to the ember of the cigarillo, pulsing like a fading star.

The acolyte's jaw twitched, a physical manifestation of the truths he couldn't bring himself to speak aloud. Not yet. One eye flickered against the dimly lit room, seeking something in the silence. When her comment struck, the weight of being the anvil, it landed harder than expected, pressing against his chest like smoldering iron. Dismissing her apathy had been easy; after all, the first time he saw her, she was flanked by a team of bodyguards, her presence effortlessly commanding respect. And yet, surprisingly, it inspired something in him too, drawing out a rare calm he didn't know he was capable of.

His head turned just enough to dull the ache, which was stubbornly nestling in his heart, the rawness far beyond any physical pain. Any other reaction, right or wrong, might have pushed him to keep battling their way through these exchanges. There had always been a thrill in the conflict for Lysander. Maybe, in a different life, he could have even shed a tear for the hardships that had fallen over her, but the cruel and ravenous climb of grief had long since reached the peak; it was one he had chosen, willingly stepping into the very forge she spoke of, and far beyond the depths most would ever face. Or understand.

No longer did the blonde believe in pity; he did, however, believe in recognition. His gaze searched for hers once more, easy to find, the reflective light in his ivy-hued irises speaking volumes; perhaps, it was a silent tribute to the respect and admiration he carried within, as for most, it was typically a warning of the darkness now residing beneath the composed facade.

“I’m sorry, Dangeruese.” The tone was low, allowing the truth to fall out of him like ash. “Really. I didn’t mean to hurt you..”

His digits shifted, thumb dragging a slow arc against his arm, like he was trying to carve courage into his skin. “I thought.. if I crashed hard enough, no one would bother picking through whatever was left of me. I thought it would’ve been easier, or quieter.. cleaner even.” The same hand brushed over the sheets, still searching for a means of grounding himself. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” he admitted, voice cracking like glass.

“You could’ve left me out there. But you didn’t, and I don’t know why.. but I’m so damn glad it’s you.” Another slow breath followed. “I always felt like you were the one person who didn’t judge me. Even when I was a Padawan with a voice too big for my robes. That’s more than the Jedi ever did for me.” His fingers flexed, then relaxed, trying to shed the lingering uncertainty. “Even if you don’t agree with the path I chose. You didn’t have to be here. You’re not my master. Not my blood. You owe me nothing. But.. you’re the only person in the galaxy I’d want sitting here now.”

He paused, lips parting as if there was more. Whatever it was, melted away. “If you stay.. you might see what’s rotting under all the armor. And I don’t want to lie to you about what I’ve done.. I can’t.”

There was no escaping his fate with the Sith. Still, it was they who'd taught him the truth: some lessons couldn't be given. They had to be earned in blood and sweat. Though he never uttered it aloud, the woman before him had already gifted him with both memory and meaning. Pleasant memories. And unlike so much else, they hadn't been erased.. nor stolen by the hands of the dark. No matter how it clawed, those remained his. For now.

A ghost of a smile stretched across the teen's battered features; although forced, it was a brittle thing, and challenging to hold. More painful than the silence that threatened him every time he would cease speaking

“I still have the holocard you gave me,” he said, averting himself slightly, shielding something soft one final time. “From the bazaar.. back on Korriban.”

 

[Danger Arceneau]

The silence that followed his words wasn't empty. It hung thick in the air between them, heavy with all the things said and all the things he didn't yet know how to say.

Danger didn't rush to fill it.

She never did.

Instead, she let the moment breathe, her emerald fire gaze steady on the boy in the medicbed, though there was precious little of the boy left in him now.

Her fingers moved slow and deliberate as she reached into her purse for a small white aurodium rectangular case. The cigarillo case was worth more than a system's annual budget but it was a tried and true heirloom from her grandaddy. A flick of her thumb, the case snapped open, and a fine row of carefully rolled vices thick with carsunum and spiced tobacco were neatly packed in.

She plucked one out, before returning her gaze to Lysander. Her eyes softened, then Queen of Trade offered in turn regarding his apology, "Pay it no mind, Lysander. Reckon we all lash out a time or two," She added, her lips partin' around a low, throaty drawl that carried more warmth than the spiceleaf ever could.

"And I hear what you say 'bout crashin' hard enough to keep folk from pickin' at what's left. I've seen that trick before."

Danger gave that cigarillo a quick tap against the case. While his admission that she'd is the only one he'd want to be here right now sent a aching warmth through the older woman in motherly affection at how lost he seemed, but also didn't want to smother him.

"Used to believe it myself. But it don't work like that. Folk either come lookin' because they care… or because they want what's still burnin' in the wreckage."

She paused, not for drama, but for weight, that drawl flowing thick with genuine empathy and an expression that suffered no fools. He might very well be in a path she didn't agree with, but she wasn't going to fault him for it when he was at his lowest. Decades of negotiations and keen business sense gave the Queen of Trade enough sense to know when to push and when to nudge and when to leave be.

What Lysander needed now was to know that someone was still in his corner. Danger was more than willing to give him that.

"I'm here because I care," she said simply. "And no, I am not your master. I ain't blood. But mama used to say, blood don't mean much if the soul won't show up for supper...Sometimes, we find kin in the crash."

Her gaze narrowed slightly, not out of judgment, but from the ache she kept buried just below her polished poise. How much more to say?

"Whatever you've done... it don't scare me. Done a fair share of more than questionable acts myself if you want to swap stories. And if you still have my business card... well reckon that meant somewhere deep down inside, you figured you'd might need it someday."

She rose from her seat then, that full hipped slow amble taking her right to the side of Lysander von Ascania 's bed. There, like the mother hen she was, Danger took her free hand to gently push back some wayward locks of Lysnders' blond hair away from his face. If he allowed her, she'd do it once more. It wasn't meant to offend or baby him, but as a gesture of honest frettin' and a desire to provide a token of a physical act of empathy.

"So I am not gonna walk away, Lysander. Not just because it's hard. And not because you're scared I'll see the damage. I already do. And I'm still here."

Her emerald eyes found his lone, bruised, and swollen jade eye again.

"And I reckon I'll still be here tomorrow."

Because some fires weren't meant to be put out.

Some were meant to be watched over.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

​

Her words hung over him much like the smoke from the cigarillos; some bitter, some sweet, but they all dug into him; not in the way a blade could, but truths that were impossible to ignore.

Under the medbay’s lighting, his eye flicked briefly down at the rectangle of the case. When the flame lit another stick, it sparked something else, memories buried beneath his purple hued skin. The scent of carsunum didn’t just fill his nose, it threatened to dull the edges of his palate, like something bitter blooming on his tongue. It wasn’t unfamiliar, though far from his own vice with its distinct, skunky odor. That one had once been comfort, stemming from curiosity, and recently a necessity to soothe the body under the grind of relentless training.

When Danger's hand extended, her touch was delicate, brushing back strands of hair plastered to his brow, he did not flinch. The exhaustion pulsing through his veins dulled all reflexes, cocooning him in numbness, hardly aware of his surroundings. Though she sat at his side, close enough for him to feel the heat of her presence, her contact held an ethereal quality.. gentle yet distant. It traced a path of compassion that felt almost maternal, raw with honesty, and barely recognizable. He hadn’t felt anything of the like since he was a child on Ukatis.

In truth, Lysander wasn't even sure how to respond to such tenderness. Still, his body betrayed him. Unconsciously, his head tilted towards her palm, seeking solace. It wasn't a plea, nor was it a surrender.. it was a recognition of safety, of her nearness, of someone who truly cared.

But beneath that caress, somewhere in the depths of his beating heart, guilt coiled like a venomous entity, and he found himself apologizing to the ghost of Sibylla; for even now, with a fractured psyche, he knew that no other girl should ever touch him, for her image was already branded upon his soul.

And he wished it to be eternal, like the ancient fables still told on Naboo.

A whisper slithered through his mind; he dared to not show it, for hurting the tradeswoman now only mean hurting himself. The acolyte's lone gaze drifted closed for a long breath, projecting visions in his mind's eye. Unlike most boys his age, who chased girls for sport, for ego, for some kind of proof, he only craved stillness with the Junior Representative. To just sit quietly beside her, to hold her hand, and simply exist.

That was his deepest desire.

When his eye opened next, it was the slowness of something slowly drowning, like his soul didn't wish to surface. With a mind still recalibrating the fragile state of reality, he began to take in the light once more, catching the surroundings as they registered piece by piece. Some images were blurred by the smoke that continued rising toward the ceiling.

Another realization began to settle; this one was soft, but full, acknowledging that he welcomed Danger without consent from a mind that seldom dared to let someone close. For many, this would not be a grand gesture of sorts, but to Lysander, it became a tremor deep in his core.

The voice that eventually emerged from his lips was ragged, as though it had to claw its way past so many unsaid words. For those around him more often, it may have even sounded like it belonged to a different person entirely. But as he did, he met her gaze once more, without any need for an exit, or distraction. "I used to believe that family was simply about blood. That it meant being seen, protected." A touch of bitterness crept into his tone, laced with sadness, maybe even longing. "But my blood now..they..he..would never let me rot. The Tsis'Kaar would stretch against the entire galaxy for me. But that doesn't lessen anything. It's still you I'd choose..right here, right now."

The teen's gaze drifted downwards, his fingers twitching faintly. "I didn't just bury the holocard in an old book or something.. even if I only saw you a few times, maybe twice, I knew you were someone I could look up to. Not for power, not for credits.. but something steady. And for someone like me.. that was rare" His jaw tightened, not out of anger, but out of the struggle to keep emotions in check. "I never forgot, Danger. Korriban just keeps me busy, keeps me bruised, but most importantly.. sharp."

Beneath the monitor, his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the first time since awakening.

“I didn’t mean to let you get close. Not like this.” A pause before something softer, like a confession; perhaps, it was easier, when he knew she wouldn’t judge him. “But you did. And I think.. I think that means you’re family. Or I guess as close as I’ll ever understand it.”

The same hand he’d been staring down at, markings along the knuckles, shifted. The motion was slow; Lysander was a creature unaccustomed to this kind of warmth. But he was drawn to it, nonetheless. He reached out, hovering, not directly for her, but for what she was holding. "Left my own sticks back in the locker room.” The corners of his mouth twitched, realizing just a hint of wit may have survived the wreckage after all. "And they definitely smell better. No worries though; my virgin lungs also died on Korriban.”

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Interacting with: Lysander von Ascania
| Dress x | x | x | x | x | x | X | X |

​

Danger didn't challenge Lysander's words about Korriban and staying sharp. But she saw it. Saw the way his jaw tightened not with fire, but the tremble of a boy holding the dam back with both hands. She let that silence linger, let him have the dignity of it. No pryin'. No pushin'.

It was easy to see that a lot was going on here between what Lysander was revealing and what went unsaid. It was all there betwixt the ragged voice, the pauses, the tremor in his voice, and the way his verdant gaze kept drifting from side to side.

So in that moment when Lysander lent his head towards the lingering caress of Danger sliding her fingers over his hair in a cafune, the Queen of Trade saw at the core the lost little boy who was aching a mighty fierce need for affection.

No, not just affection, affirmation that he was still worth something. That he was okay to rest in that motherly caress should he wish it, knowing that Danger wasn't going to be causing him any harm.

So she watched him.

Not with pity. Never that. No, the look she gave Lysander now was something steadier, anchored. Like she was taking stock not of the brokenness he carried, but the strength it had taken to keep from shattering all the way through.

So while she pulled her hand back, she let it linger near like a quiet tether for someone drifting too long without gravity.

Which was why when Lysander went reaching over not for comfort but for the vice in her other hand with that little flicker of wit rising from the wreckage like a cinder that refused to go cold, that's when the corner of her mouth tugged. Not a full smile, no. But something real.

"Well," Danger murmured in a throaty amused drawl, emerald eyes dancing with distinct glint as she tapped off the excess ash before taking a drag, "ain't that just like a man... bleedin' at the seams, tryin' not to holler, and still askin' for a smoke like it's gonna fix his lungs."

Might not be the best thing to offer a teenager with hands rent from lightning, but Danger was willing to offer him something to help him put some pep in his step again. Spicey blue smoke was shot out of the corner of her mouth before she leaned closer to bring the Carsunum stick with practiced grace upon Lysander's lips.

"You ain't wrong, this is bit on the clovey side, but reckon it has more than 'nough Carsunum to get you feeling a bit perkier. Shouldn't wreck what you are already takin' seein' as it's what folk call medicinal." A twist of full lips and then the mischievous upward cant of her mouth.

"'posedly." her honeyed voice sang while she waited until he got a few good puffs in his lungs before pulling it back, taking a hit herself before jutting the smoke out of her mouth towards the ceiling in an amused twist of her full lips.

"Though I've a mind to wonder just what kind of lunaweed rot you've got skunkin' any locker." she joked, only to mull onto a more thoughtful expression. She took another drag of her cigarillo and added in that husky intonation of hers.

"Well... seems like blood or no, you found yourself some folk you've a mind that will stand by you." She continued, although while she didn't say thank you for saying he'd rather her be here with him now, the way her expression continued to look at him with affection only a mother could give explained it plainly.

This is what happened when the Queen of Trade couldn't stop her instinct to mother or fret.

She leaned back, letting her elbow rest on the arm of the chair, one leg crossing over the other with a casual poise. Smoke coiled from the end of her own cigarillo in slow spirals, curlin' lazy toward the sterile ceiling tiles overhead.

"I've had kin who wouldn't spit on me if I were on fire. Had enemies who dragged me outta worse places than this, just 'cause they saw somethin' worth savin'. So you say I'm what counts for family in your book?"

Those feline green eyes settled back upon him, softened by the firelight of her soul and the years she'd weathered alone, the corner of her mouth curving upward.

"I'll take it."

She didn't say thank you. Didn't need to. The weight in her voice said enough.

"But for now," Danger continued, her warm drawl tilting toward a business tone with a dusting of care still clinging to the edges, "I reckon we oughta get you fixed up proper."

Her gaze slid to his bandaged arms, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact as she added, "This medbay's serviceable, sure, but it ain't got the muscle nor the finesse to get you back to fightin' shape. You need more than bacta packs and basic scans."

The hand holding that lit vice with two fingers aloft gestured towards the bandage wrappings around his hands and arms.

"Those burns'll leave you marked up worse than the Jundland Wastes after a windstorm. And that lightshow you put on?" A slight arch of her brow. "You didn't just tap into the current, you tore through it. That kind of fire's got a price."

Her voice dipped a little there, a flicker of something behind her eyes. Experience, a memory, maybe regret. She knew all too well the kind of wreckage raw power left behind when it wasn't reined in.

"But I know a place or two that can set you right," she continued, tone smoothing again. "Folks who know their way 'round damage that don't always show up on a scan."

Just then, the faint buzz of her comm broke through the quiet. She slid it from her dress pocket with practiced ease, thumb already sweeping across the display. Aeri.

Of course.

She fired off a quick reply.

[ He's alive. Needs full transport prep. Expect us soon. ]

A flick of her wrist sent the message off, and she glanced up, eyes peering at him over the rim of the comm like a woman who hadn't forgotten a single detail and well used to taking charge unless someone stopped her -- which few were ever foolish enough to when she got her mind fixated on something.

Dark brows arched up in interest, voice floating over to Lysander as if she were already checking off ticks of her list.

"You mentioned a locker. Where is it?" she asked, her fingers already gliding across the comm's interface.

"I'll have Aeri swing by, pick up what's yours before someone with sticky fingers decides to pawn it for drink credits."

She didn't wait for thanks. Didn't need it.

This was just what family did.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

​

Danger's fingers served as a soft reminder of her presence, threading through strands in a way that made his head tilt forward. Amidst the agony at the back of his skull, it was hard to deny that this rare moment of submission was perhaps the only thing that made all else tolerable. It was the only sensation that didn't cut deeper. Part of him, may have even been terrified at the thought of her vanishing now.

With the same hand still close, he glanced at it through one eye before lowering his gaze to the bandages wrapped around his palms and arms.

He was grateful to simply be alive, a small flicker of gratitude burning within.

The acolyte's lips brushed against the tip of the cigarillo, the ember casting sparks of warmth. As he breathed in the smoke, it sliced through his senses, harsher than his own personal vice. But he welcomed it, pulling deeper into the lungs. His vision blurred for a moment. Looking up to the woman, he flashed his most affectionate smile since waking from the dark slumber, smoke curling upward from pearly teeth.

A chord within his soul was struck, and with it, echoes surfaced, whispering a name that was impossible to escape.

Sibylla.

The image of the girl he had fallen for now lingered like a ghost, soft and persistent. Perhaps denial wasn't so cruel; besides, he did say during their holocall that he was willing to bleed in order to see her again. Little did he know that the fire within, the same fire that ignited his passions, would consume him, scorching all but his face. Another weight threatened to crush him. Six weeks of preparation, pushing his limits, only to end up here.. battered from a fight that lasted only minutes.

Every detail pressed into his ribs.

His attention suddenly snapped back to Danger's comm. Half mirth, half grimace, he wore the look well. "Section 7-B," he said quietly, firmly. "Right next to the sparring hall." Hesitation ensued for a beat. "I do need my datapad. There is someone I was expecting here," he admitted, voice frayed. "Not necessarily at the arena, just.. Ruusan.. this system." Another ragged breath escaped; they were becoming heavier. "Sibylla. Junior Rep. Naboo." His emerald gaze flicked towards a corner of the room, purposely avoiding Danger's gaze.

Something close to a confession touched the edge of his throat, with too many truths still guarded. Maybe it was her presence that beckoned them forth.

In the depths of his heart, Lysander believed that by the girl seeing him compete in the Kaggath, she might at last possess a glimpse of the drive that propelled him ever forward. Though he may have wanted her, there was a strong need to prove his worthiness, to show that he was becoming someone worthy of being believed in.

The Carsunum spice coursed through his veins; it was a mixture of euphoria and numbness that hit harder than any Korriban sandstorm. His gaze found its way back to the only presence beside him. A broken grin teased against the bruises, followed by a wince, while imbued with tenderness that only a few had known from the blonde. "Glad you didn't bother checking my references before accepting my family application, Ms. Danguerese. Now you're stuck with me." His voice dipped. "But Aeri would be wise to keep her nose out of my datapad. There's romantic letters on it could level entire planets and bring the Republic to its knees with their emotional pressure and Mid-Rim level prose."

The teen’s chin tipped, a faint glint of wit shining through the haze at last. "And anyway.. I'm already taken." A thumb swept across a bandage, as if her name were etched beneath it. "I just hope she still wants me.. with a few extra scars.”

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Interacting with: Lysander von Ascania
| Dress x | x | x | x | x | x | X | X |

​

Danger caught the name like a scent on the wind -- Sibylla. It was in the way Lysander said it all low and quiet, as if speakin' it too loud might shatter the fragile world he was still piecin' back together. And that look? The one he gave the corner of the room rather than her?

Oh, she knew that look.

That was the look of a boy carryin' love like a secret scar that was tender, hidden, and still raw. Kept all tied up and caught like a mynock in a power relay in it.

One right brow rose slightly as she finished tapping the message off to Aeri, a little swipe of her thumb against the small display as she sent the Zeltron the information for the locker on Section 7-B. But she didn't comment regarding that tidbit yet. Just let the silence stretch long enough for him to breathe through it, to offer up what pieces of truth he was ready to part with.

And when he did?

Well, that slow, and knowing smile of hers curved over her full lips before she took another drag of her cigarillo, leaving a lazy trail of Carsunum smoke to drift past the medbay lights.

"Sibylla," she echoed, her husky, honeyed voice drawling out the name like a glass of something sweet, but just shy of too much. "Junior Representative of Naboo, you say?"

Danger let out a thoughtful soft, amused low hum at that. She turned just slightly in her chair, the glow from her cigarillo catching the gold flecks in her emerald fire green eyes to watch him with the patience of a woman who'd seen more than her fair share of hearts tangled up in impossible threads.

"Well..." she said at last, tapping the ash off the edge of her cigarillo, "considerin' just how public that little firework show of yours was, if that girl's got even a flicker of feelin' for you, I'd wager she's currently pacin' a durasteel floor somewhere like a nexu with its tail on fire."

Her smile widened with a touch of fondness.

"Or she's puttin' in a priority holonet call to every port between here and Theed City."

She didn't press him further, didn't need to. The name had weight. And she saw it, clear as day.

This one wasn't just a crush. This was the kind of name that stuck to your ribs. The kind that made a man throw himself headfirst into a ring and call it proof. So when he leaned into that wit of his, that crooked little smile blooming through bruises like a weed refusin' to die, Danger's heart ached in that subtle, quiet way only someone who'd cared too many times could know.

With an almost casual grace, Danger extended her commlink toward him, the screen unlocked and offered without hesitation, intending for him to use it so she could reach out.

"Well?" she asked, tone soft but sure. "What's her comm number?"

That smile of hers curved up in a mischievous but elegant way of hers, encouraging but never mocking.

"Somethin' tells me you've got it memorized. You want her to know you're still breathin'? Let's give her more than rumors and recaps from arena feeds."

And then, almost offhand, she added, "Now don't you worry -- ain't no poetry stored in that comm. I leave the dramatic prose to you Mid-Rim types."

She winked then, leaning forward as her voice dipped into something conspiratorial.

"But access codes to fund half a dozen colonies across Wild Space? That's another story." She took a slow drag, flicking the ash without ever losing the rhythm of her tone. "But I reckon you'll be too busy recoverin' to steal galactic assets, though."

Her fingers brushed his bandaged wrist one more time in a gentle reminder.

"I don't scare easy, Lysander. And if this Sibylla of yours is half the firebrand I suspect she is to keep up with you… she won't either."

A second passed before she let him have another hit of the vice to steel his nerves should he need it.

"But just in case… let's give her somethin' to hold on to."

And with that, she offered the comm again, intending to dial in the comm number for him.

"Go on. Call her."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

​

Lysander’s entire existence stiffened at the repetition of the name. Every muscle wound tight. At first his gaze flickered back to a shadowed corner of the room, eyes now glazed and clearly unfocused. Next, memories came crashing through the corridors of his fractured mind like shattered pieces of shards.. and broken promises, for reasons he could never name. The dull throb behind his vision was a reminder of pain that even spice could not fully dull.

But beneath that physical torment still lay a sharper sting: the weight of guilt. The bitter burden of knowing she had been watching, witnessing him exposed and raw.. and worse, his own failure... the cruel verdict on his performance.

It was suffocating.

It was also like a system override. The blonde’s body wasn’t just reacting.. it was remembering.

For all the chaos churning inside, Lysander found himself mulling over something he didn’t quite understand.. how Danger, the woman before him, was so invested in this name, a name that held so much power over him. But perhaps it was simpler than he realized, a small piece of understanding within the wreckage he’d become.

Even so, the thought processed all the same, nestling in the recesses of his mind. When earlier he vowed silently to himself never to hurt the tradeswoman again, the promise wasn’t just careless words. It was a raw truth embedded within his soul. The agony he felt, pulsing with every beat of his heart, could not take that away from him.

So, wrapped in silence, he stared blankly at the glow of the cigarillo between the woman's fingers, the smoke curling upward. The room’s lighting had begun to dim.

“Y-Yes… Sibyll-a…”

It’d been easy to make light of the current situation, in a way that’d come normal. Perhaps, he’d just been dancing on the edges of pain like a dare, for the moment his thumb grazed the holo key, Lysander’s breath caught. A bright flash cut through his skull, and the dull behind his vision turned into a piercing scream, reminding him of the very one before the Force Lightning burned him.

All humor fled his features; even his bruised cheeks were burning, an inferno that only reminded him of weakness. The edges of the commlink began swimming in and out of his focus.

His eyebrows lifted lightly as the questions began wrapping him like a tightening noose. Gaze casting downward, he traced the commlink, the device only inches from his face. The glow from its screen illuminated his face. Had it been any closer, he might have tasted the tang of metal.

Slowly, his focus lifted, like a wounded Tuk’ata from the ground, and met the woman’s stare with unintended intensity. In the depths of those orbs, something flickered, a spark of defiance, a trace of the fire he'd been taught to wield during his time as a Sith.

Pain is clarity. Let me bleed the numbers in.

Forced to lean in slightly, the bloodied wraps around his wrist bit into raw skin.

The room's constant hum was more audible than his own voice, forcing him to pull it from the ash.

“Peace may be a lie..” he whispered, then pausing, his lips parted, requiring breath that didn’t come easily now. “But purpose isn’t.”

The last word scraped against his throat, and his fingers twitched. “She lives in that purpose,” he murmured. “It’s in how she smiles at me.. like my armor never existed.. Past the scars, past the fire, past every lie I ever told myself. I need her more than ever.”

He never would've thought that something as simple as entering digits would be a task that required so much concentration and willpower.

But it wasn’t impossible; now, he was reaching for clarity in the fog. And with Danger’s support, it was easy to surrender, as her presence was like a lighthouse in the storm. Without much choice, he let go of the facade of control he so often crafted. One digit, and one breath at a time.

"Four.." he continued, his thumb quivering as he braced for the touch, knowing it would send a jolt of pain straight through him. "Four.. One.. Seven." Each syllable was a battle, each number bringing waves of nausea and the narrowing of his sight. Sweat beaded at his brow as he forced out the final numbers. "Two.. Nine.. Four."

A chirping tone pulsed from the commlink.

The call was going through.

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Interacting with: Lysander von Ascania
| Dress x | x | x | x | x | x | X | X |

​

At first, Danger wasn't sure she was seeing what she was seeing, but sure 'nuff, her eyes narrowed in growing disbelief as she watched that half-burned, barely conscious teenager start reciting numbers like a damn protocol droid with something to prove.

Oh, no. Nono no.... don't you dare…

But he was doing it. He was really doin' it.

There he was trembling like a wire ready to snap, that bandaged thumb of his hovering over each button before pressing down, pushing past the pain, past common sense, past the basic medical logic that maybe dialing a comm code through a third-degree concussion wasn't the brightest idea this side of a podrace crash.

And still… number by number, word by ragged word, he bled them out like each digit was carved from his ribs.

Danger's full lips pressed into a line so tight it could've cut glassteel. And while she didn't say anything yet, the storm rollin' behind those emerald fire eyes said plenty.

Of all the gorram, Nine Hells fueled, blasted reckless things to do... what in the blue blazin' Core was he thinkin'?

And yet, Danger bit her tongue.

Yellin' at him now would've been like shoutin' at a wounded nexu tryin' to drag itself outta the fire. Ain't no good could come from it, just more pain, more mess. By all accounts, he wasn't defying her, even if he mistook her intent. He was trying. And Void help her, she couldn't rightly blame him for that.

She'd done her own fair share of stubborn bloodied fool reactions fueled by sheer spite or a particularly mighty fierce need to prove her damn worth.

So when Danger finally managed to collect herself to say something to Lysander, each word was said low and slow, wrapped in the drawl of smoke and restraint, yet coated with concern and attentiveness of a mother nonetheless.

"…You silly fool," she murmured, the words drawn out with that throaty Tatooine lilt of hers, checking him over to see if he was okay. "I could've dialed that for you myself."

Seeing the pale hue of his face, Danger rose, taking with the motion a slow and steady drag from her cigarillo sharp enough to make that ember tip glow like the last flare of a warning light before an engine's shutdown. She shook her head, clucking her tongue and exhaling the smoke through her nose as if that might take some of the sharp edge off the way her nerves were grinding.

"I'll get the medic to top you off with a pain stim," she added, her tone dipping quieter, firmer now.

"You're runnin' on fumes and stubbornness, and while I admire the hell outta that, I'd rather not watch you pass out mid-holo-call just 'cause you wanted to impress your girl."

She didn't say Sibylla again. That girl was clearly important to him. And from the way he'd was acting with all the desperation of a dying man callin' home…

Well, Danger knew better than to stomp on a devotion like that, even if it made her want to wrap him in a blanket and lock him in a bacta tank until he saw reason.

With a quiet sigh, the Queen of Trade stepped back from the bed, her heels clicking gently against the floor as that full-hipped amble took her toward the call button. At least fingers were steady, even if her jaw wasn't.

She gave a quick press to the medic alert with one hand while lifting the other to catch the edge of her cigarillo again, letting the Carsunum calm her just enough to keep from cussin' at the medical staff next.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

"I'll see you on Ruusan."

That's what she told him. What she'd promised him.

And this wasn't how she had ever expected it to turn out.

~}| * |{~​

Please, please, please. Please pick up.

That was the singular mantra Sibylla had been chanting over and over as the teenager kept trying to reach Lysander von Ascania 's holocomm for Shiraya's sake, knowing how long it had been since Lysander had disappeared from the fighting platform.

Sibylla's heart had been hammering through most of the match, breath held every time Lysander stumbled. She kept whispering to herself that he'd was okay, that he said he'd be okay. That he would survive this. But then came the moment that seemed to snatch her very heart from her chest in horror.

It happened too fast. The lights flared, sparks flew from his very hands in a way that cracked living lightning in savage arcs too bright for her to see; she had to shield her eyes ...and Lysander was suddenly gone from the ring.

How her stomach had sunk and her heart leaped in her throat, choking her as the sudden influx of uttered low pleas went, "No... no no nono no."

She stood without meaning, eyes wide as the spot where he'd stood moments before vanished in her mind like shattered glass. There was a sickening stretch of silence that clamped around her chest before instinct surged up like fire.

Hands came up to cover her mouth, shock etched over her features as the fight was called -- the droid the winner. But she couldn't see him, couldn't see where he went much less where his body now lay.

The rest was a blur and time lost all shape after that. Sibylla tried calling him through the comm -- once, twice, then again. It rang. And rang. Then went to holomail. Over and over. Nothing. Not a single answer.

Between the futile attempts to reach him and trying to find out where he could've gone through the Kaggath overseers, she got nowhere. She wasn't on Naboo. She had no diplomatic leverage here, no name that opened doors. And certainly not the credits to bribe her way through the administrative machine.

Every attempt to reach the contestant quarters ended the same, block after block, because she didn't have the appropriate credentials or credits.

And for the first time, Sibylla felt utterly helpless.

"Look, I just need to know if he's okay. Where would the injured contestants go?" she asked, voice low but tight as she confronted one of the guards, her face barely visible under the dark, muted, asymmetrical hooded jacket she wore.

The Nikto guard barely spared her a glance. "Told you already. Get back. We don't need more thirstin' credit grubbin' groupies makin' a grab for the fighters."

"That isn't what I --"

"Scram," he snapped, shoving her back with a sharp hand to the shoulder. Sibylla stumbled, knee-high boots skidding against the ground, barely catching herself on a passing pedestrian.

Her stomach twisted. She couldn't stand not knowing. Couldn't bear the silence. She needed help....and fast.

There were only a few people she could call who might be able to do something, but none of them would offer their favors freely.

Feeling her emotions crash and blindside her in a way she hadn't experienced before, Sibylla had to remind herself to remain calm and rational about this. But she couldn't help the way her fingers trembled, or how her throat felt as if it was caught choking on a knot.

Breathe. Just Breathe.

After another second, Sibylla ducked into the narrow shadow of a side alley and flipped open her holocomm, thumb hovering as she tried to decide who to reach out to.

And just as she was about to make her decision, it rang.

Sibylla froze.

The incoming call glowed in pale blue, the identity hidden behind an encrypted veil. It wasn't a number she recognized.

Her eyes widened. This was her personal encrypted line. Only a few trusted contacts had it. Which meant…

Either someone she knew had rerouted from a different number...

Or...

Her breath hitched as adrenaline shot through her veins, quickly deactivated the hologram filter shielding her face and she answered the call, her heart hammering in her head.

Please. Let it be...

The holocomm flickered to life in a burst of static-blue light, casting soft shadows against the duracrete walls around her. And then there she was.

Or rather, the pale projected shimmer of Sibylla, her face drawn tight with worry and blanched as if the color had been drained from her face. There was exhaustion etched into every angle of her projection. Exhaustion, and something far more raw beneath it.

A hope that was straining not to shatter.

"Lysander?"

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau | Sibylla Abrantes

​

A flinch rippled through the acolyte’s body whenever those two words, silly fool, slipped from the tradeswoman’s lips, the reflex born not of thought, but of muscle memory, not some type of protective shield, but more like a slap to the face amidst the fog. The vertebrae in his neck screamed in protest as it twisted, just enough to lock onto her.

His brow then arched, a crusty twitch that was far from casual. The pain stabbed him all the same, but this was an acknowledgement for him to say, ‘Hey, I heard that!’

With that, came the next storm of emotions, all mingling into something bitter that just overtaxed his system easily.

A sudden chirp from the commlink, brought him back, his heart pounding at the thought Sibylla may have overheard this exchange. Guilt touched his conscience; he didn’t want to bring her anymore suffering.

Then it finally arrived, a note of irritation boiling over as she continued. "Damn, lady.. you're really out of your fethin' mind now." The threat of a pain stim would be the tipping point, igniting a fire inside him that grew with the memories of his training at the academy on Uaktis, and the etiquette of House Derriphan of Korriban. It was an invasion, an assault on everything he had ever been taught.

A barrage of curses begged to erupt from his cracked lips.

He could've easily told her he was more likely to die from the secondhand smoke she brought.

Breathing through ribs that protested like they were cracked, as they surely were, he felt hollowed out, exhaustion pooling in every sinew, which, in truth, was a testament to the accuracy of her last statement.

“If I’m a fool.. and you’re still bettin’ on me, who’s crazier?” A ghost of a smile flashed, maybe the first spark of who he used to be, remembered through the beloved Holodramas. It was only fitting for someone like Lysander. “Actually.. wait. You called me a fool and still stayed. That’s basically love in most of the series I watch,” he drawled.

Through the haze, his eyes found Danger; trying to outmaneuver her was pointless. But he didn’t have to. Something in her sharpness tugged at a version of him rarely seen. And honestly, it was one he didn’t really mind all that much.

“And guess what.. I think you're cool too!”

But if she looked close enough, past all the nonsense he kept spewing, she’d catch the gleam of admiration; this was the same shimmer from back on Naboo, when he’d followed her instruction without ever questioning it.

With the last of his strength, he lunged forward; searing pain shot through both arms as fingers closed around the commlink. It would be wrenched free. Droplets of blood began to stain the device. He straightened, barely, and not without strained effort. One free hand landed upon his chest, brushing over the bruised bones. The one beneath his eye pulsed in sync with the organ thudding under his tunic.

“But you don’t get to just patch me up and just throw me back into the fire. Please.. just trust me, damn it.”

His jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to that plea that worked its way into the heat of his gaze.

Another familiar voice would serve as the next anchor.

Perfect timing.

“Lysander?”

Still, his focus never wavered from the woman across from him, who’d become his biggest support in the aftermath of the Kaggath match. The corners of his mouth twitched in some ironic display, as if admitting the Junior Representative possessed some kind of sorcery over him. However it worked, however it held, he wanted to keep it.

“Sibylla,” he breathed softly, the name like a whisper of warmth in winter.

Whatever thoughts stirred in Danger’s mind, were met with an affirmation, found in Lysander’s friendly wink, a quiet nod, saying she was right.

He didn't care whether she stayed or smoked another cigarillo in the room. There was nothing to hide; he'd have declared his feelings for the girl to an entire planet if need be.

Part of him wanted that even.

Before another word could be spoken into existence, he let his form collapse back onto the bed, limbs sprawling outward. Surrendering to exhaustion, he cradled the commlink against his chest like something sacred.. every shared moment with her was.

The boy’s jaw tightened while trying to stay composed. "I'm sorry you saw that. Saw me like that." His words dragged out, slow but raw. One hand twitched against the bed, wanting to be useful, to prove to himself even that there was still strength. The thumb, brushing circles against the sheets, was like tracing the outlines of all the regrets settling upon him now. "I wanted you to see something better. I wanted you to be proud.. not worried." He swallowed; the motion hurt. "But it’s me.. so here we are." A sigh escaped, and his grip on the commlink loosened.

He didn’t let go.

He couldn’t.

"You see better in me than I do."

That admission tasted bitter. But it was real.

“Where are you?”

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Interacting with: Lysander von Ascania
| Dress x | x | x | x | x | x | X | X |

​

Danger blinked once, twice, and then again, giving the sort of slow double take a woman gives when the 'Verse tilts left and one ain't sure whether to laugh, curse, or shake her heading disbelief.

That damn fool boy all bruised, half cooked, still smellin' faintly of ozone and damn lunacy had the blasted audacity to sass her right back. And not just a little, but full on battered but standing with that Force damned cheek of his.

The corner of Danger's mouth twitched and she gave such a sharp exhale out of her lungs in a rush that might of passed for a laugh if it hadn't curled into something like disbelief. Perfectly arched brows rose high almost as if her patience had physically lifted with them, but there was no bite to the words that followed.

"Ohh..." she said slowly, drawl thick as molasses on the rim of the finest Corellian Whyren's lowball glass, smoke twisting from the corner of her mouth towards the ceiling, "you ain't seen me fethin' outta my gorram mind yet, my sweet summer child."

Her lips curled into a half smile, one side quirked just enough to let him know he'd scored a shot. Didn't mean he was safe, just meant she respected the swing.

Course, the boy had to volley with that holodrama line and that made her snort, a single breath of amused disbelief caught behind pearly teeth and exasperation.

There were precious few in this galaxy bold enough to talk back to the Queen of Trade, fewer still who did it not to earn favor, but to stand their ground. To be seen. And in her book, that earned a mark of respect that no amount of etiquette or rank could buy.

Still, he was hurt and bad at that. So he could complain to the Nine Hells regarding her ordering of a pain stim, she wasn't gonna pay it no mind.

"Ain't sayin' I don't trust you," she said, her voice lower now, gentler, but no less firm. "Just sayin' there's no shame in wantin' to sit without seein' stars. Your tolerance for pain ain't in question. It's your need to prove it right now I got beef with."

She leveled him a look then all calm steel as she nodded towards his bleeding hands. Those were gonna need rewrapping, something she'd tell the medic to do once he was done with his call.

"Save that grit for when it counts. You already bled more'n enough for one day."

That was when the holoscreen lit and when that girl of his flickering blue image came into view -- oh, the way the boy changed.

The tension seemed to drain right out of him, just enough to expose the raw nerves underneath as he flopped on back onto the pillows. He looked like a man starin' through a viewport at a sunrise he thought he'd never see again.

Danger's smile shifted once more, but it wasn't a sly nor amused one, but one of knowing. Turning towards the ashtray, the woman snuffed out the cigarillo with a soft hiss and a precise flick of her wrist.

And much like that wink Lysander tossed her earlier, she flashed one right back, lips quirkin' in silent acknowledgment. For now though, it was time to let the boy have his moment of privacy.

She didn't hover nor monologue; she just picked up the wireless medic comm from the tray and crossed the room with that full-hipped amble of hers before pausing beside the bed to lay the device right next to his hand.

"You holler if you need anythin'," she murmured, a quiet promise in her voice.

But as his voice cracked all soft with apology and a bruised pride worse than his ribs, she felt it in her chest like a slow, familiar ache. Not pity. No. This was something deeper. Something earned.

So before he could get to furthering explaining himself, Danger turned and stepped out of the room and left him to say the words that mattered.

There were some vulnerabilities and truths that a man didn't need no audience for.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Even though the projection was small, Sibylla couldn't help but notice the extent of Lysander von Ascania 's injuries. Her breath caught in her throat, making it hard to swallow, as if a crashing ocean wave had hit her. Relief collided with concern. Affection warred with frustration that he had put himself through this. Longing twisted against the desperation to see him face-to-face.

What won out in the end was just the sheer relief that he was okay and that she was finally able to talk to him. See him. Even if it was only through a projection.

"Thank Shiraya you're alive," she whispered. The ache and vulnerability in her voice were evident as it trembled. Sibylla could feel the sting of tears gathering behind her eyes, tears she had to command herself to hold back, clutching at a decade of political training with both hands just to keep from turning into a watering pot right then and there.

Not here. Not now.

But her lower lip quivered anyway as she saw Lysander do his best to keep himself composed but still trying to apologize for it all. Again, the need to cup his face and check his injuries if he was alright rose to the fore.

She shook her head from side to side, adding that as of right now, pride in him or not, wasn't important; it was that he was alive and well.

"I'm just glad you are safe -- where are you?" she asked, just as the blonde also inquired regarding her own whereabouts. Sibylla glanced around the alleyway towards the crowd still cheering on the current round of competitors, trying to focus, to ground herself in her surroundings. He was alive, and that mattered more than anything else.

"Rusaan. Not far from the competitors' quarters… I was trying to see if I could come in and see you, or just know if you were okay…

Her voice faltered, but then pushed forward again.

"But I couldn't even get past the guard… and then when you didn't pick up your comm…" She swallowed hard -- couldn't even finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Her worst assumptions on how that fight turned out hovered heavy and unsaid between them.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau | Sibylla Abrantes

​

Lysander's gaze flickered toward Sibylla's projection; it was unsteady, like his very breath. He felt trapped between memory and illusion, his mind wavering like something delicate, taunting his now fragile mind.

“Sibylla..” He said it again, but it was more than just a whisper this time; it was a confession, and he let the name reside on his tongue like a prayer, as if he needed to breathe it just to stay alive.

More voices echoed like whispers slithered through the room.

No matter what he saw, heard, or was simply imagining, none of it could dull the sharpness of her features; if anything, it intensified it, like a star... one of the billions that separated them for so long.

And he knew then, with certainty, that nothing could ever diminish the way the Junior Representative had imprinted on him since their holocall only days prior.

That surreal moment had been like a dream too perfect to be true.. a wish finally fulfilled.

Now, every shift of her posture and voice revealed itself in detail. The entire scene was drenched in an ethereal glow.

Through the haze of confusion, he pressed on, fueled by determination that burned like liquid fire, every moment with her precious, something he clung to fiercly with primal instinct. And as the young Sith looked into her hazel eyes, familiar and distant at the same time, he realized her lips were moving.. mouthing something he couldn't hear or couldn't understand.

His expression moved. "You always slip away from me.. Pl-" but then he stopped, as if the word itself had been violently ripped from his essence on Korriban. And yet, he couldn't help but try to say it once.

"Pl-," he choked on the syllable.

Digits twitched, aching to reach out, not just toward the screen, but toward the real Sibylla, just as their previous holocall.

His pride had held strong with walls he once believed to be impenetrable; yet, just looking at her, noticing the concern, shattered his defenses.

"There's still so much I have to say," he finally managed to whisper.

Like a thread being severed, his focus finally tore away from her, drawn instead by the echoing cheers beyond the door before him, a cruel reminder that the Kaggath was still playing out. A hand ghosted down to his bandaged arms; the sharp antiseptic aroma of bacta clung to his skin.

Glancing at the wristband, it didn't take long to register there was no room number listed. With a groan, he shifted and turned to face the far wall. His gaze landed on a blue light; just under, the words PRIVATE CARE UNIT C-27X glowed.

He'd been moved here purposely, but the reason, like much else, escaped him now.

Stuck somewhere between breath and memory, his voice cracked, and finally, with a pause, he managed to gather his thoughts before they could fade into the void. "C.. twenty-seven.." he said softly. Through the confusion, he pushed on. "Private care.. I think. That's where.." He trailed off, his grip on consciousness weakening. "Don't know why.. Or know who." Another beat passed. "Just.. find me," he continued, unsure if he had even spoken the words aloud, "before.. I forget everything."