The Major
M E M O R Y
Lanteeb
Kilaado Industrial Sector
Some time after the Second Battle of Dagobah
High Noon | Awaiting @Dresden Verbrennung
The Major had run back to the what could be most loosely described as home like a forlorn kitten —returning less to a house and more the only place that made sense in tumultuous era. In reality, the Fallanassi had no permanent residence. No apartment, booming manor or hidden lair. Instead she wandered through her assignments with the freedom and loneliness of a vagrant. Despite her well kept appearance or aristocratic style the good Major traveled the cosmos no different than the shifting winds. Taking whatever was needed at the time, discarding what wasn't, and hiding what could be used later left was a choice means for living a disjointed, chaotic life. It was a mannerism taken after an old mentor, who would have described anything less than a drifter’s life as organic insanity.
By the time anyone within the First Order noticed Sybil acted like something other than human it would be far too late. She reaped the benefits full meanwhile.
Here on this nondescript world, in a mechanically minded city she had tied herself to another person’s concerns and woes: masking her own pains in the continual drum of each and every mission. It served her well, even if she spent most of her time traversing space back and forth between the assignments. Outside the windows of this empty warehouse office the grind of industry marched forth to the imperial drum, spouting massive clouds of dark smog into the clouds as various heavy metals were refined. Haze smothered the horizon in such a manner that one might doubt if it all was little more than grime caking the glass.
It was here that the frankly strange woman had invited what might be described as an old friend, away from the heavy, brow beating political schemes of the more “posh” and influential worlds along the Ison Corridor. Nobody was listening; it was a lonely old factory. That was much of the point.
Sitting one leg crossed over the other in a dusty office chair that squeaked with any movement, the bespectacled wonder of the agency awaited her guest while sipping from a flask filled with a thick, sanguine colored fluid.
Kilaado Industrial Sector
Some time after the Second Battle of Dagobah
High Noon | Awaiting @Dresden Verbrennung
The Major had run back to the what could be most loosely described as home like a forlorn kitten —returning less to a house and more the only place that made sense in tumultuous era. In reality, the Fallanassi had no permanent residence. No apartment, booming manor or hidden lair. Instead she wandered through her assignments with the freedom and loneliness of a vagrant. Despite her well kept appearance or aristocratic style the good Major traveled the cosmos no different than the shifting winds. Taking whatever was needed at the time, discarding what wasn't, and hiding what could be used later left was a choice means for living a disjointed, chaotic life. It was a mannerism taken after an old mentor, who would have described anything less than a drifter’s life as organic insanity.
By the time anyone within the First Order noticed Sybil acted like something other than human it would be far too late. She reaped the benefits full meanwhile.
Here on this nondescript world, in a mechanically minded city she had tied herself to another person’s concerns and woes: masking her own pains in the continual drum of each and every mission. It served her well, even if she spent most of her time traversing space back and forth between the assignments. Outside the windows of this empty warehouse office the grind of industry marched forth to the imperial drum, spouting massive clouds of dark smog into the clouds as various heavy metals were refined. Haze smothered the horizon in such a manner that one might doubt if it all was little more than grime caking the glass.
It was here that the frankly strange woman had invited what might be described as an old friend, away from the heavy, brow beating political schemes of the more “posh” and influential worlds along the Ison Corridor. Nobody was listening; it was a lonely old factory. That was much of the point.
Sitting one leg crossed over the other in a dusty office chair that squeaked with any movement, the bespectacled wonder of the agency awaited her guest while sipping from a flask filled with a thick, sanguine colored fluid.