Private Where Skill Becomes Something Else

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren did not answer him immediately.

Her attention lingered first on the droid standing half-awake beside the workbench, its mismatched frame still settling from the impossible reconstruction she had just witnessed. Even now, the echo of Mechu-Deru clung to the air, subtle, precise, intimate. Not the wild, instinctive kind she had seen in untrained adepts, but the deliberate touch of someone who understood machines deeply enough to speak to them in their own language. That alone would have held her attention.

But it was not what unsettled her. It was the way he spoke afterward. Potential. Transformation. Something more.

The words brushed against memories she rarely allowed to surface. The workshop blurred at the edges, replaced by older recollections, frightened faces, uncertain voices, people standing at the threshold of becoming something other than what the galaxy had carved them into. She remembered what it felt like to look at someone the world had discarded and offer them release from the version of themselves that had suffered long enough. Not comfort. Not employment.

Reinvention.

She had done it before, taken the lonely, the damaged, the forgotten, and stripped away the identities that no longer served them. She had offered structure, purpose, and belonging. But more than that, she had offered transformation. New names. New lives. New selves built deliberately from the ruins of the old ones. The past erased where necessary, rewritten where useful, until the person standing before her was something stronger than whatever fate had originally shaped them into.

Not healed, but remade. And standing here now, listening to him speak, she recognized with quiet clarity that he was offering her the same thing. Not identical. But close enough that the shape of it was unmistakable.

Aren's eyes narrowed slightly as the realization settled. Her gaze dropped to the hand he had extended toward her before lifting back to his face, studying him not like prey studying a predator, but like an engineer examining a machine powerful enough to alter the shape of everything around it.

He had already told her the cost. Servitude. Usefulness. Loyalty directed toward something greater than herself. Plainly spoken. Coldly honest. Oddly, she respected him more for that.

The room felt colder when he stepped closer, but Aren did not retreat. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, thoughtful rather than defensive.

"You speak the same way I once did," she said. "To people who no longer wanted to remain what they were."

Her gaze drifted back to the reconstructed droid, watching the faint twitch of movement ripple through its uneven frame.

"You look at something unfinished and see what it could become instead. Something stronger. Something elevated beyond its original design." A beat passed, soft but weighted. "And the dangerous part is that people say yes because part of them already wants to change."

The words hung between them, neither accusation nor surrender, but recognition.

Aren folded her arms loosely, her expression composed even as older thoughts moved behind her eyes like shifting machinery.

"I spent a long time believing transformation could be mercy," she said. "That if someone hated what they were enough, helping them become something else was kindness."

Her gaze unfocused for a moment, as though she were looking through him rather than at him, seeing ghosts of people who no longer existed except as the identities she had built in their place.

Then her attention sharpened again.

"And maybe sometimes it was," she continued softly. "But eventually you learn there is always a cost when you start tearing people apart and rebuilding them into something new."

Her eyes lifted fully to his now, steady, intelligent, unflinching.

"You already told me yours."

Servitude. The word did not need to be spoken; it lived in the space between them.

Aren looked once more at his offered hand, not frightened, not resistant, but thoughtful in a way she had not been before he walked into her workshop.

Because for the first time in a very long while, someone was looking at her the way she used to look at others.

Not as broken, but as unfinished.

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

A small chuckle left him after she finished.

“I offer more than change. I offer more than power. I offer…”

He paused for a moment, studying her. The way she stood, the way she seemed to live. The way life seemed so slow for her here, and small.

“...purpose.”

The word hung in the air. Cold but calculated.

“You have lived without purpose for so long that you have forgotten what it is like to have such a thing.”

His hand remained outstretched to her.

“You believe your purpose is just to serve others and repair broken things. To reinvent tools for other purposes. Yet you could be more. I offer that you let me repair you, let me reshape you into something with purpose.”

A small smile cracked his lips.

“Let me offer you…direction.”

He waited with the patience of a statue before her. Not rushing her to a decision, but simply beckoning her to a higher calling.

“You have a rare gift. Do not squander it with something so…small.”

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Misfits Delight]

Ignore

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren's eyes settled on his outstretched hand, though she made no move toward it. The offer hung between them with a weight that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with certainty. He spoke as though he had already glimpsed the shape of her future, as though the answer existed and all that remained was for her to accept it. That alone made her cautious.

For several moments, she simply studied him. The workshop felt quieter now, the half-assembled prosthetic on her bench forgotten, the reconstructed droid standing motionless nearby like silent proof of everything he claimed he could do. Most people would have been distracted by the display of power. Aren found herself distracted by the man offering it because she recognized the language. Not the words, but the intent behind them. Potential. Transformation. Direction. Becoming something greater. She had spoken those ideas herself once, not to apprentices or employees, but to people who had reached the end of who they believed they could be. The forgotten, the discarded, the unwanted. She had looked at them and seen possibilities where others saw failure, offering new identities, new purpose, new lives.

And now someone stood before her offering much the same thing.

The realization left her thoughtful rather than impressed.

"You speak about what I could become," she said quietly, her voice steady, "but what if I like who I am?" It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't even resistance. It was simply the truth.

She folded her arms loosely and leaned back against the workbench, her gaze never leaving him. "You keep describing this life as small, but by whose measure? I repair people. I repair things. I build things. I help people who have nowhere else to go." The words came easily, almost automatically, and then she stopped, not because she had run out of things to say, but because she suddenly heard herself.

He had called her life directionless, small, and without purpose. Yet when asked to define what she did, the answer had arrived without hesitation. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the floor before lifting again, the realization settling with quiet clarity. She already knew why she got out of bed every morning. She knew why people found their way to her workshop. She knew why she kept taking on projects that paid too little and demanded too much. She knew why she kept fixing things everyone else had abandoned.

"You speak as though I lack purpose," she said at last, her voice softer now, more reflective. "But I'm not sure I agree with your diagnosis." A faint pause followed, not sharp, simply honest. "Maybe my purpose just isn't impressive enough for you. Or maybe you're seeing a problem that isn't actually there."

Silence stretched between them, not tense, simply full.

Her attention shifted toward the reconstructed droid before returning to him. "And that creates another question," she continued, studying him with the same careful focus she might give an unfamiliar machine. "You describe my life as though it lacks meaning, and then you offer to reshape me into something greater. But when I listen to you... It sounds familiar."

Her gaze flicked briefly to his extended hand. "You're offering to repair something."

The faint amusement that touched her expression vanished almost immediately, replaced by something quieter and more serious. "So tell me, why is repairing broken people and broken things beneath the purpose you offer? Because from where I'm standing, it seems to be exactly what you're doing."

The thought lingered between them before she continued, her voice dropping into something more intimate, more searching. "What part of yourself did you lose?" The question arrived gently, without accusation, but with the weight of someone who understood what it meant to rebuild oneself piece by piece. "Do you offer purpose... or dependency?"

Another breath, another truth. "And what happened to the others who accepted? How many remained themselves afterward?"

The workshop felt colder, not because of him, but because she already understood there was a cost. There was always a cost. The only question was whether the person paying it understood what they were giving up.

Her eyes returned to his hand, then to his face. "What do I become?" she asked, letting the question settle fully between them. Not what she would learn. Not what power she would gain. What she would become. "And what happens when that purpose becomes yours instead of mine?"

For the first time since he had entered the workshop, something sharper moved behind her calm expression, not fear, not defiance, but understanding. Because if she accepted, the danger was not becoming something more.

The danger was becoming something other than herself... and not realizing it until it was too late.

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

The questions met him. One after the other, each one used to understand further what he meant he could do for her. What he could change for her.

pity

Someone who believes their purpose is greater than what he could offer. Someone who believed she knew much better than…Him.

The thought of his master shook him deep within his core. She did not know of Him. No one did. It made him all the more dangerous.

“It is a simple law of nature that those who are lost, die. To preserve the strong. If they seek such a small change of their being, their identity, then that is short sighted. You speak of changes that people want not what they need.”

His back straightened.

“The purpose you currently believe you have is fleeting. Just as this room, right down to the very broken tools you still use. Time constantly ticking at its degradation.”

His voice dropped lower.

“It is small. Much smaller than what it is that I offer. It is not about how impressive your purpose is or if I see a mistake within it.”

A quiet chuckle left his throat.

“I don't repair people, Aren. I do not make offers to anyone. You are the first, and you are the only. To see what will eventually become of this galaxy. You wish to be some savior for the broken and downtrodden, the lost and the lonely. But your help matters not in the face of oblivion.”

His gaze sharpened as if looking through her once more.

“That is why your purpose that you want is fleeting.”

Her next question of what she will become caused him to frown slightly. A look of calculation within his eyes.

“You could be a true savior for these lost, poor and wretched souls. It is not my purpose for you, my purpose is not even my own.”

“It is…His.”

Saying the word out loud held a form of gravity like something unseen yet all seeing was watching them from behind a veil. Eyes that pierced through the both of them. A colder sensation filled the room to the point breath could be seen as if the very atmosphere trembled before the unknown entity he merely mentioned.

As if the very dark side itself were watching, old and wise of years beyond comprehension.

His head tilted, voice softening just above a whisper.

“And the unknown terrifies you. Especially when it decides your fate. This is not about what is right or wrong, it is about what you will do to maintain your own existence.”

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened without interruption, not because she agreed, and not because his words carried the weight he seemed to think they did, but because understanding someone required letting them reveal themselves fully. Every answer told her something. Sometimes more than the speaker intended. And by the time he finished, the workshop felt different. Colder. The strange pressure that had entered the room at the mention of Him lingered at the edge of her awareness like a distant storm pressing against the horizon. She felt it. She would have been a fool not to. But she found herself studying him instead.

For several long moments, she said nothing, letting the silence settle between them like dust. Then she slowly unfolded her arms.

"You didn't answer most of my questions," she said, her tone calm and matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the floor before returning to him. "You told me the people I helped were short-sighted. You told me my purpose was small. You told me the galaxy would eventually consume everything I built." A faint pause followed. "That may even be true."

There was no anger in her voice. No defensiveness. Only consideration.

"Everything ends eventually."

Her attention wandered across the workshop, the worn tools, the unfinished projects, the prosthetic resting on her bench. "This room will not last forever. Neither will I. Neither will the people I help." The admission came easily; she had never feared impermanence.

When her eyes returned to him, there was something thoughtful in them. "But I don't see how that makes those things meaningless."

She walked a few steps toward the workbench and rested her hand against its scarred surface, her fingers tracing an old burn mark in the metal. "You keep speaking as though scale determines value. As though saving one person matters less than saving a thousand. As though helping someone survive tomorrow matters less because oblivion eventually arrives anyway."

She shook her head faintly. "I've never understood that way of thinking."

Her gaze lifted. "Every life ends. Every civilization ends. Every star eventually burns itself out." A faint smile touched her mouth, small, wry, but real. "And yet people still fall in love. They still build homes. They still create things. They still help each other."

The smile faded. "Not because those things last forever." A quiet breath escaped her. "Because they matter while they're here."

For the first time since he began speaking, her attention settled fully on the thing he had revealed without meaning to, not the promise, not the power, but the source.

"It is His."

The words lingered between them, and Aren's expression became very still. There was no mockery in it. No disbelief. Only understanding, and perhaps a trace of disappointment.

"When I asked what happens when that purpose becomes yours instead of mine," she said softly, "I thought you might tell me it never would." Her eyes remained fixed on him. "Instead, you told me it already has."

The workshop seemed impossibly quiet.

Aren glanced once toward his outstretched hand before looking back to his face. "You say this isn't about right or wrong," she murmured, "but you still haven't told me what part of yourself you lost."

The question returned unchanged, patient, persistent, because of everything he had said, that remained the one answer she wanted most. Not what he had gained. Not what he served. Not what he feared.

What he had surrendered.

Her voice dropped even lower, almost gentle. "And if I am the first... if I am the only... then whatever you lost, you lost alone."

She let that truth settle between them before asking the one question she could no longer ignore.

"Who is He?"

The air felt colder now, but Aren didn't step back. She watched him carefully, not with suspicion, but with the quiet clarity of someone who had rebuilt broken things her entire life and knew exactly what it cost.

"And what do you both want with me?"

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

A small smirk appeared on his face.

“I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

He leaned in, speaking softer to her.

“And gain I did.”

His eyes remained on hers.

“Scale most certainly determines value. It is a harsh truth that no one wishes to face. They believe that every small thing they do towards the greater good adds up. Until they are met with something that sets them back several steps.”

“They become meaningless because while they are climbing, something else that is bigger is barreling towards them. Ready to flatten everything they know and love regardless of how they feel.”

He straightened back up.

“I will not interfere in your personal quest to save others if that is your wish, or your quest to fix broken machines.”

He paused.

“But that ending you speak of before, may come much sooner than you think. You could have the power to bring these people to salvation.”

When she asked who He was a dark chuckle left him then he lifted his clawed finger, slowly wagging it.

“Uh uhh, if you want that detail you will need to sacrifice. And if you do decide to join me, you will learn more about Him in due time.”

His gaze fell back on her. Her next question causing him to tap his claw on the table leaving metallic pings in his wake.

“Questions questions questions. People always ask for more after they give so little. As if they have rights to know about a businesses insides before even taking the job. To get those answers you need to be part of Us. And right now you are not.”

He slowly walked towards her.

“Perhaps you need me to show you what lies in store, what is to come among this pitiful galaxy and the purpose of every living being within it.”

His hand folded behind his back.

“May I?”

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened in silence, her attention fixed on him while he spoke. The certainty never seemed to leave him. Every answer arrived with the same unshakable conviction, as though the shape of the future had already been carved into stone and everyone else was simply struggling to catch up. Perhaps that was what she found most interesting, not the promise or the power, but the certainty itself. By the time he finished, she was studying him with the same thoughtful focus she might have given an unfamiliar piece of technology, something complex enough to command respect but strange enough that she had no intention of taking it apart until she understood what it was designed to do.

For several moments, she said nothing. Then a small breath escaped her. "You know," she said quietly, "for someone offering answers, you spend a remarkable amount of time avoiding questions." There was no hostility in the observation, only a faint thread of amusement. Her gaze drifted toward the reconstructed droid before returning to him. "I ask who He is, and you tell me I must earn the answer. I ask what happened to you, and you tell me what you gained. I ask what becomes of those who follow this path, and you tell me what they might accomplish." The corner of her mouth twitched. "You are very skilled at walking around a subject without ever stepping on it."

She shifted her weight against the workbench, fingers resting lightly on the scarred metal. "And the strange thing is that I do not think you are doing it because you are hiding something. I think you genuinely believe the answers should be earned." That, more than anything, held her attention. It was a kind of faith, not necessarily in Him, but in the process, in the journey toward whatever revelation waited at the end.

"I suppose that is what keeps catching my attention," she continued. "Every time I ask about your purpose, I discover it is not really yours. Every time I ask about Him, I discover the knowledge itself has conditions attached. Every answer leads further inward, toward another door that remains closed." Her eyes settled on him again, steady and unflinching. "And yet you stand here asking me to trust what lies beyond those doors."

The workshop seemed to grow quieter around them as she studied him. "Tell me something, then." Her voice remained calm, but there was weight behind it now. "What will you take from me?" The question lingered between them. "Not what you will give me. Not what I will gain. You have spoken about power, purpose, salvation, and transformation. Everyone who offers something speaks about the benefits." She shook her head slightly. "But every transformation demands payment from something."

Her attention drifted briefly toward the reconstructed droid before returning to him. "You keep speaking about what I could become," she said, her voice softening. "What I want to know is what survives the process."

Silence settled again. When he offered to show her what lay in store, what was to come, what purpose waited for every living thing, she did not answer immediately. Instead, she wondered whether this was the first honest thing he had offered all evening. Not certainty. Not promises. A demonstration. Something she could see for herself, something that did not require faith.

Her arms folded loosely across her chest, not in defense but in thought. "If I say yes," she said carefully, "am I being shown the future, or what He wants you to believe the future looks like?" The question was not cynical, only practical, because those were not the same thing.

A faint smile touched her mouth, brief and almost fond. "And before you tell me I need to join you to understand the difference, at least answer one thing honestly." Her gaze held his, quiet and unwavering. "Have you ever asked yourself that question?"

She let the silence breathe between them, then exhaled softly, a decision settling into place with the same calm certainty she had shown all her life. "Regardless," she said, her voice steady, "I want to see what you are offering." Not surrender. Not blind trust. A choice. "I will go with you."

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

A deep chuckle left him after she finished speaking.

“You are rather clever. I would expect nothing less. Afterall, one must read the contract before signing.”

His hands outstretched to his sides.

“What I will be taking from you is certain freedoms. Such is the nature of having a Master. That part is a given.”

He paused for a moment a tilt of his head as his eyes pierced through her.

“To change completely, to accept the power that is offered to you, not only do you need to change…”

A dark smirk cracked his face.

“Your old self must die.”

His gaze narrowed, his pupils becoming sharp slits.

“All of this requires sacrifice. Total surrender and servitude. As you go through your journey, depending on how satisfactory your deeds are to him will depict when you gain freedoms, or more power.”

His finger lifted towards the ceiling.

“But what survives after you die, after you have sacrificed, that I cannot answer completely. Not truthfully. What survives and what comes back is mainly up to you. You could still partly remain the same, you could come back as someone else entirely. Sometimes you come back with guests.”

Then his voice quieted.

“If you are lucky, you will come back whole.”

His hand outstretched to her once more, ready to gently take hers.

“Give me your hand, and I will show you the future that is coming.”

He stated it with certainty, a way of answering her question on if it was truth or belief.

“I have seen it as well.”

Another dark smile that revealed sharpened teeth lining his jaws.

“It is a gift…”

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren's eyes lingered on his outstretched hand, though she made no move to take it. The workshop had fallen quiet again, the reconstructed droid standing motionless nearby while his words settled into the space between them. Servitude. Sacrifice. The death of the old self. None of it surprised her. If anything, these were the first answers he had given all evening that felt complete, stripped of abstraction and presented plainly for what they were. Freedom. Independence. Choice. Real costs. Tangible costs. The sort she trusted far more than promises.

"You know," she said quietly after a moment, "that is probably the most honest thing you've said since you walked through my door." There was no mockery in the observation, only thoughtfulness. Her gaze flicked briefly toward his hand before returning to his face as she considered what he had actually told her, not what she might gain, but what it would require. "Those are costs I understand."

But her attention had already shifted to the one place in his explanation where certainty had faltered. If you're lucky, you'll come back whole. For the first time all evening, he had sounded uncertain. Not frightened. Not doubtful. Simply honest in a way he had not been before. She studied him more carefully because of it. Throughout their conversation, he had spoken as though the path ahead were already known, as though every answer existed somewhere further along it and all that remained was the willingness to walk toward them. Yet buried inside that confidence had been an admission he either had not noticed or had not meant to reveal: he did not know what came back. Not completely. Not with the conviction he applied to everything else.

The realization settled quietly, not as fear but as understanding. Suddenly, she knew why so many of her questions had remained unanswered. It was not only that he believed answers had to be earned. Some of them, she suspected, he genuinely did not possess.

"You still haven't told me who He is," she said, her voice calm and unhurried. "And you still haven't told me what part of yourself you lost." The questions no longer carried accusation. If anything, they felt more important now, because they were no longer about power or purpose or whatever future he believed waited beyond the horizon. They were about him. Her gaze lowered briefly to his offered hand before rising again. "You have convinced me of one thing, though."

Something almost sympathetic touched her expression, not agreement, not acceptance, but recognition. "You believe this is worth the cost." That distinction mattered. Aren had known enough true believers in her life to recognize one when she met them. Some followed causes. Some followed ideals. Some followed people. The object varied. The conviction rarely did.

Silence settled comfortably between them while she considered him. When she finally spoke again, her voice softened, not out of fear but out of genuine curiosity. "When you made your sacrifice, did anyone tell you what it would take from you?" The question lingered in the quiet workshop, carrying none of the challenge that had marked her earlier inquiries. She was no longer trying to catch him in contradiction or expose a flaw in his reasoning. She simply wanted to know whether the man standing before her had walked willingly into the same uncertainty he was now asking her to embrace.

Because if he had, then perhaps the most important answer in the room had nothing to do with the future at all and everything to do with the person offering his hand.

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

“You are simply not ready to know who He is, not yet at least.”

His gaze only sharpened when she stated he did not mention what he had lost in his pursuit of power. And a small laugh escaped him.

“When I gave myself to him, I had nothing else to lose. I already had nothing. Some would say less than nothing. Personal items, I had none, freedoms? I was basically imprisoned within a temple. I had no freedom. And choice? Well, I had gained a choice when He came to me. And you see where that has gotten me.”

He paused as he looked at her.

“The answer I gave you before was entirely true. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

Her last question pulled another grin from him.

“Only possibilities. It changes from person to person, no one ever gets the same treatment when they take from His power.”

Another pause.

“The only common factor is when you come back, you praise His name. For He gave you a new life, He gave you power and He allowed you to breathe once again.”

He stopped, his eyes squinting before a thought appeared in his head.

“When was the last time you truly felt alive, Aren? When was the last time you felt you were not just surviving? When was the last time you felt…in control?”

He stood there, silent as the grave as he waited for her answer, the whole time his eyes seemed to pierce into her like he could tell if she were lying or being honest. He knew how to read people, he had spent centuries doing so and not many could escape his read.

“In time, all of your questions will be answered more accurately, but that requires a little faith out of you.”

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened quietly, her attention never leaving him while he spoke. The answer regarding what he had lost was not the answer she had expected, and for a moment, she found herself wondering whether that made it better or worse. Most people paid for power with something they valued. He spoke as though power had arrived after everything worth taking was already gone. There was a loneliness buried inside that realization that he either did not recognize or had long since accepted. Perhaps that was why she found herself feeling less afraid of him than she probably should have. Monsters were easy to understand. Broken people who had found something to believe in were far more complicated.

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the workshop around them. The familiar tools. The half-finished projects. The repaired machines were waiting to be returned to their owners. Until now, she would have pointed to all of it as evidence that she was more than merely surviving. She had built a life here. A good one, in many ways. People sought her out. They trusted her. They depended on her. Yet the question lingered anyway, refusing to disappear as easily as she wanted it to. When was the last time she had truly felt alive? Not comfortable. Not busy. Not useful. Alive.

The answer disturbed her because it did not come immediately.

For years, she had measured her life in completed projects, repaired systems, people helped, and problems solved. There was satisfaction in those things, genuine satisfaction, but as she stood there, she found herself wondering whether satisfaction and fulfillment were actually the same thing. Somewhere along the way, surviving had become routine. Safe. Predictable. The workshop would open. People would arrive. Things would break. She would fix them. Tomorrow would look very much like today. There was comfort in that rhythm, but comfort was not the same thing as control, and it certainly was not the same thing as feeling alive. The realization settled heavily in her chest because she could not honestly dismiss it.

When her eyes finally returned to his, some of the resistance that had defined the conversation had softened into something more thoughtful. Not agreement. Not yet. But understanding. "I think that's the part that bothers me most," she admitted quietly. "Not the power. Not even the cost." Her fingers tightened slightly against her arms. "It's that I understand why someone would say yes." The words hung between them for a moment. "You keep talking about sacrifice as though it's inevitable, and maybe it is. Everything worth having seems to demand something eventually." A faint smile appeared, though there was little amusement in it. "The difference is that most people hide the price until after you've already agreed."

She fell silent after that, studying him with the same careful attention she had given him since the beginning. He still frightened her, though not in the way he probably imagined. It was not his power or his certainty. It was the possibility that he might be right about some things she had spent years refusing to examine too closely. The possibility that there were parts of herself she had quietly abandoned in exchange for safety. Parts she missed more than she wanted to admit. "I don't trust Him," she said at last. "I don't know Him. And I don't think faith comes as easily to me as you want it to." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the hand he had offered earlier before returning to his face. "But I trust that you're telling me the truth as you understand it. Strange as that sounds." A small breath escaped her. "So if faith is what you're asking for, perhaps that's where it starts."

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

He could feel it, the deep wound that the question had carved into her. The thought process within her head trying to calculate and quantify things on a mechanical level. But the question was beyond mechanics, it was a curtain that revealed the harsh truth.

Did she fabricate her fulfillment mistaking satisfaction for the same thing? Or was this truly what she was?

“Then allow me to show you what lies in store for the people in the galaxy. What their eventual purpose in life is and how you could save some of them from the End. From Him.”

Without warning the arm jolted to life and slid along the table, attaching the joint to his shoulder. The mechanical arm now a part of him, whole, complete.

He flexed the fingers a few times to test the reflexes. Perfect responses from the fingers.

A simple rotate of his shoulder and the flex of the elbow demonstrated the same evidence.

Perfection.

His mechanical fingers lifted towards his face, a small snap of his fingers and everything went white for the both of them. Her stomach would lurch as they were hurled through time and space at a great distance. Though what felt like an eternity was merely seconds before their feet would find purchase in a dark dimly lit cold cavern. A strong gust of wind funneled through the tunnels around them and from a distance the faint sounds of massive crashing waves.

She was no longer in her shop. She was no longer on that planet or even in that system.

Allan lifted his head up and took a deep breath.

“Home sweet home.”

His eyes pierced through her as they seemed to glow further violet than before. A sharper color.

Around them faint sounds of metal would chime a chains that dangled from the ceiling way above them swayed with the wind.

And tangled within those chains were various people attached to tubes, their blood drawn from their very veins into an unknown location. But perhaps if she looked close enough, she would notice that some of these people matched the description of the missing persons that were shown on the Holonet, blank stares, pale and drained. Yet, still alive. Just barely.

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

The world vanished.

For one impossible moment, Aren was certain something had gone catastrophically wrong. Her stomach lurched violently as reality seemed to tear itself apart around her, the familiar walls of her workshop dissolving into blinding white. Instinctively her hand reached for the edge of the workbench that no longer existed, fingers closing on empty air as space and sensation twisted together into something her mind struggled to process. When solid ground finally returned beneath her feet, she took an involuntary step forward to steady herself before immediately looking around.

The first thought that entered her mind was not fear. It was irritation. "My shop."

The words escaped automatically as she stared into the darkness surrounding them. Somewhere back there sat unfinished projects, expensive equipment, and a front door she distinctly remembered leaving unlocked this morning. The concern lasted only a few seconds before the reality of her surroundings pushed everything else aside. The cavern stretched beyond what she could immediately see, vast and cold and ancient. Wind moved through the tunnels with a mournful howl while chains swayed somewhere overhead, metal striking metal with hollow chimes that echoed through the darkness.

Aren's eyes followed the sound upward. The irritation vanished. For several long seconds, she simply stared.

The figures hanging from the chains were difficult to understand at first. Her mind kept trying to categorize them as machinery, storage units, or something else that belonged in a place like this. Then recognition settled in piece by terrible piece. The pale skin. The tubes. The hollow eyes. The unmistakable shape of living people suspended like grotesque decorations from the ceiling.

Aren felt her stomach tighten, not because she had never seen suffering before or because she was naïve enough to think the galaxy lacked monsters, but because she recognized some of them. Faces from reports. Faces from missing persons notices. People who were supposed to be somewhere else, people who had families. Worse, she recognized the look in them. During her own experiments, she had occasionally caught glimpses of subjects exposed to unstable energies for too long—the hollow stare, the distant expression of someone trapped behind their own eyes—and seeing traces of that same emptiness hanging from those chains confirmed her suspicions. Whatever had happened here was not simple imprisonment. It was something far more deliberate.

Her gaze drifted from the hanging bodies to Allan. For the first time since they had met, there was no skepticism in her expression. No debate. No careful dismantling of his arguments. Only a quiet concern and a growing awareness that she had just stepped into something far larger than herself.

Then, despite everything, a faint, humorless smile touched the corner of her mouth.

"I really hope I'm not looking at my future living arrangements."

The joke landed flat even to her own ears. Her gaze lingered on the hanging figures, studying them with the same careful attention she gave a machine she didn't yet understand. Fear was there, certainly, but so was something stronger and far more dangerous: curiosity. She had asked him what the cost would be. Asked what he would take. Asked what remained after the sacrifice. Standing here among the evidence of choices she couldn't yet comprehend, she found herself wondering whether this was the warning she had been looking for—or merely the consequence of someone else's failure.

Her voice softened as she finally looked back toward Allan. "Are these the people you want to save?" The question lingered for a moment before she glanced upward again at the chains disappearing into the darkness. "Or are these the people He already found first?"

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

“Not to worry.”

He flashed her a sharp smirk as the chill ran through the air.

“Your shop will be there when we return, and the droid I left will make sure nothing is touched or stolen.”

He steps echoed as he walked towards a small altar ahead of him, her question reaching him though he did not hurry to answer it, instead taking in the cold quiet of the surroundings.

Home.

He finally looked at her, a spark in his eye that was not seen before, like a predator that had caught its prey within its jaws.

“It all depends on how well you serve, Aren.”

His hand gently reached up, grazing itself upon one of the dark chains before his fingers wrapped around the links and gave a firm tug.

Ringing metal and dragging links could be heard as one of the individuals began to panic, his whimpering and muffled yells echoing in the chamber. His body dropped before it was forced to a stop by his bonds, suspending him just in front of Allan.

His clawed finger gently ran below the man's jaw to his chin, a small trickle of blood dripping down his finger.

“Punishments happen when failure rears its ugly head. And I do expect you to fail me more than once.”

He glanced at her.

“If you take the job, that is.”

Another toothy smile before he let the man's head drop, his shakes breathing could be heard about the room.

“But that is the price of what you want out of this partnership. And gifts do not come freely, they are rewarded.”

His gaze passed back to the chained man.

“This one has the fortunate opportunity to show you what happens when you fail a one too many times.”

A sharp whistle sounded from his lips before the chains dropped the man to his hands and knees.

Allan crouched to meet his face.

“Run along now.”

Wide eyed and breathing erratically the man tripped over himself before picking back up to run further.

Aren D'Shade​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't immediately follow him toward the altar.

For several long moments, she remained exactly where she was, standing amidst the cold wind and swaying chains while her eyes tracked the terrified man suspended before them. The scene should have horrified her more than it did. Perhaps that realization bothered her more than the cavern itself. She knew enough about the galaxy to understand that power always came with a price. What unsettled her was not the existence of the price, but how openly it was displayed here.

The man's panic echoed through the chamber as Allan spoke, and despite herself, Aren found her attention lingering on the details. The tubes. The chains. The pale skin. The machinery that somehow kept them alive while taking something from them at the same time. Part of her mind was already trying to understand how it worked. Another part was quietly reminding her that the person hanging there was not a machine to be studied but a warning being demonstrated.

When Allan tugged the chain and spoke of failure, she felt a knot form low in her stomach. Not because she imagined herself incapable of failing. Quite the opposite. Failure was inevitable. Every engineer knew that. Every invention failed before it succeeded. Every design broke before it worked. The thought of existing in a place where mistakes were measured this way was enough to make her glance back toward the darkness behind them, as though confirming there was still a path out if she decided she wanted one.

The problem was that she didn't, and no matter how many times she turned the thought over in her mind, she kept arriving at the same unsettling truth: fear wasn't the only thing she felt standing here, because beneath it, persistent and unyielding, curiosity remained.

The same curiosity that had kept her listening in the workshop. The same curiosity that had made her take his hand. The same curiosity that now looked beyond the punishment and toward the impossible thing he had already shown her. She had crossed half the galaxy in a heartbeat. She was standing in a place that should not exist, beside a man who spoke about the end of worlds with complete certainty.

Slowly, her eyes followed the fleeing man disappearing deeper into the cavern before returning to Allan. "You know what the worst part is?" she asked quietly, though the question wasn't really directed at him. Aren folded her arms loosely across her chest and released a slow breath. "I should probably be more frightened than I am." Her gaze drifted once more toward the hanging figures above them, lingering on the chains and the slow, deliberate machinery that sustained them.

"Instead, I'm standing here trying to figure out how those chains work, where the blood is going, and whether that man is actually being given a chance to redeem himself or if you've already decided how his story ends." The admission hung in the cold air between them before her attention settled fully on Allan again. "And that," she said softly, "is probably the strongest argument you've made all day."

Allan Alhune

 

[Allan Alhune]

His gaze flicked towards her as the man hurried off out of sight. A brow slightly lifted after she finished speaking.

“I am certainly not done with him.”

A sick smile appeared over his lips, a toothy crack barely visible, before a haunting whistled escaped him. It started low and slowly built higher. The pitch itself was enough to turn most people blood ice cold. Those who were in chains knew what was coming.

“My dear Aren, the difference between me and most Sith Lords is how we all view death.”

He slowly turned around as the chains above them rattled, a loud screech of metal on metal boomed through the room as the back wall slowly opened, and just on the other side, pure blackness.

“Sith see death as a punishment. I simply see it as a release.”

His eyes flared a bright violet as another soft whistle echoed from him, building and carrying through the air.

A deep low growl seemed to vibrate the air as the sounds of heavy movement echoed within the darkness.

White eyeshine blinked from within then Allan looked at Arren.

“Step aside please.”

The way he said it sounded like a polite request, like someone just trying to step around another person in a crowded space.

Then from within the doorways massive opening a loud hiss reverberated from the walls then a flash of heat as violet fire encased a massive serpent that quickly slithered outward towards the running man.

“You ask what the tubes are for.”

The screams of the man echoed not long after the creature darted towards him in a dense fog. All that was seen was a haunting violet fire blurred by the fog around them.

“The answer is simple. It is food. Not for them in a sense. Some of those tubes feed them just enough nourishment to just keep them alive with little strength. But the blood…well…”

Another toothy smile as flesh tore and bones cracked the screaming that had turned to wails ceased in an instant.

“Food for someone else of course.”

Aren D'Shade​