Control (Sheridan Zila)

Control. It all came down to maintaining control. The medication was helping with her symptoms, minimizing them, staving off the headaches and nausea that sapped at her strength, and she was grateful for that much. Her dreams were a different story.

Her dreams vacillated between the events that she now knew had never happened yet seemed so real and the actual events that had led to her discharge from the army nearly two years ago. She would wake up in a cold sweat, sometimes shouting, and sometimes even on her feet beside the bed.

Worse, she had begun seeing things here and there. At first, she'd thought maybe she was dreaming really vividly or that her mind was playing tricks on her as little things cropped up – the general's voice ordering her to stand down as it had in her hallucination or the smell of sweat mingled with cheap aftershave. More than once, she had looked down at her hands and seen bloodied, bruised knuckles even though she hadn't been in any kind of fight that would cause them.

There was that sense that she was being watched, of course, but that was just as likely from the real possibility that the Commandant had decided to ask someone to keep eyes on her after finding out she'd been drugged by this Darth he'd told her about.

Then, yesterday, she'd seen General Zila himself, flanked by the two men who had arrived at her door in her hallucination, stalking toward her while she was walking through the spaceport. She'd stopped short, her hand dropping to the blaster on her hip, but a small group of Twi'leks dressed in brightly colored pastels walked by in front of her, and the men were gone.

She had reasoned that as long as she could maintain control over her reactions, she could justify keeping the extent of these 'moments' to herself for the time being. From what little explanation she'd gotten about her situation, there wasn't anything more that anyone could do, and the over-protective nature of her fellow officers at ARCS would likely lead to someone babysitting her in a medcenter somewhere.

Frustration was eating away at that self-discipline that was key to maintaining control. She wasn't privy to whatever investigation was going on, and until someone could point out a target to aim an assault cannon or rifle at, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait. Maintain control. Keep moving.

(( OOC Post )) On the issue of 'Active' vs. 'Inactive' Characters

I wanted to write something up here to clarify what I mean by 'Active' and 'Inactive' when referring to my characters. Basically, I make the distinction so people who are looking for me know who to look for me on when they don't care which of my characters they're interacting with or just need to find me in game. That's really all there is to it. I have a note to myself to glance at the list twice a month, adjust as needed, and republish if anything's changed.

Several things go into labelling a character as 'Active'. Mostly, it's who I've been RP'ing of late, who I'm focusing on writing for (not that I won't write whatever comes into my head for any character), who people are asking me to log in, or people who are involved in something going on in RP (like the Dheroveer plot). I generally have chosen one or two 'default' characters to log in to go hang out in open RP settings (usually the cantina at the Slopes or on Fleet or where ever people are gathering) who are likely to blend in or interact in a way that makes sense for those types of settings.

'Inactive' characters are simply characters that I haven't RP'd for one reason or another in a while. I'm happy to get them involved in things, bring them out to RP with a specific player's character in private, or even bring them to a social function they were specifically invited to.

That's it. That's all. That's the big distinction.

So, if you haven't seen me on a character in a while, it's not that I don't want to RP them. It's because I have nothing for them to RP. If you want to see me drag them off the shelf, I'm happy as hell to do it! Give me something to do with them!

Luck

There is an elusive element to life that no one can truly prepare for. No matter how much one plans, no matter how many contingencies one considers, no matter how much control a person tries to assert over every aspect of their existence, there is an unknown mechanic in the universe that can somehow affect it all. Sometimes it was for a better outcome, sometimes worse. Some called it fate; others, destiny. Some attributed it to gods or the Force. If Aittera were asked to put a name to it, she would call it luck.

Aittera had woken up to find herself blinking wearily into the face of an unfamiliar Mirialan. A feeling of warmth and comfort had seemed to flood her body, soothing away the worst of the pain that came most predominantly from the vicinity of her stomach. The familiar voice of Tes'ara, Jean's second at Agamar Risk Control Services, had been next. Relief and grief had flooded her conscious thought simultaneously.

Not dead.

Her apartment's security system had activated third-party alert protocol, alerting Jean Schramme when Kiabe destroyed her door. It was a change that Aittera had made just days ago, when he had come to talk about Sheridan Zila. She had realized only hours before that unplanned, unexpected meeting that Selus's frequency was still listed in the protocol, and asking Jean if he would mind allowing her to use his contact information instead was simply good timing. She needed someone she could rely on, and he was the one person left in the universe who still might have her back.

Should be dead.

Aittera was in a medcenter on the Upper Promenade, and the Mirialan was a Jedi healer who she would come to realize later had never given her name. As the events of the attack came back to her, Aittera was dumbfounded at the sheer impossibility of what had occurred. Jean and Tes'ara explained that the pureblood had bled out by the time they'd reached her apartment. The knife she'd used was something she never really gave much thought to anymore. It was simply part of getting ready to go somewhere, like an extension of getting dressed – blasters at her hips, knife in her boot or under her belt. The choice to stow it at her back on the day of the attack had been nothing more than a matter of convenience.

I'm not dead.

Further, they had disposed of Kiabe's body, and from what she was able to understand from the conversation between the Jean and his second, by the time Tes'ara was finished, there would be no trace of the Sith Lord's visit. She was profoundly grateful. They had insulated her against retaliation as best they could. Turned out the good guys were far more scary in their efficiency than any criminals she'd ever met.

Why aren't I dead?

Aittera would also come to learn from Jean that he had called Cartel Security to provide an escort to the medcenter, and she would marvel at her old friend for how easily he went so far above and beyond for the people he cared about. When the medical staff quit fussing over her, she asked to move to the Hope's medbay to recover. The Promenade's medcenter gleamed too bright, too metallic, and felt far too open and exposed.

Dumb kriffing luck.

When asked a few days later what was next, Aittera honestly had no idea what the answer should be. After all, she should be dead. As much as she might have told herself she wanted to die just a few days before, that instinct to survive, to fight, was as strong as it ever had been. Whatever was to come next, she was alive. Let it come.

(( I want to take a moment to once again thank the players behind Jean, Tes'ara, Evander, Radwan, and Zabess for the awesome RP that went into helping me finish this story. I'm humbled and so very, very grateful.))

Confrontation

Aittera's gut was screaming at her as she stepped into the tiny apartment and looked around as the lights came up. Something was very wrong. Something had been wrong ever since she'd left the bodega a few blocks away that she'd just come from, but she just couldn't put her finger on it. She never shrugged off that vibrating, sinking sensation that warned her of imminent danger, and it had never been wrong once in her life. It had been a constant for as long as she could remember, since the day it drove her to her feet to run toward a building that was about to erupt in an explosion in a vain attempt to save her fiance.

Warily listening for any small sound that might be out of place, she turned to key the lock to the door before setting the bag of groceries on the nearby table. She reached down to thumb the security straps loose from the holsters holding her blasters in case she needed to draw them fast as she moved toward the only part of the place she couldn't see readily from the door – the bedroom. For just a hint of a moment as she stepped across the threshold, there was an irrational hope that Kol would be standing there beside the bed, giving her that charming smile, asking her if she missed him. But the room was as empty as the rest of the apartment, and she scowled as she turned to walk back toward the little dining area.

That was when a flash of red energy drew her attention back to the front door where sparks were beginning to fling themselves away from the computerized locking mechanism onto the floor. Aittera barely had time to recognize what she was seeing as the tip of a lightsaber before the door was loosened and forced to the side where it crumbled against the inside of the doorway. Darth Ragious's formidable pureblood wife came striding toward her.

Lord Kiabe Eirndeth stood just a few inches taller than Aittera, her muscular frame bound in form-fitting armor that seemed to the observer's mind to refuse to reflect or even acknowledge light. Her black hair was pulled back in short thick braids to frame her serpentine face and seemingly glowing yellow eyes which locked onto the redhead's face as she growled battle lust and rage. Without a word, she stalked toward her prey with purpose, effortlessly deflecting each shot Aittera fired at her with her lightsaber.

“Obviously, you're not here to talk,” the smuggler quipped as she continued to fire, mentally cataloging her surroundings as she tried to see some kind of escape route as she was inevitably driven back into the living room. She knew she was no match for a Sith warrior, and she wasn't stupid or arrogant enough to try.

Kiabe leapt the small distance between them in an instant, bringing her blade down in a sweeping arc that sent white hot agony through Aittera's left arm, severing her hand from her body, catching her by the throat to shove her against the wall with an angry sneer. “No. I'm here to make you pay.”

Aittera's scream was choked short by the fingers closing around her throat, her blue eyes wide with fear and pain as she clutched her arm to her chest. As she felt her feet begin to leave the floor, she knew she was about to die. Frantically, she fought to draw in breath, and her mind suddenly seized on the feeling at her lower back like there was something pinned between herself and the wall. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision as she puzzled for a moment what the familiar shape was, her thoughts racing the inevitable. This was important. This had to be important.

She didn't have time enough to think it through. She reached back with her off hand to tug the object free, only recognizing in that moment the knife she nearly always carried on her – something most often stuck in her boot, but on occasion kept beneath her trenchcoat at the back of her waist as it was now. In the next impossible moment, the vibroblade was protruding from the pureblood's neck and blood was pouring from her jugular. Kiabe's grip on her throat loosened as she fell back, instinct bringing her lightsaber swinging toward Aittera in one final attack in the last moments of her life.

Relief was cut short by fresh pain in the redhead's side, and she crumbled to the floor against the wall, clutching at her side where she found a hole burnt into her jacket before she lost consciousness.

Giving Up

There was a familiar low groan almost like a growl coming from nearby, the sound of pain and muted frustration. It took more than a minute to realize it was coming from herself, and as Aittera tried to push herself slowly up into a sitting position, the dull throb where her head was supposed to be forced her to lie right back down.

“Too much. Drank too much. I've got to stop trying to make up for lost time.” she murmured to the empty bedroom. That's not what you were doing, and you know it. She knew it, but she wasn't ready to admit it, not even to an empty room.

It had been two weeks of utter, ongoing frustration since her return to Nar Shaddaa. The visit from Somaesthesia had seemed itself to be more something she'd imagined than had actually happened, but after two days of doing everything she could to reach out to Kol - from taking a sedative in hopes of inducing one of their shared dreams to simply standing in the cockpit of the Hope, screaming his name to the rafters until she was hoarse – she had begun to wrestle with the possibility that it really had all been some kind of sick mind game.

Teach had shown up at the hangar with a Jedi named Zero. Well, technically a former Jedi, but to Aittera, Force wielders were pretty much Sith or Jedi, and she could not care less about the nuances they used to differentiate themselves. It had taken a lot of convincing to keep them from taking her into custody or detaining her, and in the end, she'd agreed to give Zero her tracking beacon's frequency to keep her from putting her idea of fusing the Hope's landing gear to the hangar deck into action. By the time the two had left, she was furious with her fellow former SIS agent for bringing yet another damned Force user into her situation. She was fairly furious with herself for her convoluted explanations in response to his accusations as well.

She'd promised to stay on Nar Shaddaa while Zero investigated her claim to innocence, though, so she'd finally left the Hope behind to go back to her apartment. That was a better place to begin looking into things on her own in any case, she'd reasoned - until she'd walked in, of course. From the moment she'd stepped inside, she was assaulted with the memory of the time she and Kol had spent in the tiny abode, and the question of whether it could all be a lie was renewed with vigor.

Aittera solicited the help of a slicer named Sheridan Zila that she had relied on in the past to try to track down the evidence the SIS had against her. It seemed to boil down to this security footage Rallyn had informed her of, but a few days after the slicer had answered confidently that she could find where exactly the file had come from, Aittera had a visit from Jean Shcramme informing her that -her- slicer was one of -his- people and wouldn't be working for her any longer.

If she didn't love and respect her old friend so much, she might have decked him. Of course, she understood. She couldn't even imagine how to begin to slice her way into SIS databases and networks without tripping an unimaginable number of alerts and security along the way, and if his agent was compromised, his company's integrity would be compromised along with her. She understood. She just didn't have to like it.

I didn't have to break down in front of him either.

Yes, that had been the most humiliating moment of all – spilling salt into his shoulder as she finally admitted aloud for the first time that what she had experienced had very likely been an illusion. After all, Kol – Ragious, damnit – had said that he had realized he couldn't conquer her by force, and hadn't Khor all but said that he thought seduction would gain her trust more successfully?

Aittera reached for the bottle of bourbon on the table beside her bed, chasing her hangover with the proverbial hair of the dog. Clearing her name seemed less important now. Doing anything seemed less important really. Eventually, she might track down the slicer Jean had offered as an alternative and see if they could get her any closer to some answers, but for now, she no longer saw the point. There was no fight left in her.