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.