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Don't Repeat It

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#1
Sarge Potteiger

Sarge Potteiger

    Half-Glimpsed Dreamings

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Omega Tower

Fondor

Medbay Room S16-H/R

 

 

He'd been injured a lot over the years. He had the scars to prove it. Standing in the small bathroom of his medical suite, he found himself running the fingers of his right hand down over his cheek, feeling the various bumps and gouges that remained from shrapnel wound twenty five years ago. A quarter of a century; another lifetime, it seemed. In truth, it was. He was actually over four hundred, but cryosleep played havoc on biological time.

 

The image was as clear as it had been even then - a Witch of Dathomir, hatred in her eyes, exploding a tree he was running past in his trip to fresh cover, sending splinters of wood and bark deep into his face. It'd been removed.

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.

 

Lifting his chin, he took sight of the burn scarring left over his throat. A remnant from a too-close lightsaber when a Sith had disguised herself as his CO and held him hostage. The containment field had met his skin, but the pressure had been precise. His throat was mangled, but salvageable. 

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.

 

Adjusting the olive drab shirt clinging to his body, he smoothed it out, frowning as he looked into the bottomless depths of his eyes. Eye he'd not been born with. Eyes he'd not asked for, nor wanted. A remnant of the Dark Harvest, like his Force Sensitivity, or his inability to use telepathy or sense. A reminder of the black tar that had turned corpses into walking, ravenous beasts, and turned the Iron Regiment of HK's into a memory.

 

He'd taken up their dog tags, having been left behind for months on Dagobah. It was his living among the ruins that had given him the eyes. One by one, he'd taken the tags to the families of the fallen, giving them some measure of closure, he hoped. Some visits had reopened old wounds, others had simply aided the healing process. But the eyes... no one was ever comfortable with the eyes.

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.

 

Taking a deep breath, he went back out into his room, eyeing the holonet as news reports ticked across the screen on the wall opposite his bed. Sitting down on the edge, he looked to the datapad set on the bedside table, the utilitarian atmosphere one he purposefully cultivated. This was a mercenary outfit, not a civilian one; their hospitals weren't designed to look good. They were designed for function, and ease of repair.

 

Right now, he wished it had been designed by someone with an eye for style. Perhaps he'd have someone look into remodeling. It was past time for that. 

 

His hand flexed, and the vague whirr of servos made him look down. Half of his palm was flesh, the other a dark, obsidian-like metal. His metal fingers were almost skeletal in appearance, but bore the bulk of tactical design so commonplace among the Pyre. They may be thin, but they were armored, and he could punch his hand clean through a door if he needed to. Not that he wanted to.

 

Anaya had forced his hand, and in doing so, taken a part of it. 

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.


Edited by Sarge Potteiger, 12 August 2017 - 10:40 PM.

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#2
Sarge Potteiger

Sarge Potteiger

    Half-Glimpsed Dreamings

  • Character

    • Character Bio
  • 6080 posts

A hum fills the room - the sound of bundled, insulated cables thrumming with power. It almost makes his teeth feel a little fuzzy, and he wets them as he sits on the edge of the bed, absently flexing his new, metallic fingers. "Should I get the skin graft?" He asks, not looking up from the spot on the tile he'd chosen to stare vacantly into.

 

"I suppose that would be a personal choice." Replies one of his oldest friends.

 

"Well, yes, but... I don't know. I suppose I desire to keep the reminder, but at the same time, the idea of not feeling with my own skin again is... troublesome." His lips curl downward into a characteristic frown, eyes blinking rapidly before he shakes himself, squares his shoulders, and hefts his head to look to his compatriot. 

 

Again, he runs his tongue along his teeth, and then wets his lips. "Your decision. Talk to the Lady, she'll give some good advice."

 

What would Cira say? He couldn't be sure. She wore her scars as proudly as he wore his. Though, in truth, neither were proud of them. They were, to them both, reminders of failure. "I'll ask her, Hastings, thank you."

 

"You're welcome, Lord."

 

He'd gotten used to the title, over the years. "And the trihexalon?" He asks, brow raised.

 

"We're loading it onto an Antilles-class now." 

 

Sarge nodded. "Good. Get it into the local star as quickly as possible. I don't want it jettisoned until we're sure no one will be able to intercept it before it burns up." 

 

Hastings gave one more nod, his massively armored form turning to leave, though he pauses at the threshold of the room. "Lord, will she return?"

 

This time, both brows rose as Sarge widened his eyes - not in surprise, but in the manner of someone suddenly made alert by an unexpected question. "Yes. She will." 

 

"And you don't want her to get her prize?"

 

"No. No I don't. She'll come back for revenge, but in the end..." he smiled, without humor.

 

"You always win?"

 

"I always do."


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#3
Sarge Potteiger

Sarge Potteiger

    Half-Glimpsed Dreamings

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    • Character Bio
  • 6080 posts

Antilles-Class Star Defender Ad Gloriam

Hazmat Transport Hold

 

"Who the hell keeps this sort of thing?" The voice grating from inside the helmet was male, as most of Sarge's soldiers were, but young.

 

"I heard it was the Iron Protector." Returned his partner, an older, guttural voice laden with equal distortion from his own helmet. The pair of sloped shouldered soldiers stood guard outside the hold containing the samples of Trihexalon that Anaya had been after, and thus confronted Sarge about. It was their Lord's order, in fact, that saw them transporting this special cargo to the system's solar body for disposal. Nothing survived contact with a star's surface.

 

Not one bloody thing.

 

"Always was a weird one." Attias says, chortling. His flamers were large things, strapped to the underside of his oversized gauntlets. The new armor was vaguely simian in appearance - stooped, slow. A large ape dragging it's knuckles across the ground. The pilot lights spattered and hissed, fuel periodically dripping to the grating beneath.

 

"Yeah, yeah he was." Dawsons was much older than Attias, but he liked the boy. Eager, of course, but not overly so. That sort of person never made it through training. But they were partnered, and both were equipped with flamers for anti-boarding action. Plus, it had the added benefit of cleansing any leaked chemical. Clucking his tongue, he snorts. "Heard he liked to draw."

 

"Paint, I think."

 

"Yeah, and now he leads a bunch of droids that think they're people."

 

Attias shrugged. "More power to them. Could use a good memory wipe though."

 

Dawsons nodded. "Aye. First things first though." He rapped his knuckles against the thick bulkhead behind him. "Make Fondor safe."

 

His partner gave a slow nod, and they resumed their vigil in silence.


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