Lanteeb
Elysium Complex
Brand Volcata Industries
Aphrodite Advanced Medical Center
Room 12-A
[member="Martin Shepard"] admonishes this pity party
What strange portents swirled much like the chaos of a nightmare. Differences of opinion or perspective could impassion bold action or statements strongly issued with raw, bounding guttural force. However, these slightly different presentations came down to the very ideologies motivating each person present. With such little information between Martin, Tez, and Eralam it was bound to become fraught as each offered a solution to an issue that none of them were truly grasping the full extent thereof. Because each one of these poor souls was shown a very specific aspect they each believed they knew what was best for one rather self delusional Fallanassi. Sybil was unintentionally stoking the flames of pity and empathy; whether upon a conscious or subconscious level it still resulted in the same contemptible conclusion: manipulation. The bespectacled aspect of terror was manipulating with people’s perceptions by omission and occlusion. As their various eyes or photoreceptors darting this way and that between themselves waited for her decision a single eloquent thought glistened brightly while occurring to the patient. Clarity was always achievable if one was willing to accept the brutal truth: they were wrong. She was right. Exactly, undeniably correct about all of it. How could this wounded agent been so blind. Arrogance. Self obsession. Such petty nonsense as a puffed chest or stout chin caused her to stumble.
Sybil looked at each of these people, looking into them rather than upon them. She then made her gamble. Squeezing her brother’s shoulder in some higher level of image comprehension, the good Major spoke.
“You lot be peaceful -each of you. You were wanted here; you all came. My gratitude abounds but listen close. I've done each of you a dishonor. It's high time to clear this air. Stop this cycle of exploitation. No more half serving, dithering nonsense. For you see it's me playing you all, unintentionally, and none of you deserve it -thus it ends today. Hear this…”
Those often cruel, shadowy blue eyes peered first towards [member="Tez Bola"]: chance encounter, compeer, fellow wayward soul pulled in and trapped in the never-ending nightmare of spirits set again, and again. Again. Again. Pure compassion now colored those irises as she gazed upon her friend’s bright face, hoping Tez could somehow divine the noble intentions and look past the crippling blights to see Sybil’s innermost, pure hearted adoration, and how much further that warm veneration was expounded upon thanks to how starkly the shadows slicking the edges ran. All this time this poor Alliance citizen had been unknowingly harboring the machinations of what could be considered Galactic antimatter from the stability of a dingy, pitiful living room. This Almanian Huntress, a unwitting scion of tainted blood, would often sit chatting away idle to wee hours of the night listening to and egging on the other woman. Reassurances of interest were often offered continuously and Tez would reluctantly continue on, speaking on the happenings of her day as if they weren’t absolutely meaningless to anything transpiring in a galaxy so rife with disorder. Yet in those conversations the Sensitive seer didn’t even realize what benefit she could offer to those so inclined to dig deeper into the mysteries of the Force. Properly trained, Ms. Bola could eventually serve as a conduit into demented realities. Their interactions proved so much as true. Eventually the night would lead to strange questions or perhaps a disguised trigger would be uttered, and suddenly the pair of them were touching upon a journey to distant realms. Memories fractured like a shatterpoint in glass could be glimpsed momentarily. These often made little sense, and Sybil suspected they were the fuel for her latest nightmares -but contemptible curiosity pushed her insatiable need for understanding further. And what of her companion? What did she have to gain? Nothing but a “comforting” ear and a person eager to hear her vent. All this only on the Major’s terms; only when she wanted to arrive -after all the communicator did only could make calls in one direction. Tez would either have to drop everything to accommodate her “friend” or risk possibly offending a charismatic figure too oft to mysteries: a figure often traipsing at night in shadows, usually pleasantly smiling. Despite the 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. Sickening.
“. . .Tez, there is so much I tell you, and yet so much more omitted because it’s convenient. How could you even recognize anything you look upon? It’s smoke. Shifting to meet what you want -need- to see. Our friendship is unbalanced, more skewed to kin parasite and host. Do you really think I’d tolerate someone like myself acting the way I do around you? Calling you only when I need something? Coming only when I want something? Quite honestly, such a garbage person is the kind I’d end, have ended, and be all the more merry for it.” She could almost feel her heart skipping beats, thinking how embarassed the prophet novice might currently be when there was an audience. But the audience was integral to this pledge. Witnesses would be needed. Sybil continued, “The First Order didn’t force me to choose conniving paths to chart victory. I chose to walk them. Understand? I indulge in schemes because it’s what I’m best at. Only, this too is a delusion. Nobody can make an effort without help, and it’s easier to show a little of oneself while taking everything from somebody else. It has blown up in my face.
“I beg you: stay along with me while I learn to be a friend worth your time. Because your life harbours a viewpoint into gentleness -nostalgic innocence- and one day I want to understand it properly.” She momentarily braced for some sort of impact. A slap. A curse. A crash of glass. Nothing occurred immediately. There was much more to say.
The Major’s gaze shifted to the Shard. Another longsuffering watchman stuck on duty while worlds churned ever closer to finality. She had seen firsthand what good he had done to the misguided. They have traveled together, working as incognito detectives. Setting wrongs right. Ending rogue warlocks in far flung alters, driving blessed blades through the heads of soul addled Force vampires, or ending Silver Jedi mushed to insanity by combat. Times were dark -horridly dancing like a malignant imp. Wars and petty organic squabbles meant little to [member="Eralam"], because in the long run someone or something like him would outlast most of the putrid empires rising and falling like wrecks beneath the currents within the tide. As a mentor the metal walker had trained Sybil in the basic principles of energy absorption and countless mental techniques for both defense and offense. His contribution to her effectiveness was immeasurable, and his lethality boggled the limits of human comprehension. And yet the Major did not fear him for what awful physics he could twist upon the flesh. She was afraid of the robot seeing her as typical.
“Kin of the cosmos, your lectures often touch upon the limitations of organic life. You joke about how you’d think I’d make decent as a silicate lifeform. Together we’ve fought side by side and you don’t ever question my motivations. Truth be told, old Mentor, I’m dreadfully afraid you’ll see me as only human. For all my bluster it appears I’ve made a blunder: it’s painfully obvious. Like even the most meager member of humankind, I seek solace, friendship, understanding, and dare it be said: acceptance. It appears there has been a grievous miscalculation. Desperately I’ve sought these things from my organization, and that is dissonant with what the job entails. This whole time, those little things that I grab for are right here in front of me and not off on a battlefield or in the latest trick in a political game. I’m sorry for hiding my true nature in front of you all this time, though you’d probably suspected such. Just think: all this time and you don’t even know about the Tribe or Martin. Maybe with that now settled, sharing a tea won’t prove too dreadful a prospect.”
This was more talking than Sybil was used to doing all at once. Yet it all offered a catharsis that compounded strength and renewed her sense of vigor to see this speech through to its conclusion. Turning finally to the fellow Shepard present she stared into his predatory face as she could imagine this was all tiring him out quite thoroughly. She wouldn’t have been surprised if his mind had wandered off in the face of such long windedness. The fellow Alamanian couldn’t be blamed for what might be considered a rude lapse. Martin was incredibly adept at reading other people -even more tactfully and aggressively than the likes of Sybil. He had after all started his own enterprise from the ground up, which one could semantically argue was far more difficult than establishing oneself in an existing organization. And of all the people currently in this room, it was probably most embarrassing to be perceived as weak or soft by this co-conspirator.
“Brother, you’re right. I’ve become too sentimental trying t’conjure something within the organization that cannot exist. You’ve warned me not to get too attached; to treat it as tactifully as I could. Nothing anyone else is doing is getting into my brain. It’s all me. Me playing games I can’t follow through on. It’s time to get back in touch with the basics. Roonin’, however, just isn’t in our DNA. A Shepard never gives up. Never surrenders. We dig in. We have to persist, especially when the only true problem is a mistake of perspective. A trite thing like being clipped by a look’o’th’run sniper is nothing. It only happened because I was careless; fooling. It won’t happen again.” Odd, perhaps, that when speaking with him directly her aristocratic speech pattern melted down to something that ran certain words together in a manner that some parts of the core might consider low brow or without class. Especially noteworthy was how the words she spoke when ending with a gerund suddenly seemed to be missing “G”s. Such was the style of their land; a style of little note to write home about.
“Thusly: I have to push on. The First Order is a tool, or more aptly a build site, and one to be respected. Regardless of who’s in they’ll keep building. They are one, and only make use of what is offered. Everything will be fine. It’s not slavery or compulsory. Not in my case. It’s a calling. A way of life. If that’s unacceptable to any of you, I understand. Don’t have any more tricks to keep you in my life. Nothing to grab your arm with or hold over you or manipulate you with. Bit anticlimactic, no doubt...” Sybil almost mused that last bit in the end. It appears that was about the extent of her energy for the day. Her auburn head rested backwards, sinking into the pillow as the weight of the world relinquished its grip upon her chest. Odds were they would all be gone by the time she came back to the waking world. Truly, she wouldn’t be upset. It would only be more trash hanging on its own. At least in this case she knew it was thanks to her degenerate way of latching on to the universe.
As ruminations showed the Major the pathways to some sort of sanity at an end of a barbed tunnel, the room began to slowly blur upon its edges as fatigue settled in. What were they all thinking? Were they all that disgusted? Did they need to be? Would she be so forgiving in their shoes?
Eventually her thoughts wandered back to Emilia and the contents of their final conversation. Bloody Hell, she was right. And rather than try to understand exactly what she was being accosted with Sybil instead put on an arrogant face and pushed everything away in a cold rage. So ignorant. How wasteful. Of course her only friend in the First Order didn’t know a thing about her: Sybil had played with mirrors for too long. If only the redheaded Station Chief had stayed to this point. Maybe now after this exchange with these different aspects of her life she could admit guilt to being a confounded git. Somehow, despite how dark the depths where beneath her, and how violently the whirlpool awaiting to consume her churned, Sybil knew all would work out just as it should in the end. In fact, she could almost foresee making amends with the Security Bureau and even accomplishing a true friendship amongst peers. It would all take time. A little space. One final brave push past the fear of admission. All would be in order. Maybe even a little more happy?
Sybil drifted off into sleep -a peace undue.
Of course, [member="Emilia Ravel"] and Sybil Shepard would never speak again until the massive slogs between the First Order and Galactic Alliance. During those grotesque conflicts mistakes throughout the chaos would lead to one of them dying before the other before anything of clarity could be exchanged. Unresolved, such traces of hope in the Fallanassi wouldn’t pan out so smoothly as anticipated. Such was life. There it goes. So it went.
Besides. No monster, no matter how self deprecating, deserved a happy ending.
