Private A Pretty Face

[Moya Virtu]

Wearing: This

Moya Virtu, ground Manager of Bacta-Works, operations had been busy with the monotony of work aboard a Bacta-Works cruiser for about a week.

It has since been only a short while since House Io's decimation. Since the Cult's decimation. Since what had once been her daughter, Laertia, now the Parliament, had gone into hiding.

It was an unparalleled triumph. Moya felt like she had finally gotten some form of atonement for her failures all those years ago.

She felt like she could finally move on.

(Cutaway of J. Jonah Jameson laughing uncontrollably)

She was walking the surface of Coruscant's upper streets, turning heads everywhere she walked. The previous wars had wiped out all records, all traces of her past associations. She had been forgotten...

...almost.

Her home was a spacious, luxury condo with a great over view of the city, still being repaired. Most of Moya's days consisted of work. Anything to keep herself busy. To keep from thinking. It had been years since she had been in active, daily combat. Those days had long ago ended for her.

It would help contribute to what happened next ...

Moya took the turbolift to her place in one of the upper towers. These days, she was simply a well to do business woman. The past a distant shadow.

She arrived, walking past photos of her and various Bacta-Works employees, of her and Nathan Bloodscrawl, who, as all this was to occur, was currently busy winning over Thel Bloodscrawl with his family on Kytrand.

It was a bright afternoon, just before sunset. She slipped off her gown, and stepped into the shower. She felt warm water hit artificial flesh. She let herself relax. The day had been a long one, and she just wanted to curl up with a book and go to bed in her low power mode.

As soon as she was done, she grabbed the towel and started drying off, not sensing the mass of clammy, pale tissue slithering up the shower drain...

She never had a chance to even reach for fresh undergarments. No sooner had she put the towel away to get dressed than a pale tentacle slammed into her face first, driving her upward into the wall before she could scream, a seemingly endless mass of tissue coming out of the shower drain to completely cover a struggling Moya, taken totally by surprise as the tissue smothered her, covering her entire body, still pinning the struggling biot to the ceiling.

Eventually the tissue slipped out of the drain, completely covering the still struggling, pinned to the ceiling Moya...


Her muffled screaming came out as the flesh started to go through her eyes and mouth, seeping into every pore until it had disappeared fully into her body.

She fell to the ground, shaking her head and coughing.

SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT

"I am...nO...MeRe...ANDroid...." Moya struggled to get out, face bulging and deforming like the rest of her nude body randomly every few seconds, wriggling like rats were underneath as she felt herself being deleted from within.

No...not deleted...

Overwritten.

Her face, as she staggered out of the bathroom, metallic, pig like squeals escaping her throat as she felt herself being forcibly copied onto other cells while the original was consumed and deleted, warped between hers and another, far different face.

When it started to become the other persons face, a different voice from Moya's came out.

"ThaT maY bE TRue ..." the new face on Moya's rapidly deforming bubbling body hissed.

"BuT YoU ARe sTIll juST a MAChinE in The ENd..."

"No I'm notIamnoTamnotAMNOT..." Moya struggled, fighting the deletion process.

"MINDoverMusCLE...." the new face said when it appeared over Moya's,

"AmNoTamNOt...." Moya slurred, her body bubbling, fissures ripping open across her body as steam started to escape.

In any war, the good guys don't always win. There are always losses. Defections.

Spies.


She was getting the death The Battalion had meant for Syd on Korriban.

"AmnOT...ammmmmmmmNOOOTTTTT..." Moya's shuddering form hissed repeatedly, face swelling hideously as her flesh turned red and bulged, swelling.

"amNOTAMNOTAMNOTAMNOTAMNOTNOTNOTFAIRAMNOTFAIRAMNOTAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRAMNOTYOUNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOTFAIRMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLEMINDoverMusCLE Mind over Muscle--"

Moya exploded violently, gobs and pieces of her flying out and splattering on the walls everywhere, her remaining cells audibly shrieking a final time before they were consumed into the now corrupted tissue everywhere, her glowing green blood dripping from the ceiling, rapidly turning white like the rest of her muscle tissue, which transformed into a formless white mass that flung itself together, forming a new body of a stocky woman with pale skin who lacked her victim's voluptuous curves.

The Collage's face warped into the face of its fully absorbed Victim (See Bio) a final time before going back to hers. She owned Moya now. A face above suspicion in House Bloodscrawl...

The hidden Sith runes that had been laid across her victims apartment to prevent her death from being felt or sensed , especially by anyone close to her, glowed a final time before vanishing.

All exactly according to plan.

The Collage went to Moya's closet, fetched a silver gown to wear, and began to go through Moya's records...


Mellifluous Magenta

 

[Moya Virtu]

The Collage knew everything about House Bloodscrawl's trade routes after only an hour's study.

Moya's death had been brutal and painful to the very last microsecond of cellular life and consciousness being ripped to shreds. Every part of her mind had screamed to the last picosecond as whatever was left that couldn't be digested had been discharged into wet, hissing spiritual shreds into Chaos, where, though they lacked any knowledge, memory, or thought of anything but agony, would continue to suffer eternally in absolute insanity and evil

The Collage had made her watch all her worst memories on loop the whole while it had gone on. Taunted her even as she was consumed.

The Witch soon put down the datapad and decided it was time to initiate contact with her Goddess.

She cut open her forehead, not fully used to her new body due to having merged with and devoured the victim so totally. She didn't know it's full capability yet. The white blood poured out and she drew a rune on the ground with it.

As she drew the rune, she thought about the events that led her here...

One year before the House Io Civil War.

The Collage, clad in the typical skintight white catsuit of traditional Brain Demon Cultists, was often considered among the most vicious and cruel members of the Cult, responsible for the most hideous of rituals against the innocent. Few Citizens of Khemost would dare approach her willingly. Despite being extremely friendly to all law abiding citizens.

She had gone out into the ancient ruins that remained deliberately unrepaired in the city of Midas, for it was well known that old, dilapidated ruins are always Cultist territory. It was a fresh coating of snow and the perfect time to torture local animals before sacrificing them.

So it struck her as odd when she found the letter on an old, bloodied stone altar and a sack of local rodents...and a box of chocolates...

The Witch, raising an eyebrow, slowly, cautiously approached, scanning for curses. None. It was clean. That unsettled her more than if she had found at least one booby-trap curse.

Whoever had left this had wanted it found.

The Collage, frowning in curiosity opened the letter and was stunned by its contents. It's writer, who remained anonymous, confessed to wanting the Collage to inflict the most hideous tortures on the one who had written it, wanting to be in absolute, pure agony.

To anyone else, it was a suicide note. A cry for help.

To a Brain Demon Cultist, this was the equivalent of a love letter from a secret admirer. Because that was EXACTLY the intent of sending something like this to a Cultist. But to send it to a Cultist of such high rank...

And they had even caught the morning sacrifices...

After making each animal, no matter how small, suffer for a period of fifteen minutes each, The Collage had devoured the chocolate box, and to her surprise and delight found the center of each candy piece infused with expired Rakghoul Blood.

She had reread the letter again and again in stunned shock. The Collage was not considered voluptuous by Cultist standards. Sometimes copies of the Arena or The Assembly caught love letters, but never her. It was baffling.

What Citizen of House Io was hopelessly insane enough to try courting HER?!

It would be a simple thing to dismiss it. Perhaps it was a prank. Something done on a dare. It would be even simpler to use her Sith magic to divine it's source. But she refrained.

If they were serious. They would send another...

Four months later...

"ANOTHER one?!" The local Assembly copy giggled as The Collage showed it to her in the middle of the Cultist Cathedral after services had concluded. It contained the same degenerate desires to be tortured and killed horribly by the Collage. To have their soul eaten piece by piece with all of the worst memories played on loop during the digestion process.

"That's... that's so romantic!" The Assembly gushed reading the horrifying contents that would have gotten its writer placed in a straitjacket, if not on suicide watch anywhere else.

"I'm aware of that. I'm just not sure how to react..." The Collage confessed.

"Sweetie, don't overthink it! It's puppy love from one of our devotees, I'm certain of it..." The Assembly trailer, her very dark skin stained with the blood of a freshly dead Jedi Knight who had been eviscerated in front of the churchgoers.

"Who would have a crush on me?" The Collage questioned, tossing Jedi parts into an open flame in the middle of the interior.

"Why haven't you traced them? The writer clearly wants to be found." The Assembly asked.

"Not sure what I would do..."

"Cultists are citizens too. They have a right to date other citizens, even marry them if it strikes their fancy. There is nothing in our Cult saying you can't do either. And Cultists have dated everyone from the most connected noble to the lowliest janitor without hesitation. Live a little!" The Assembly encouraged. "If it doesn't work out, you can always eviscerate him as he desires. I myself am currently dating an assistant librarian."

"Plumber!" called out a copy of The Arena in the back as she painted blood runes on the floor.

"Fry Cook..." said a Dark Sided copy of Lucretia Lister as she dragged out bagged corpses.

"I wouldn't trade my boyfriend for the world..." The Assembly said. "I think you would enjoy it Colly. You're always such a shut in."

"I have obligations beyond that of typical Cultists..." The Collage reminded her.

"You also have the obligation to challenge yourself."

The Collage thought a moment.

"My high position requires the suitor be brave enough to reveal themselves to me of their own accord. Darth Phyre doesn't chase. She awaits." The Collage said after a moment. "If they really want me, they're going to have to step into the open. Unprompted by me."

The Collage read the letter again, and blushed.

"Nobody has ever written such terribly sweet, poetic things of me before. I couldn't possibly grant their wish after reading it..."

(Narrator scratches their head at The Collage's reasoning)

"That's when you know they're special. When you don't want to grant their wish..." The Assembly said with a smile.

The Collage continued to think on it as more parts were tossed into the flames...

Two weeks later....

The Collage had a small, private retreat of ruins where she centered herself at the edge of Khemost. As she walked through it through dead, silent forest, she smelled the blood before she saw it.

Her ruins were slathered in gore and viscera with loving devotion, and her smile widened as she ventured inside, saw it had been turned into an abbatoir of gore too horrific to describe of countless victims, arranged in sickening ways. It was the equivalent of rose petals on the floor for a lover as she excitedly walked, flesh shuddering in anticipation of finally meeting her secret admirer.

To her surprise, it was Grant Sevei. He had been devoted since a teenager in the battle of Tython more than a decade back. He was in his mid twenties by this point, wry and strong. The Battalion had personally blessed him. He stood on her altar, all the runes perfect in arrangement, holding flowers and a scalpel, wearing an all white Tuxedo.

He was young, handsome, and dark hungers stirred in not just her, but every persona stored in her.

The Collage smiled.

"Did you kill and mutilate all these people to impress me?" She questioned playfully.

"To honor you." Grant said excitedly. "To compliment you. You deserve the best. In suffering. In blood. Some of its even my own.

He stepped forward, dropped the roses at her feet and made her hold the scalpel to his neck.

"The rest of my blood can be yours if you want..."

"Oh, that's so sweet!" she gushed playfully. "I couldn't possibly murder or even mutilate you now! It would rob the galaxy of an especially potent form of crazy!"

"Command me then!"

"Grant, right? I never thought you would have the nerve to try asking even a fragment of a Cultist out...and then you go and commit a four dozen strong act of homicide. Inspiring." The Collage said, eyeing him in an increasingly hungry manner. "I'd be cheating myself if I didn't date you at least once...tell me, Grant..." she cooed, making him blush as she ran fingers through his hair.

"Do you know my specific purpose in the Cult?" she asked...

"Errr...no? I...I've just seen you around. And you're cute with an ax..."

The Collage was open mouthed at the answer.

It made her genuinely smile...



Mellifluous Magenta

Thel Bloodscrawl