Private Always The Reason

[Loske Treicolt]

JUPITER 4​

When she divulged the reality of her split psyche, she watched for reaction. It was far from impassive, and she titched her lips up into a small, telltale line of reassurance.

“It’s okay,” she offered, as if she were encouraging him –– but it was for herself, too. “I’ve been through the memory murkiness before. Untangling it all. I will do it, it’ll just..take time”

Maybe that was what made them so inseparable. Maynard constantly lost those beyond him, mother, father, cousin, friends, all dead. Loske never had anyone to start with, only herself and false memories, which she lost several times over. And they both relied on one another to replace those gaps in mind, heart, and soul “––and I have you now, where I didn’t the first time something like this happened.” She also didn’t have Shursia. This would be inevitably more complicated –– the memories that had been injected to her psyche had been lived by someone else, so the delineation was a little more proper. These memories, she had lived. Perhaps not acted, but she’d been present. They were real. They were –– in some measurement –– hers.

"They’re all fine as far as I know.”

The anvil of fossilized guilt became a little less hard inside of her. Like a folded, crumpled receipt of responsibility that unfolded and smoothed –– it’s general presence still existed, but the weight lifted ever so slightly and distributed more evenly. Her posture relaxed a smidge, the weight on her shoulders lifted and her expression became indiscernible. They were fine. As far as he knew.

He might not know all of it, how fine they were or how they’d fared beyond his awareness, but that was enough for her to feel some level of consolation. And somewhere to draw back from; in those memories of Shursia, she hadn’t claimed their lives. Death had been out of her incredible power; which meant Loske had some control still.

“Thank you.” She managed quietly and reached up to brush away the first of what might have been a tear falling. It was subdued by her touch, and she managed to keep her face dry.

Naturally, he segued to the explanation of his exile. Through it all, Loske’s face hardened. Names of their friends –– Auteme, Ryv –– mutated into circumstances that were judgemental and hard to hear.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” She blurted, unable to contain the frustration. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to negotiate going back, but I just –– we’re this way for them.

Through everything we had to do, that we were called to do; and now they’re not responsible? Just..exiling? An after-the-fact punishment? Nothing before? That's so –– hhnngg ––” she grit her teeth and buried her face in her hands to try and calm down for a moment, stop talking. Flashes of smiles and pride in the name of The Alliance, the New Jedi Order, reverberated through her mind. All the losses he had to manage, to put his name toward on behalf of The Alliance, the New Jedi Order.

Huffing out what she left unsaid, she folded her arms and looked at the juncture between the fridge and counter space with narrow, angry eyes. She wanted to shout at Auteme, shake Ryv. How dare they. How dare they!

“And Auteme of all people..” She muttered hotly, defensively. “No..Ry–– damnit.” She huffed again, pinching the space between her eyes to massage out any other memories that might be relevant to this instance.

“I’d never fit in with the Jedi before...it’s just that now, I still have a real purpose, a real life to live ahead of me. With you. I won’t compromise what I feel is right, for them. I’ve done my part, we’ve done our part. We only ever agreed to stick around for them...but they don’t seem to want us around, not anymore. So I don’t see it worthwhile to stick it through.”

“Me either.” She murmured. Being beholden or an Order or organization she’d never been fond of. As a Padawan, in the early days, Cedric had wanted her to help rebuild the Jedi Order –– but that had seemed far too constrictive for her. The mantle readily fell to Ryv, who took it up tenfold. Loske had only stuck around for the people; that’s where her purpose was. In her friends. In her love –– trying to get recompense back for all the harm Sith had done to him through his life.

So they were damned together. To make a heaven out of their hell.

"It's time to just do good by us, not anyone else."

“Yes.” She answered in less than a heartbeat.

Despite all the misery that accompanied that sentiment, she couldn’t help herself finding unmatchable delight in his broken desire. He’d been beaten and cast aside, and finally, finally, they could leave. As much as the circumstance to her hurt, her heart still swell and she pushed from the counter back to his arms, pressing herself into his torso with an affirmative squeeze. Even if he was still a little sticky from his workout.

Content in their agreement, she rested there for a moment longer in silence.

“Part of me wanted to see Aaran and Ryv for myself after hurting them, apologize or something, or close that book somehow but…” she hmmm’d thoughtfully, buzzing against his body before pulling away to look a little more scrutinizingly at their situation; which was personified by his face.

“We’re at a bit of an advantage right now I think. Right? Despite...everything. I might be wrong, but you came alone, on The Renegade to find me. Not an Alliance tracked or funded ship. As far as anyone knows, I’m gone. As far as anyone knows, you’re gone.

We can keep it that way for however long we want...right?”

A small smile was offered to sweeten the negotiation: “You already said we need new callsigns. Now we can choose the situations we put ourselves in to get them.”

Grinning coyly, she tacked on an addendum the suggestion: "Publicly appropriate ones."

 

[Maynard Treicolt]

As simplified the terms were that he was explaining his exile in, there wasn't anything withheld that would've offset the gravity of the truth held to it and Loske responded in kind, in defense of her husband and blind defiance of the names he uttered.

"I don't how much of it was their doing, it seemed to be pressure from a few other Jedi, outside the New Jedi Order. Jend Ro Quill, Romi Jade and others. But like I said...wasn't ever really the place for us. And if they don't want us around then...no reason to be. Me and you can do just fine on our own." Maynard says, shrugging his shoulders once, seeming to accept these circumstances.

"There's nothing saying we can't see these people again, I wasn't ever on bad terms with them, when I went to find you." Maynard iterates. The last thing he'd ever want to do was have her feel isolated from the rest of the Galaxy, isolated from other connections other than him, as much as he yearned for every moment between them, alone. Certainly after what it took to get her back.

When she came into his embrace again he was quick to abandon the cup of caf on the nearby counter, his arms loosely wrapping around her form, his metallic fingers running along her skin coldly before caressing through her blonde locks, the cybernetic nerve endings able to replicate the loving gesture's feel in the artificial hand, all the while his organic hand reached to run along her cheek, leaning back to take her silver gaze into his vision.

"But- yeah, as far as anyone is concerned...we're ghosts." Maynard replied, cracking a smile to the remark. It was special kind of freedom just now afforded to them, that they might have had at differing portions of their lives without ever being able to take full advantage of it and now, together, there was nothing setting them back.

"Especially you...maybe that's the new callsign, Ghost." Maynard suggested. It...fit. She was for all intents and purposes, dead. Shursia occupied her space before as she was lost to the void, removed from her mortal confines. But...she returned, less a phoenix from the ashes to joyful tears and revelry. She crept quietly back into her form, her being. Content with this more settled, subtle, way of life. And of course, past that symbolic context. Those eyes, what were once a friendly blue, now a cold silver. This, if nothing else could symbolize it, meant change. As he looked into her eyes, it was then that he immediately began to cherish the difference, a reminder of what it took to get her back and how much strong they’d emerged as a result.

“We can keep this up as long as we’d ever care to... and I don’t much prefer what’s waiting for us back in the Core. But I think- I think we really can pick up where we left off, keep building that dream. And if you’re not...ready for that part of it, the Triocolt, then it can wait...but in the mean time, let’s make the world around us right for when that time comes.” Maynard suggested, leaning his head forward to press a kiss to her forehead, his cybernetic hand clutching her ever tighter as he did. Though deep down, he was nigh petrified of what could be reality, that Shursia might’ve altered her physiology to make that coveted part of the dream an impossibility.

 

[Loske Treicolt]

HEAVY LIKE THE FORCE BETWEEN US
​

Her disgruntled outburst dropped to something more akin to irritated murmuring sounds when he explained the potential source of the exile. It wasn’t entirely their friend’s volition, perhaps –– and as much fault as she might still find with the situation, arguing for the sake of arguing wouldn’t undo anything. This was the end she wanted; getting to this scenario was...not at all how she imagined but nevertheless, they were here. Nothing else mattered, really. As inconsiderate as it might have been.

All that agitation, she sucked in hard and released in a swift exhale.

"Especially you...maybe that's the new callsign, Ghost."

Ghost.

The moniker was a wisp of a word –– delicate in a sense, haunting, eventual, entangled in memories. Gripped in an eternal dance with spectres of the past and projections of the future.

“That was fast.” She offered, mirroring the satisfaction he conveyed in his smile and the reinforcement of his delicate hold. Her opalescent gaze might have even glittered in approval: “I like it.” Significantly better than poncho, or blondie for the use case required.

She nodded again against his palm, his physical touch reinforcing that constant astral connection. Their intangible bond was like the warmth of the blood in her veins. Not overpowering, not noticeable, but vital.

And suddenly the heat in her veins drained away.

The Triocolt.

The pain was real, so real, like the lingering heat after a flash-burn. Her courage left her in a rush, a purge of bravery and the deepest trepidation that was relevant to the reality they lived in bubbled back up to her throat, hardened, and stopped her airflow. Just like that, in an instant, the galley was too small and Maynard was too big and that big invisible elephant was suddenly incredibly dense and sitting right on top of her. Dysmorphia plagued her perception and she felt an insatiable chill rolling through her spine, congealing vertebrae by vertebrae.

“I think so too,” she forced out, feigning the confidence that she’d just felt drained away. Lying through flowery words.
She couldn’t lie. Not outright. He’d feel it. Beyond her being a terrible liar, even she could feel the sogginess stretch through their tether and she tacked on a rationalization that made it feel a little better.

“As long as it’s safe, I –– yes.” The words were hard to say, and she felt suffocated. A wan smile was offered as a pathetic attempt at bolstering both their belief.

They’d been trying, officially, since Life Day. How long ago had that been now? He’d been patient then, and even now, however long it had been, he was being patient now. But Shursia had her claws in Loske without her knowing back then, destroying attempts at cultivating new life that conflicted with the parasitic influence, and Shursia still did. At least in the capacity of Loske's mind. It was shattered, fractured, and traumatized. And that was as far as she knew. Tears collected behind her eyes, not managing to force through, but her gaze turned glassy and distant.

Unthinkingly, she dropped her hands to cover her stomach. Beyond whatever unseen damage the parasite had done, her middle had been shot, ripped apart. Loske would have been dead from that blast from Djorn if Shursia hadn’t completely taken over and repaired her enough to keep fighting. To keep killing.

She wanted to cry, to ask him not to talk about it. But that wasn’t fair. This was something that affected both of them –– so she drew in a shaky breath, refilling her lungs and bringing them back to life.

“I’m scared,” Loske admitted –– the words bristled and spikey on her tongue and all her attempt at poise fell and shattered around her.

“I want to, but I..I’m scared about what..how safe it would be right now. If I even..” her mouth dried up, all the liquid building up behind her eyes again “Th––that parasite stopped us before, and we didn’t even know it was there. And now I...I should see a doctor. Or a healer. Or something, just to..I know you, Buddy, and Frank have been monitoring me but it…” her volume dropped again, leaving another sentence incomplete. “We didn’t see it before. I’m just scared it..I want to make sure it’s completely gone. If I was responsible for harming our –– before even ––”

Tens of hundreds of thoughts were typhoons through her mind. She was getting overwhelmed, all in her head, and completely worked up.

“I'm not giving up. I won’t. I want it too much, you want it too much. A family — our family — it’s all I’ve ever wanted.” She reinforced, by a way of bringing herself back from the brink. “With you, I just..” she sighed. “Yeah. I just..you’re right. I’m not ready. I wish I was ready, more than anything, and I hate that I’m not and I hate that I’m having to say this...but this is where the meantime is. I’ll do everything I can to heal. You've already helped so much, and..we can do it.”

Waiting. More waiting. More delay in gratification for his constant struggle and persistence and commitment.

“Feth.” Loske breathed out hotly, lifting her hands to wipe away at her face while grief started to glisten along her eyelashes.

“The world around us ––” she repeated, still trying to steady herself after laying out all her apprehensions before him. “––the dream, you know, I’ve still never seen Concord Dawn. Surely after everything we’re a little closer to that than before at least?”

 

[Maynard Treicolt]

His previous fears over the consequences of Shursia’s hold in Loske’s form came to light once more with her evident worry, fear, need of preservation, the hand brushing over her stomach in instinctive care and protectiveness for the hypothetical. An idea, a being which was just that, an idea they’d yet to be able to bring into fruition. Their lingering shortcoming, ever justified by the horrid circumstances which their lifestyle demanded, creating an environment all but impossible to cultivate a child in a state where both of them could devote themselves to not only eachother, but the fruits of their boundless affection. Until now, they couldn’t even be certain of seeing the other in the wake of one perilous campaign after the other.

But times changed and they were in control. Or at the very least, had a convincing illusion of control.

Those two horrid words left her lips. ‘I’m scared.’ It was the last he’d ever imagine to want to hear, with her in his arms. Then she began that descent, piecing together one hopeless worry after another. He’d been down that slope in his own head before, with the sole worry of his thoughts being her at all, when Shursia had control.

“Stop- there’s no good thinking like that. Any and all biological scans say that you’re...that you’re you. Nothing else. But- if you want a second look, we can do that.” He offered. The only worry then came with finding a doctor or healer they trusted enough to divulge the nature of this predicament in their, to this point, tragic pursuit.

Then came that commitment brought into spoken word once more from her. He’d gotten good at concealing the profound emotional response admissions of that nature from her wrought over him. That was his upbringing, the unfettered way of man. But here? Now? It broke. Her manifestations of grief manifested all the same from his own eyes. They had the same aim, the same ambitions and all of it intertwined within the good of the other. The love between them. But they’d so helplessly clawed their way into fruits of nothingness to now.

“I know...and we’ll get that. All of that. A family. We’ve gone too far to change course or give up...we’ll get there. We’ve been through too f*cking much to just- fail. It’s all I’ve ever known that I want. To create that , with you. You’ve already helped me become a much better man, someone people can rely on. I’d never felt that way, about myself...ever, before. Only you’ve ever made me feel that way, proud of who I am, what I came from and how far I’ve gone.” Maynard’s voice wavered, he pulled her closer to him, his head leaning down and his temple pressing to hers.

“I just want to be the best husband I can be- for you...the best father I can be- for our children, whenever they come around...which, they will, I’m sure of it. We just...can’t ever give up on this path. Like everything else we've set out to do...we'll get there.” Maynard states, resolute.

Concord Dawn. She dredged from Maynard’s own subconscious. If there was ever a place that meant home and family to him, it was there. Through all the good and bad of it, that’s what it was to him.

“Nothing stopping us from going there, not now, not anymore. The Sith...they’re gone from that place, as far as I know.” Not that he was certain of the state it was in, Sith Imperials aside. He broke the contact of his face close to hers to peer into those ghostly silvers once more, the tears a remnant of his emotional admission already fading away until they’d left no trace at all. There was comfort in those eyes, that face. A comfort and infatuation nothing else could ever conjure in comparison. Just like it had from the start.

He seemed to look in contemplation for a moment, his metal fingers idly stroking through her blonde locks for a moment before he shifted his gaze toward the doorway, pressing a finger against the intercom switch before speaking up.

“Buddy- pull the course to Concord Dawn and punch it.” He commanded the way of his astromech. No doubt the droid was wary of the command, the last they’d ventured that way it necessitated the use of cloaking to run the Sith blockade only for Maynard to be pulled back aboard unconscious and bloodied by Ryv. But always, there seemed to be unfinished business there, he wasn't sure there ever wouldn't be.

---

The Sound of Silence

The rest of that remaining day was spent in relative peace, save for when the night came the terrors congealed in the back of his mind took hold of his consciousness, as if trying to send a warning to him, that whatever there was to be on Concord Dawn, it was not worth his return. Those haunted memories, the moment he'd left and lost it all, the moment he sought out Ryv only to be choked in darkness.

But, he'd overcome these things before and overcome far worse since. The worst had past on Concord Dawn anyway. Sitting at the pilot's seat he donned the worn cobalt colored Beskar composite armor he'd donned before taking charge of the Wolf Pack. He didn't care to give the appearance of a GADF General, not here, not now. The electric blue star stream faded into real space and so there they were, the full sphere of ashen gold in their view. Concord Dawn, its broken moon in planet's shadow.

There was no blockade in place, no transmission to clear their landing to the ground, from orbit, there was no sign of life at all on this world. There was no revelry to welcome her to this place, he simply guided them through the atmosphere of this waste, following the familiar but ever 'off' features to return to where he was most familiar. There was hardly any central hub or spaceport to this world, only scattered homesteads and hamlets with the rare town to sprout up around them.

The Renegade pressed itself unto the earth of a far off hillside, at the edge of the horizon, in their view, the glimmering lights of small settlement in its early morning. People here started their day a great deal earlier than what Loske might've been used to, save for the military on worlds like Coruscant, Kiffu. That was what this life demanded, the life that called for cultivating and taming the land around them.

He went about in silence after they'd landed, a silence which Buddy at least seemed to respect, taking control of the ship again as he rolled into the canopy in Maynard's wake. He stepped once into the secondary storage area for a moment, retrieving a metal urn. On one side, the seal of the Journeyman Protectors , the bloodied grain of Concord Dawn and on the other...the Iron Sun, the symbol of the New Imperial Order. It was Waylon's remains, what they could manage to retrieve from him on Bastion, cremated.

And Maynard was going to abide by that final wish, to return him home.

He held it closely, protectively in both hands as the boarding ramp lowered and his feet made purchase on the place of his birth again. He slowly walked toward the harsh edge of the hillside, kneeling down to face the reds and purples of the rising Concord sun.

"You wanted to come back...be buried beneath a Concord sunset...I hope this does good enough." He said, pressing a thumb and index finger against the two seals which offered a , the top half slowly lifting itself from the bottom, Maynard doing the rest of the work to set it down. Within? All that was left of his kin, his blood. The ashes.

He reached into the urn, letting the ashes run through his fingers for a moment.

"You don't belong anywhere else, Waylon. I'll miss you, I wish we could've been around each other more...I wish I could have been there, to save you...I'm sorry. I feel like I could have done so much more for you...but I know if you heard me talking like this you'd smack the shit out of me for it and tell me to move on." He cracked a rare smile at the remark before his gaze lifted to that sunrise once more.

"I just wish you could see this with me. You were a Protector of this land, these people...and so- it's where you'll always belong in suum ca'nara. Thank you, Waylon. For everything you did for me. I'll do right by you, I promise." And with that he tilted the urn forward for the wind rolling over Concord's plains to take ahold of it and wash away from the metal vessel, returning Waylon home in earnest. He watched the ash descend to the earth beneath, pressing the urn to the earth in his other hand as he remained knelt.

Silence. He was content, for a moment, to merely look over a familiar land, familiar features as tears threatened to well in his eyes again.

Home.

Loske Treicolt