And where were you? [Ysan]

[Sarge Potteiger]

Fondor
Omega Tower


Another day, another pile of paperwork. Most was handled by his subordinates, but even with the vast decrease in territory following that clusterkark of the Nether, there was still a seemingly never-ending amount of work to do. But with Cira secure - mostly - and things starting to get squared away, they could finally take stock of the situation. Missing persons were cropping up all over the galaxy, and as the weeks drug on they started returning to their homes.

They trickled in, at first, before the dam opened and those trickles turned to streams, then rivers. Fully half the galaxy must have disappeared, and that meant some planets were getting massive influxes of citizens who had gone the way of the Nether.

And some of those people were even ones who registered on the Lord Protector's radar.

But no one had heard from [member="Ysanae Vela"] in weeks. She wasn't on Naboo, and so far as he knew she wasn't in Protectorate space. Which meant she was elsewhere or still in the Nether. Neither of which appealed to him.

Who would take care of Ashai?

Inhaling sharply, he set his datapad down and folded his hands across his chest. A quick message was sent out to Protectorate retrieval teams. Find her. He wasn't going to commit vast resources to it, but he could indulge in this.

Had to make sure the housekeeper was alive.

 

[Loxa Visl]

"Ysanae Vela."

"I'm sorry?"

"...why do you apologize?"

"No no, your name, what is it again?"

"Ysanae Vela."

"...can you spell it for me?"

Ysan blinked at the uniformed man, a slow blink of exhaustion. Mental, physical, spiritual - she'd hit a wall. In the literal sense, she'd hit the wall just a few hours ago after being shoved against it and apprehended for disturbing the peace. Two days she'd been on this planet, trying to gather her barings, trying to find a way home, but there was just so much she could do. She was covered in blood and grime, clothes torn and tattered, and she likely smelled quite awful. All fairly typical attributes of a person who'd fought their way through the Netherworld's many hostile environments only to be belched out through one of the many great rifts.

Just so happened she'd found one that lead to the Protectorate capital world.

So when she asked to speak to the Lord Protector, it came as a terrible surprise that no one would help her, or believe her for that matter. She might've panicked a little when they tried to offer taking her to a refugee camp. She may have broken a man's arm in an attempt to flee. She likely seemed a little delirious, screeching in pacean for a God that didn't exist here.

Now she was incarcerated.

"Why ... ess... ae ... en ... ae ... ayee ... vay .... ayee .... ell .... ae."

The Officer's face screwed up as he attempted to jot down the letters, "Y - S - A - N - A - I ... V - A - L - I." He shook his head once, that didn't seem right, and looked at her one more time for confirmation.

It sounded right to her, but her accent had always been somewhat of an issue. She nodded, "Yes."

"Alright, sit tight Miss Vali. We'll see if we can't ... uh, figure something out for you."

"Wait ... when do I see the Lor' Protektor?"

"Probably the next time I do," he chuckled as he walked away, "... real soon..." or never, crazy wretch.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

In the barracks of Omega Tower, barracks housed near the base of the great edifice, a squad of soldiers set about gearing up. Standing in an armory, they stood strapping plate carriers onto their bodies, securing them with plugs, velcro and strapping. They were tugged upon, secured, and then re-secured by those standing around them. Weapons were grabbed, devices checked and stowed.

It was the clamor of battle prep, but they weren't going into battle. Instead, they were marching on a manhunt - or, rather, womanhunt in this case. Some broad. Didn't matter. She was important enough for them to get orders, and that's really all they cared to know.

Once you reached a certain point on the ladder they stopped caring about the real reasons and just accepted their lot as being too unimportant for the real reasons. Covered in the trademark digitized greens, browns and blacks of the Protectorate, they filed out of the armory. Intel was canvasing all the Protectorate planets. Reports were checked for keywords, travel documents reviewed.

If there was a chance of finding a Dathomiri woman who should be on Naboo, they were going to get it.

This was the military industrial complex of the Pyre at work. The Protectorate was the big brother to the mercenaries; a professional military for all the things a regular military wouldn't. Hostage retrieval, tracking, counter-terrorism without thought of repercussion. It had a lot of downsides, really, but they enjoyed their work. Pay was good, benefits were better. They were taken care of, so were their families. Those that had them, anyway.

A few fingers lifted on the lead soldier and the men filed out of the Tower and towards a nearby landing pad. There was a lead. Dathomiri woman on Fondor, a few hours flight away. They'd probably have to find her. Tracking like this got you a general area, not a specific location.

[member="Ysanae Vela"]

 

[Loxa Visl]

Nothing for a time.

Ysan sat, much like anyone who had never been a troublesome sort, waiting for someone to realize that she wasn't a bad person and that she didn't belong here. Eventually someone would realize it had all been a huge mistake, right? She fought off overwhelming fatigue, aches, pains, and hunger - funneled her remaining energy stores into her sense of awareness. Listening, waiting, attempting to feel her surroundings.

No use here, it seemed. The Dathomiri witch was as out of her element as one possibly could be. Her ability to sense and commune with her surroundings stopped at duracrete walls and steel bars.

Those sorts of things never had much to say anyways, at least to someone like her.

"Vali?"

She'd nodded off, but awoke with a start to someone standing before her cell. This time a uniformed woman with something of a sympathetic expression.

"You Vali?"

"Vela, yes," Ysan replied gently, slowly rising to stand and approach.

The woman looked her over with a tsk, "Got you some clean clothes, dear. We'll get you cleaned up, hot meal too. Come with me."

A shower, a drab set of female inmate clothes, and some food found Ysan feeling better. Physically, at least.

"Now," the female officer sat down with her afterwards, "Ysan, there's some confusion we need to clear up here. You don't look like the sort of person that belongs here. You came through the Netherworld rift, right? Then what happened?"

Ysan slowly recounted everything she could remember in the greatest amount of detail her grasp of the basic language would allow. After six years she was fluent, but the minutiae often escaped her and sometimes words just didn't come to mind. The officer didn't say much, but made a comment about the man whose arm Ysan had purportedly broken during the scuffle.

"Where's home, Ysan?"

"Naboo. I live with -" she was about to say I live with the Lor' Protektor, until she remembered that it wasn't public knowledge by his choice, "- the Royal family. I am Ambassador for the Lor' Protektor."

"...right. Well, Ysan there's a lot of people coming through that Rift still. Lots of people lost and confused. Lots of people coming here that don't belong here, some that could be in big trouble if we found them here. Lots of people lying about where they're from to keep from getting in trouble..."

"I ... understand," brow knit, Ysan thought she did. Was this woman accusing her of not telling the truth? Couldn't be. Ysan would never lie about that, "You have many people to help, as you say. If you speak to the Naboo Queen I am sure she will send someone for me."

"Yeah, I'll do that dear. You just get some rest. It could ...uh, take a while to get in touch with the Queen."

"Thank you."

The officer left and Ysan watched her go with mixed feelings.

Night came but she couldn't sleep.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

A few hours flight meant one thing. Nap time. And that's precisely what they did, except for the crew of their dropship. They didn't have the same luxury, though they didn't need it. They'd just started their work day for the most part and so weren't too concerned with exhaustion; merely boredom. The Fondor skyline stretched out as far as the eye could see, the still semi-polluted air making things hazy as short a distance as ten kilometers away.

But the dropship passed around buildings and speeders with ease, maneuvering until it came down to the last known reporting of a Dathomiri woman. Likely a goose chase. People pegged the wrong nationality all the time. The Gunny in charge ruminated that, likely, it was just a tattooed woman with exotic designs.

Seemed up the alley for all the skittish people left following the returning of the Nether.

The lights in the bay dimmed as the dropship circled, coming down on a landing pad half a klick from the purported last location. Not the best part of town. There was a string of holding buildings nearby designed to keep refugees housed, and the criminals locked up until they could be returned to their own worlds.

Coming down the ramp, the group of four took hurried steps down the nearby stairs, moving down to street level. A datapad was pulled out by each, and they began the exhaustive process of asking the right people the right questions and showing the right picture. Some lead nowhere, some lead to holding buildings, but there didn't seem to be anyone who knew where their target was.

Just had to keep looking a little longer, though. There was a wide area to cover.

It might take awhile, especially given the late hour.

 

[Loxa Visl]

Ysan lay curled on her side, eyes closed but mind reeling.

She could feel the durasteel skeleton of the bench bed beneath the mattress cushion, and though she was no stranger to discomfort - this was one she had not experienced before. Trees were more comfortable than this, but trees also whispered to her in the night and soothed her into dreams.

She thought about trees - Dathomiri jungles and the late night music ringing in a feast. The heady air of the jungle floor, thick with the scent of moss and earth. The sounds of rancors roaring in the distance. The tribal cry of the witches, the cheers of celebration. She could feel the grass beneath her feet, the touch of bark in her hands, the weight of a bow at her back and blade at her hip. The scent of blood from a fresh kill to offer the Elders lingered in her memory.

The blaze of purpose in her heart driving her feet forward, carrying word of far-away clans on the wind.

A familiar firepit nestled in the mountain valley, one she had not visited since her childhood days...


CLANG CLANG

Muscle memory and instincts reacted instantaneously to the startling sound, leaving the exhausted witch stooped on the bench and blinking into light of her cell. Several figures stood beyond the bars, conversing over something on a datapad.

"Says her name is Ysanai Vali," she recognized the Officer from earlier, "this your witch?"

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Their search had eventually lead to the detention centers. At a certain hour they weren't supposed to go pounding on doors without good, solid reasons. The first two hadn't yielded anything, but at the last an Officer on their way out for the evening recognized the name and cleaned up face. Sure enough, they were lead down a row of cells before the Officer pounded on a door.

The armored men, polarized helmets shielding faces from view, looked between each other and then the officer. "That's her, Sarge." One said, pointing to the woman. 'Sarge' gave a nod of his head. "Open the cell. That's our woman." The Officer went to grab her keys but found them arrested from her hand by a quick snapping hand from the Lance Corporal. "Terminal, open the karkin' door."

'Sarge' didn't sound to amused by the antics. After a bit of clinking, the cell slid open and the Sergeant stepped in. Everything was black, the helmet itself seemed modeled on a speeder bike helmet, though far more durable. Rank, name and Protectorate insignia were all readily viewable, and for someone named 'Sarge' there was no 'Potteiger' to back this man up as the Lord Protector.

That might actually confuse her.

"Come with us, Ms." The man says gruffly, extending a black gloved hand to her to help get her off the bed. This was the Protectorate in all its dubious glory. Faceless efficiency.

[member="Ysanae Vela"]

 

[Loxa Visl]

Confusion would be putting it mildly.

Despite six years of exposure to the militant and war-driven side of the Protectorate, Ysan still held a firmly wary outlook on its soldiers and their intent. For a Dathomiri Witch falling into a society run by men, coupled with their penchant for wearing masks at all times and her rather harrowing Netherworld experience, it was downright overwhelming.

She froze on the spot, eyes wide and pinpricked in the lights, staring up at the armored figure, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation - cept, of course, she had no where to go.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

What had been a polite veneer fell apart at the slightest hint of difficulty. They were tired. Haggard. They just wanted to go home. But they had to get this woman to the Lord Protector first, whether she wanted it or not. Almost universally the people they were after wanted to be found, but there were times they didn't. They hadn't planned on this being one of the difficult ones, especially in light of the situation.

The hand lowered, but he made no aggressive moves just yet.

"Stand up. You're coming with us." He repeats, more forcefully this time. "Command wants you. I don't care why. But if they want you, its my job to get you. Don't make this difficult." It was clear difficult was not going to be pleasant for her.

 

[Loxa Visl]

Every single muscle in her body drew tense as the man's tone dropped and for several drawn out moments she looked as though she might do something stupid.

The instinct was strong and built on years and years of conditioning as the Windtalker - an entity that did not get tangled up in dangerous situations, but avoided them at all costs. No war, no battles, no fighting. Survival? Yes, that she could do. Survival was how she'd escaped the Netherworld and ultimately how she ended up here.

Now she had to combat those old Dathomiri methods with the new modern and civilized version.

Slowly, warily, Ysan stepped off the bench and came to a stand, eyeing the man with every bit of hesitation that she'd give a bull rancor. There'd be no further difficulty, though her strong uncertainty and apparent fright would put a strain on things.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Terminal." There was a lift of his compatriots head. "Get the dropship down here." Another nod, then half inaudible words as he subvocalized coordinates to their waiting ride. It was loitering in the area, and was coming in for pickup out front now that they had their charge. Getting the woman out of the cell, the Sergeant looked to the Officer and gave the woman the keys to the cell.

Without another word the four formed up with the Witch in the middle, leading her out of the detention area and into the waiting depths of a dropship. A kind she'd been in once before on Naboo following the invasion. She was set in a seat and secured by straps in the event of a crash, and the group dropped themselves in before securing themselves. "Don't know why Command wants you but word is the Protector is looking for you."

This time, the man who spoke was young. A private, not that she'd know. Small talk.

 

[Loxa Visl]

The woman's posture was stiff, hunched, braced for some eventuality of threat that could be there, but likely never was. At least, not now that she was cooperating. Still, these were men and they were men she didn't know with faces she couldn't see. For all she did know, they could be lying themselves.

That would be a rather overcomplicated ruse for nabbing a witch, wouldn't it? With a blink, stormy blue eyes looked up as the younger man beside her spoke.

"Lor' Protektor..." she replied, "I said this before, no one believed me."

The ship gave a shudder as it lifted from the ground to which Ysan coiled inwards even more.

She really didn't like flying.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"No chit?" The soldier says with a snort. Who would believe that? It was too far fetched to ever be believable. "Next time try telling them that you're friends with the local police chief. Bit more believable." Hell, had they not been out looking for her, she'd have sat in that cell until they could verify she was supposed to live on Naboo and got her on the first transport there. Even that would have taken probably a month.

But here they were, in a dropship headed back to Omega Tower where they'd pass her off to an aide who would then take her wherever the hell she was needed. Hell, he could hear the pilot already comming the Tower asking where they were supposed to land - or, at least, make sure there was space for them. And, of course, let them know the package was secure. Setting his blaster rifle between his legs, the kid let his helmet fall back.

"Witch, huh?"

That drew a kick from 'Terminal' sitting next to him. "Quit flirtin' with her."

 

[Loxa Visl]

Ysan frowned. She was not used to disbelief. The Windtalker did not lie, her lot in life was serving true words from one culture to another to build good faith between peoples. To be called a liar? It did not sit well with her.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, eyes momentarily flickering after subtle movements around her; a shift of a foot here, twitch of a hand there - obscured by a momentary bracing as the ship rattled and quaked. When she opened her eyes again they fell on the first face presented to her from this lot: the younger soldier.

The Witch gave him a disconcerted look, brow knitting, "...yes. I come from Dathomir. Have you met others like me before?"

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Nah, sweetheart, nah. Can't say I ever had the pleasure." Another kick. The two exchanged muted, angry words. Their body language said everything. Comfort. Familiarity. Camaraderie. It was evident they knew each other well. Or, at the very least, had some sort of shared experience to draw upon. Young One looked back to her. "What's the Big Guy want ya for?" This time the Sergeant chimed in.

With a grunt.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the Private shut up.

You didn't ask what the grab was for. You just made it and accepted that the Powers That Be knew what was going on.

[member="Ysanae Vela"]

 

[Loxa Visl]

Ysan's frown deepened as she watched the exchange. Not that she would pick up on what was blatant flirting, but it struck her as odd that the other man didn't seem to want them talking. She wondered if perhaps it was simply another run-in with racism.

Dathomiri Witches weren't exactly given the red-carpet treatment, as she'd come to find and learn more about from Sarge in her journeys through Protectorate space over the years. Nightsisters weren't trustworthy, and often looked upon with the same amount of spite as Sith were around these places. Ysan couldn't say that she entirely disagreed with this sentiment given her history with Nightsisters, but Allayans were so rare off-world that typically any mention of Witch was simply grouped with their better-known, far-more-dangerous half.

The topic changed and her discomfort grew.
What did the Lord Protector want with her?

To watch over Ashai. To keep his home. To make him dinner? More likely he wanted to see that she was safe. Ysan had no idea how long she'd been lost in the Netherworld or what had transpired in the galaxy during that time. Had she been gone that long?

"I do not know..." she answered finally, thinking she'd much rather be making dinner right now if it meant being anywhere but exactly where she was. The ship shuddered again before pitching off to one side, causing the Witch to blanch, "I do not feel well-"

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

All the guys sort of leaned back or away from her, not wanting a one way ticket to stomach-bile city. "Not much longer." One says, and they all quieted down as the dropship banked upward towards a landing pad halfway up the Tower. A minute or two more and it was cycling down power to the engines and the ramp was lowering. One by one, the soldiers unstrapped and then helped her along... even if she were coated in vomit.

At that point, they lead her down the ramp where a Rodian stood in a service uniform, datapad in hand. He wasn't alone long though before the familiar face of Sarge appeared behind him, the Lord Protector wearing his habitual fatigues. "Ysan." He says, brow raising faintly at the woman.

[member="Ysanae Vela"]

 

[Loxa Visl]

Vomit she did. Witches were ground-dwellers, not skypeople. She'd never managed to get over space-sickness, so it would come as little surprise to Sarge when he finally laid eyes on her. They did indeed have to help her off the shuttle, holding her up by both arms. Ashen-faced, exhausted, and still baring the signs of her struggles through the Nether, Ysan's pale eyes rolled up to meet him as he spoke her name.

She was a mess, but to her credit she managed not to get too much on herself.

Ysan answered with a quiet pacean greeting and the man's nickname earned on Dathomir: Skywalker, before retching again.

So much for not getting much on herself. At least Sarge was more than out of range, though she couldn't say the same for the two holding her up. Shuddering, she only offered an apologetic glance, keeping any words to herself lest it happen a third time.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Ysan had.... clearly seen better days. Hadn't they all? Sarge gave the woman a look of genuine concern before she decided to vacate her stomach in a violent and sudden fashion. There was a name he hadn't heard in quite some time. 'Skywalker.' There was a lot of people who would be confused by that name if they ever learned of it. Just another name for a man who often went without.

Inhaling slowly, he motioned for the Rodian to get her a set of fatigues to wear so they could get her cleaned up. "Welcome home, Ysan." He says warmly. "Well, not quite home. But close." The men held her up until Sarge came to take hold of her so they could get themselves situated in non-puke-covered gear. "Come inside, we'll get you situated before getting you back to Naboo."

Inside would be good for her. They were halfway up a skyscraper and on a landing pad sticking out from the side like an unsightly growth. Above them sat the menacing barrels of anti-air emplacements. A reminder that this was a place of war, not peace. With a smile, he started taking her inside, hoping she wasn't about to puke again; this time on him.

[member="Ysanae Vela"]

 

[Loxa Visl]

Fatigues were a curious form of apparel, especially to one who had learned to disappear without the need for synthetic patterns. That, of course, seemed like a lifetime away. She had no need for her jungle wiles anymore, at least not within the last six years. Six years of maintained peace and prosperity, carefully guarded. Naboo would not ever compare to the dangers of Dathomir, but that was not to say it was without its own unique challenges for the Windtalker.

For instance: getting Ashai acclimated to the presence of a young tuskcat juvenile.

And then: getting Sarge acclimated to the idea of the presence of a young tuskcat juvenile.

Challenges which Ysan met head-on with quiet, gentle, stoic and unyeilding determination.

Three years later? Ashai was understandably leery of Bala but the pair got on well-enough. Especially when Bala became too large to come inside. And Sarge? Well, he tolerated it with as much grace as he tolerated anything. What could he really say to the woman who practically raised his wolf and kept his home?

Ysan missed Bala, Ashai, the lakeside home and Naboo. She missed time spent with Sarge on his infrequent returns to the home. Things had changed so much in the last six years, and while she had been prepared to undertake great changes she had not been prepared for the permanence of it all. Her new life was a wonderful thing, and she was homesick for Naboo, but peering into the looking glass within the fresher of Sarge's office floor, she came to realize that she missed something else far more. The Netherworld had given her haunting glimpses into a past she'd never been privvy to. Views of her life as it might have been, could have been, had things before her time carried out differently. As she thought on this, eyes balefully gazing at the fatigues, a deep frown etched into her expression.

Where had the pride in her heritage gone? Had she lost sight of the totem she represented? Was she lingering too far from the path chosen for her? What would the clan Mothers say if they saw her now? Perhaps they'd be proud of how far she had come and how much she had learned, but would they not also scorn the manner in which she had seemingly discarded her culture and traditions?

Ysan returned to Sarge's presence, wherever it was that he had waited for her, feeling strangely self-aware of her attire. It was itchy and uncomfortable, which was saying something considering her decor as a Witch when he first met her.

"[I look like you,]" she commented quietly in pacean, looking down at the new outfit - similar to many things she'd seen him geared-up in before.