Beat the 'Borg!

[Sam Rodarch]

The festivities were in full swing. The merry sound of Lasat folk music danced throughout the twilight sky and the smell of questionable fried foods and cigarra smoke punctuated the air. Stark flashing neon streaking through the vision of those who chose to look, growing ever brighter and more obnoxious with the setting of the sun.

The carnies were in town.

With the travelling alien crew came food, drinks, rides, games and more pointless crap to buy than you could ever believe. It was everything and more you could imagine from the makeshift band, cheap and cheerful and yet so dubious at the same time. Perhaps it was the stereotype of foreign travellers that gave it all an edge of not-so-legal, or perhaps it was just rampant xenophobia at play in the minds of those that came.

Or maybe, just maybe it was the sight of the large cage, a sign affixed proudly at the front:

BEAT THE 'BORG & WIN 10,000 CREDITS!

“Ya fink ya got wot it takes!? 'Ow 'bout yaself, sir? Ya look tough, but are ya brave?!” the Lasat's voice boomed through the cage's speakers, challenging the gathering crowd in thickly-accented Basic, “It'sa lotta dosh to win! All you gotta part wif is thirty creds! Could get yaself that new speeda ya've been 'finkin about! Cheeky little holiday for yaself an tha missus! No? Wot's tha worst that could happen!?”

A pause, and a hearty laugh was amplified through the grounds before a slight addendum was made.

“Nobody's died yet!”

He lied.

Of course plied on enough toxic bathtub alcohol it wasn't long before a drunken voice cut through the throng of excited chatter, filled to the brim with arrogance and inebriation.

“EASY FETHING MONEY!”

As the challenger paid his admission and signed what seemed to be a waiver written on the back of a coaster the 'borg in question waited. At least half of a woman stood centre in ring, equipped with what seemed to be a completely neutral expression. It was hard to tell, largely because in the place of a jaw and a nose sat scuffed and dented black metal that ran all the way down the cyborg's throat, ending where the shockboxing outfit began.

Mismatched red eyes, both of mechanical construction simply stared, as all surrounded flesh seemed grey and clammy, dark circles seemingly carved below the creature's stare.

Easily overlooked however, in the face of those cybernetic arms, seemingly of the same material fused to her face. The right hung at her side, its purpose clear. Destruction. Limbs designed to batter flesh and to break bones. The left however, was absent from just above the elbow, appearing to have been hacked off by a two-bit chop shop on Nar Shaddaa.

Both the announcer and the drunken idiot entered the cage, and after much whooping, swaggering and taunting in pre-fight showmanship there came an extra announcement.

“Tell ya wot! I like ya swagga, son! An extra twenty credits an' the 'Borg'll let ya get a free hit in!”

This was offensive, as it simultaneously tempted the man and questioned his masculinity and bravado. He spat upon the mat in response, his spittle an alarming shade of blue due to concoctions imbibed in the lead up to this, his moment.

“IT CAN SHOVE IT UP ITS ASS!”

A bold declaration as the buffoon danced on the balls of his feet, craning his neck and bobbing and weaving as if he was some kind of hand-to-hand veteran. Hint: He was not. However, while this showboating distracted the crowd, announcer and cyborg exchanged a look, it would seem nothing more than that...

...but then again, these were carny folk.

“A bold choice, 'guv an' yours to make, right enough! Wot do you fink, ladies and gentlemen? Can 'e do it!? Can 'e BEAT THE 'BORG?!”

What followed was rather simple.

The bell rang.

The inebriated man discarded all of his false form and charged the woman, throwing all of his weight behind a sloppy haymaker. The cyborg leaned backwards, letting the careless fist whizz harmlessly by and then in one swift manoeuvre responded with a vicious hook that connected with his skull and sent him down like a paralysed bantha.

The bell rang.

Just as quickly as he had stepped out, the charismatic Lasat was back into the cage, wearing the smile of a man that had just made thirty easy credits without a lick of work involved on his part.

“Too bad! So sad! An' that, ladies and gentleman, is why ya gotta always take the free hit!”

Without further ado, the cyborg's only hand was raised, a small cannister slyly palmed into her own as her face remained ever impassive, just staring outwards at the crowd.

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]

 

[Darth Morrow]

It took awhile for Morrow's little bird to get back to her, two years in fact. Sent with nothing but a list of names and places the young girl was set out with the warning to not return unless she found the location of everyone, everything, on the list. Most of the contents were leftovers of her former Masters scrap, things that could be re purposed or studied. Some things even from the master before Imperia, and the one before her. It was a boon of being the apprentice of the ghostly Sith woman, much ancient history of former sith lords was compiled and at the ready for any of them to glance at in a moments notice on Iridonia.

But something on that list caught the woman's eye, something she hadn't listed yet was brought back all the same. A half droid human monstrosity was among gathered Intel of Imperias possessions, now in the hands of showmen begging for scrap. While cyborgs were disgusting excuses for beings, perhaps something could be gained from the thing; missing pieces of a puzzle still not solved.

That was the reason the Lady found herself on the dreaded planet dressed in clean robes and followed by two of her dark armored faceless helmet guards, vibrostaffs at the ready should any make a move wrongly towards their master. Disgraced during the rule of the galactic empire the planet now found itself in relative ruin, the society still present thrived only on the cheap excuses and substitutes for depressants it produced, and the meak entertainment occasionally provided.

As she passed the crowds things were offered to her from a safe distance, food and drink she found no need for, and beings talking to her that should know their place. Receiving nothing but glares of hatred and silence in response she continued on to the center of events; "Beat the 'Borg" They were all calling it. Likely the cyborg she was looking for was the center of events. Walking up to the man screaming his nonsense a guard would whisper something in his ear on behalf of the woman, only to be batted away an ignored. Darkened eyes settled on the man as Morrow herself approached him, hand slightly stretched and ready to grab and launch the man should she not hear the answer she deigned appropriate.

"I am here to collect my property." Volcanic orange eyes bored holes into the carney man's face, anger dripping off ever consonant and vowel. "And considering all the profit you have earned off of it too, I demand that as compensation for the damages dealt to it."

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

“Ya property, luv?” the Lasat questioned, swiftly turning off his microphone so such a conversation was not broadcast for every single mark around to hear, “Didn't ya 'ear? A cyborg is for life, not jus' for Sithmas.”

Those already in attendance already observed the scene unravelling in hushed silence, the presence of the woman and her entourage very easily unnerving the general fair-going public. The moment that the crowd's attentions were gone for her, the cyborg had no hesitation in taking the palmed cannister and immediately jamming it into her own thigh, a small needle penetrating the flesh.

Stims.

Or at least a substance masquerading as such. They weren't exactly the highest quality Mandalorian-prepared battle stimulants, no, quite the opposite. A dubious mix of the cheap chemicals and amphetamines. Not that she cared. Did the job. Scratched the itch, lifted the fatigue, numbed the pain, made her feel a little more human and a little less monstrous.

The damaged vocaliser upon her throat crackled and hissed.

Meanwhile several feet away from the realm of drug-addicted cyborgs stood a rather perturbed, but still restrained Lasat. The alien had witnessed his fair share of run-ins with xenophobic authorities which largely explained his lack of fear in the presence of the woman. Usually these situations were settled with a bribe, but usually said situations didn't involve the authorities trying to lay claim to his property.

“We found 'er in that state, mostly,” he continued, almost seeming offended that she implied that the damaged amassed to the cyborg was all due to him and his motley crew, “would hate to fink ya'd take 'er back just ta dump 'er again.”

Said almost as if he cared.

Once more she was staring, but now more animated than she had been prior, legs bouncing with chemical adrenaline. A crease in her brow as the focus of her attention was only the woman that spoke to her employer. There was something that caused her to look, something muddled and confused that fed into a sense of both dread and rage. Familiar and yet alien all at the same time. Why?

The Lasat leaned in closer, speaking now in hushed tones that would be out of earshot for anybody wishing to listen.

“It's my property, luv an' it makes me creds. Ya want it? Ya buy it, an' it ain't cheap, let me tell ya that.”

And there were the true colours.

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]

 

[Darth Morrow]

"Wrong answer."

Dark eyes locked on the Lasat before her as the first at her side closed tightly, white skin turning purple around the fingers as an invisible grip wrapped around the aliens throat dragging him within an inch of his own death. Black wisps of energy curled off of the Sith Lady as her rage built, the hatred she had for their kind and the thought of the size of his bravery drove her a little farther. No one usually had the gall to make such a claim before her, the courage to stand to the ghost from hell itself.

Though this man wasn't the first to find himself at her mercy. Fist held tight the skin of the man would begin to turn blue, the inevitable clawing at the throat would take place before he dropped to his knees; only then did the woman release her grasp and her guards reached for blasters at their sides.

"I am the apprentice of our glorious emperor Lord Carnifex, and you dare stand against my will? This cyborg is being reclaimed by the empire for my uses, dare to oppose again, or have you not learned?"

Her fist crackled with electrical energy as blue shifts of lightning whipped from her palm. Eyes of fire stared the man down as she awaited his next hopefully thought out rebuttal. Her officers could cut down the crowd around them in moments without a lift of her own finger, and she was hoping he was wise enough to realize this. If he didn't well, it was no harm to her, and the galaxy would be rid of a bit more scum lining its boots.

Sparing a glance to the cyborg she wondered if perhaps it was intelligent enough to step in for its own bosses life, or to perhaps realize what was going on between its pathetic indulgence in chemicals of pleasure.

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It was then that the Lasat knew he had made a mistake.

Usually the authorities that hounded him were far lower on the totem pole. Far lower. Traffic violations lower. That's what made them so easy to bribe, the low-brow and the miserable clinging to the superiority complex that the uniform gave them, but Force users? Oh boy.

The immediate reaction to the invisible vice grip around his throat was of course panic as oxygen was suddenly denied in the face of his defiance.

What features were visible upon the cyborg's face darkened as the life was choked out of the ringleader. Familiarity growing alongside that rage. Sith. Jumbled stim-smashed memories pulled more words and feelings out of the air. Grotthu. Abandoned. Pain.

A sound.

A crunch.

It still wasn't clear. It was something, but it didn't make sense. There was memory there, but they had become worn and faded, only offering direction by way of an emotional response.

As predicated the Lasat was now blue in the face and desperately grasping at his own throat as if he could have freed himself from such a predicament, black spots dotting his vision as his brain screamed for oxygen, a life full of regrets flashing before his eyes as his end fast approached, but then a mercy, at the last moment he was released and could only gulp in each desperate breath through fits of violent coughing.

“...feth! I....ack didn't....aaaah....know....jus'....take it!”

The cyborg stepped forward, only realising now that this interaction was in fact pertaining to her. It. This, alongside a drug-fuelled adrenaline only ceased to feed that hatred at the core of her cybernetic being. They keep saying it.

No hesitation was present in her approach, no sense of fear or apprehension in the face of lightning, blasters or choking. The vocabulator in her throat hissed and crackled, even its mechanical failures seemingly spitting with a violent hatred.

“...chhkk....”

The chemicals coursing through her body were in full-effect now. Logic lost to adrenaline. No care was held for the struggling alien upon the ground, there was only a want for a violence, for a retribution that wasn't even fully realised.

“...hsss....FIGHT....”

And she would keep approaching with the intention of squaring right up to the taller woman, and even then she had no plan of stopping. She would shove herself into the Sith until somebody physically stopped her.

Or until the bell rang.

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]

 

[Darth Morrow]

An unamused look stared to the half mechanical monstrosity as it approached her, a deep breath of audible impatience filled the air as one of the guards was handed her robe. After all she didnt want to destroy yet another like the rest as of late. So instead once the robe was removed the woman could be seen in tight fit pants, her upper torso wrapped in bandages darker than her pale white skin. Dark eyes locked on the creature as it approached and she waited for it to swing.

When the inevitable first punch came the hand was grabbed in the blink of an eye, metal beginning to ooze from the arm as it turned to hit fire in her grasp and dripped to the sand below. The other hand came up to meet the head of Sam near the temple, one of the only spots metal hadn't been present.

As the metal melted down it began to coil around the leg of the cyborg, then the other, a thick string of iron now tying itself between her feet and inter tangling itself. Within second it began to harden and link the legs of the beast before it could take another step towards her.

"If you're truly set on injuring a god, you should perhaps be better prepared, cyborg."

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Unexpected.

It's not every day that somebody stops a cybernetic fist with such ease, although that was hardly the woman's prime concern as her arm seemingly began to melt, liquid metal dropping off the artificial limb like it wa-

And then a fist collided with her head.

At least it was a little more conventional in the current scenario. It was like being winged by a passing speeder, an almighty fist to crack the skull and spill the crimson, sending her head rocketing to the side. Pain, at the very least was no issue here, the chemical help winding everything back to a soft but constant buzz.

“....cchhhkk.....zzzt....”

It was impossible to tell whether the cyborg was trying to engage in some kind of smack talk or if malfunction had fully taken a hold of her being.

The dampened sensation of burning encroached upon her legs as the metal from her prosthetics now found new form around her legs, solidifying in an instant and very rudely binding her legs together, the smell of burnt flesh now intermingling with the festivities.

All it wrought was further anger. It wasn't logical. If logic were in play then the woman would have happily just left with the Sith, no? Or perhaps would have ran instead. But no, she was here, staring furiously, a mind ruled by drugs and rage wishing for nothing more than to smash a crater into the other woman's face.

“...hssss....NO-chk.....”

This aforementioned lack of logic was the perfect explanation as to why the creature thought it could still step forward and have a go.

And then she fell face first like some kind of mangled tree.

Not much of a deterrent though, as the cyborg continued to attempt some form of foolish assault, attempting to club her now misshapen half-arm against the Sith's legs.

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]

 

[Darth Morrow]

"Whether you wish to or not, you're coming with me."

And that was it, a punch launched to the skull of the cyborg as she was then pushed up by the earth lifting underneath her. Soldiers made move to grab arms and legs as the thing, was carried to her transport waiting aside. Should any decide to stand in her way Morrow wouldn't hesitate to rip a saber through them; though hopefully they were smarter than that. On her way to leave she glanced back, eyes on the Lasat announcer, a smile creeping across her face as a hand outreached through the force and grabbed onto the back of their clothing.

"You will be coming with me as well to serve The Empire, let that be a lesson to the rest of you freaks." The dark eyes of Morrow cast over the crowd once more as the ballsy man was dragged through the sand with no hope of escape. He'd be sent to the camps in the morning, likely, he'd be bought quick as a toy for some spoiled brat, either that or a nice treat for a hound. Whatever happened to him after sale she couldn't care less, but he would be an example to the rest.

--

Back aboard the Apotheosis medical staff quickly hurried about the laboratory in silence, their Lady had given them orders and they had seen what should happen if they failed. Within moments of being brought aboard the cyborg was hooked up to drips and put under a stasis while the ship made way back to dromund kaas, quick to avoid the Emperor, Morrow sent work to the clone facility below that a body was needed and they themselves began a process. Before long the chamber of blue liquid with a muscular yet slight form was sent on board the cruiser, lifted to the medical wing and left along with no one other then the cyborg and the Sith woman herself.

Closing herself off from prying eyes a ritual was performed over the course of a day. Ripping forth the spirit from one body to the other the new, pristine human body was placed on another bed, the dark forces willing spirit would be forced to another as the beaten and wrecked body crumbled to nothing more than black powder and a pile of metal scrap. The soul itself was dragged through the nether and back, the pain of carrying such a burden of a drug ridden mind ate at the haunting Lady, though she pulled through none the less, guiding the spirit to its new form.

Having done all she could the medical staff were summoned back to clean the remaining mess. The once monstrous fighter was cuffed to the edges of the bed and the lights were dimmed as most aside from a supervisor left in silence. Whether the transfer would take hold was up to the will of Sam, though now she had a chance at a new life, one not filled with meaningless fighting and a cycle of depressants.

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The events that proceeded were largely a blur, a second solid fist to the head knocking her brain for a loop and sending the cyborg into a concussion-based stupor. A moment picked up here and there. Being carried. There had been a scream, it had cursed the xenophobes that had doomed it as the fate of the announcer was left largely dubious. A transport, then a ship.

Then nothing.

At first.

A few notions and scattered memories flickered at first. Thoughts of home, hazy and distant lurked, nothing more than the sound of a hammer striking an anvil, the clang echoing over and over again, distorting until it sounded more like the ring of a bell.

Suddenly she found herself as she once was, human, stood in the centre of the squared circle and face-to-face with the more current reflection of herself in all of its hideous metallic glory. Around the ring was nothing but darkness, no venue, no crowd, just their arena. It stood and stared, a monstrous creation with no sense of emotion, the flesh left behind gaunt and grey.

A creature.

A thing.

It.

The bell rung and the cyborg began to walk towards her. Looking down the woman found her hands bare where there should have been shockboxing gloves.

“Wait, my gloves...”

Her opponent didn't falter, still approaching until it was upon her, and without hesitation threw a savage uppercut that was only dodged by an inch as the woman hopped backwards. This wasn't fair. How was she supposed to fight this thing, let alone without her gloves?

“What is your name?” the cyborg questioned, the emotionless voice emerging from the vocabulator in its throat as it kept walking towards her.

“What? I don't....my name? I...uh...” but nothing came, like it was knowledge never learned as she continued to back away from the pursuing monster, right until her back was pressed against the cage.

“You don't have a name.”

Another punch thrown, a straight metal fist heading straight for her head that was avoided as the woman scrambled away to the side. She tried to run but found a trailing arm caught by cold black grip and then a savage hammer blow slammed down upon her back, the force of which caused her to fall to her knees.

“Names are for people.”

The bulky prosthetic limb found itself around her throat, squeezing ever-tighter and preventing the flow of any and all oxygen both in and out. She struggled fruitlessly against the monster behind her, legs kicking wildly, hands attempting to pry the arm away but not being able to budge it a single inch.

“And you are nothing.”

The other hand grabbed her jaw and began to squeeze, the pressure growing until it was unbearable, the bone beginning to give way and crack. Can't breathe. Jaw breaking. Conscience fading. Struggles dying down. Body going limp. This was it. This was the end.

Death.

“NO!”

Blue eyes snapped open accompanied by a great shuddering gasp as the woman emerged suddenly from the horror of nightmare. Chest heaved dramatically as if her lungs had forgotten how to breathe, eyes darting around the dimly lit room as if pacification could be found upon the very walls that surrounded her. Something was wrong.

Instinctively arms went to move, only to meet resistant at the wrists and it was felt. Metal digging into flesh as she pulled roughly enough for it to hurt, for her to feel. That wasn't right. That wasn't how that was supposed to...

A horrified whine began to leave her mouth as her eyes looked down and caught sight of two arms made of flesh cuffed to the bed railing either side of her. Real arms. Human arms. That wasn't right. This wasn't right. This wasn't who she...

...who was...

...what was...?

The realisation followed soon after that the sound she had just made had in fact left her mouth and not her throat, and that it held emotion, no longer tinged by a robotic nature.

It came from a mouth.

Her mouth.

It all became too much for a mind to comprehend, being made flesh again was probably reason to celebrate, but in the overwhelmed confusion of it all, the woman instead began to thrash and scream bloody murder.

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]

 

[Darth Morrow]

The doctor reading from a data pad would quickly shift out of his seat and up to meet the woman as she panicked on the bed. After all they were prepared for the shattered mental state she might be in, Morrow had informed the bunch to keep close eye on her progress in the coming days. Pressing a button on the wall a quiet alarm sounded as a few others came in from an office towards the back to assist in the calming, or the sedation, which one would be up to her. It was a miracle the woman managed to bridge the connection in the first place without being sensitive, let alone not entirely lose her mind in the hells of ether.

A few medical assistants reached to try and keep Sam down, the pulling of cuffs on her arms bruising the pale perfect skin that was once there. The doctors arm reached out to put a hand on the woman's shoulder's and glance into her eyes with a sage green peace.

"Sam, Sam we need you to remain calm. We know this is a shock to you but you're alright, you're in good hands." The man spoke quietly, trying to reassure the woman as another medic came from around him to sneakily inject a sedative into the IV that would quickly find was into her bloodstream.

It was in the brief moment of calm the heels could be heard from down the corridor approaching the medical wing. |

Clack
Clack
Clack

The sound only began to come to a halt as Lady Morrow rounded the corner into the chamber, Volcanic eyes set on Sam Rodarch from the doorway. Now dressed in a more formal uniform the woman stood with long black pants, a tan top and a black collar around the neck of the upper piece, off of that rested a red cape for a bit of needless, yet intimidating and important flare.

"I'm impressed you crawled your way back to life. I was just about to have them pull the support if another day had passed of your absence."

Black lips locked in a straight line as she examined the new body covered in nothing but a hospital gown of dark grey fabric.

"I hope it's to your liking, I altered the body to every detail I could remember, though some things may not be exactly the same." Indeed the form held much similarity to her original body before the metalic enhancement, before the destruction of clean flesh for alien adjustment and substitution. Imperia never cared for properly healing her servants, and there always came a point that something could no longer be fixed after being left to rot.

Though unlike the original body of Sam Rodarch this new form held a silent and hidden power to it. Strength that could be felt below the surface. Looking down to her wrists Sam might notice the bruising attained from yanking on cuffs now faded quickly without pain. Features once slim and fragile now exaggerated ever so slightly giving her a more womanly curve.

"I know this might be a lot to handle, though know I am not as careless as your former master. I am here to grant you purpose, and safe harbor through the galaxy, so long as you serve me and The Empire. I will never bring harm to you so long as you serve faithfully, and you will always be treated fairly should you show the same respect to me."

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Sam.

The rest of the doctor's words were lost to the ether, as a name reverberated throughout the woman's head over and over again. Her name.

It was like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind straight out of both mind and body. Eyes grew wide as they stared forward in the utter shock of such a revelation. How could somebody forget their own name? It was the foundation of an identity, names were said to have power and hers had been lost for so long. How long had it been? Who was she?

There were words there.

Cyborg.

Freak.

It.

But like a blinding beam of light splitting the darkness there was another.

Sam Rodarch.

A sense of peculiar calm washed over the woman, not fitting for the scenario of the grandest revelations but the result of sedation. A warmth of drowsiness washed over her, the distress of the ordeal being shrivelled in the light of relaxation somewhat. Body less tense now, struggles fading and fists becoming unclenched as Sam lay back in the bed, a clack of heels approaching.

“I am Sam Rodarch,” she muttered to herself, the sound of a human voice behind her words still difficult to process in its entirety.

Eyes of blue contrasted with those of orange as the former-shockboxer found herself looking at a familiar figure. Of course, the Sith from before who had come to claim her. Even then it was difficult to recall exactly what had happened, all that seemed to be left were echoes of emotions, most largely negative.

A few times in the moment Sam caught herself having to remember to actually physically breathe, having grown far too accustomed to the process being fully automatic.

So this Sith had given her new form? In somewhat sluggish sedation her forehead creased with puzzlement before all was seemed to be revealed. Made of flesh once more but still property. New humanity all but skin deep as one master was to be traded for another. Face fell, confusion mingling with a dejected form of frustration, not a single iota of emotion hidden from a face now free of black metal.

“...what if I don't want to serve you?” Sam Rodarch asked under the haze of sedation, her stare unbroken as a question was asked in earnest, “What if I want to go home?”

Home in truth still lay shrouded in the mystery of memory, a state of being rather than a physical place but if her name could return, then perhaps so could the idea of home.

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]

 

[Darth Morrow]

The woman smile ever so slightly as she leaned against the wall, arms crossed as she stared over Sam with a gaze of fire. The need to force submission ran through her head faintly, though this time there was no need for real violence, could always break someones spirits with nothing but words. This woman however, needed convincing as well.

"Everyone craves purpose. You served Darth Imperia, I serve The Dark Lord, Your alien boss now serves someone too. We all need a purpose, and I can tell in your head you are utterly lost. You have a handful of memories to your name and a hollow feeling in your chest that's leading you in a spiral of circles in your empty little head."

Stepping forward the ghostly woman moved forward, her eyes trained on Sam as she passed the foot of the bed and viewed a collection of notes on a datapad in the wall.

"And I hate to break it to you, but your home is long gone. Mandalore was taken by the Empire and most of it reduced to rubble. If you had a family still alive, they aren't now."

Looking over a few paragraphs, her fingers tapped on a table by her side.

"Shame really, though people are better off without ties, without lovers, without holes in defenses that can be used against you."

Turning back she perched herself on the end of the table, her red cape pooling down the side to the floor.

"My point being, I've given you a new body, I offer you the chance to come clean of your addictions. You have no where else to go unless you plan on ruining your life once more; and if you plan to do that I can simply preform my ritual again, throw you in a scrap droid and send you on your way so I can give some other poor soul a chance at redemption."

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Even under sedation there was a prickle of heat there, jaw clenching at the mention of the notion of an empty little head. Little too much of the truth there to handle. It had been a long while since the concept of being offended had surfaced within Sam's mind, it was almost refreshing, were it not frankly so annoying.

Then stay out of my head.

In muffled frustration the woman laid her head back down upon pillow, staring up at the ceiling as the fate of Mandalore was thrown into the room. Fingers flexed, one by one, the marvel of real flesh still not fully absorbed but at the very least not causing the same amount of horror as they had mere minutes beforehand. Thank the Force for strong sedatives, eh?

There was an expectation that a wave of mourning might have passed over Samantha Rodarch when considering the sight of a demolished Mandalore. That sounded right. Felt right. Rodarch was a clan name, yeah. Then why no grief? Not even a single numbed notion of such a thing. Instead gleamed a single spark of amusement, but as soon as it came it disappeared. Other things to think about, more pressing than memories lost.

“What? You want gratitude?”

It was a prickly response, but under the Sith's threat there felt no other appropriate way to respond. Back against the wall, or more appropriately arms cuffed to a bed there was a sense of hostility. She had never been known for her pleasantries, it had just been so long since the woman had felt, well, human.

“Chance at redemption,” Sam repeated with a mutter, eyes still up at the ceiling as she considered a gaze less pixelated than before, “what have I done that needs redeeming?”

Jaw stiffened, teeth clenched as there was brief consideration towards what atonement was needed on her behalf. For stims? For a lifetime's worth of misfortune in servitude? What made this woman different beyond her word that wouldn't guarantee that her fate was back right at square one?

“I don't want to be fething property any more.”

Eyes shut now, fists clenched and wrists pulling at the cuffs slightly. Everything was confusing, strained and taut. Perhaps merciful that the woman had been sedated in the first place. Far less shouting at the very least.

“But if I say no you're just gonna kark me, right? That's how this goes, doesn't it?”

-

[member="Darth Morrow"]