Objective: Regroup, Reload, and Breach
Location: Factory Designated Krill-6-13
Allies: [member="Enyo Typhos"]
Enemy:
Posts: 5/20
Her face, that grim tale of war, misery even, clutching so beautifully to the contours of it's subtle curves. It was one so very familiar to Six-O. No, not for it's absolute resemblance to that of the flame-haired [member="Siobhan Kerrigan"]. Ethereal Fist of Kaeshana, responsible for striking Star Destroyer from sky by fortune of her terrible will of mind alone.
It was from a much, much, deeper prospective that the careful lines which scaffold the structure triggered this reaction of memory.
He had been a very different creature then, the same, actually, but somehow so different. So changed from what Six-O was in this day. This flash of light. A cosmic blink that would regale these very tales in another time, another Galaxy, Far, Far Away. . .
Perhaps it indeed was, just one, measureless jest.
By what manner could the Droid calculate this improbable probability.
Six-O could still feel the words of the apparition, the spiritual twin of this marred specimen of strength and power. But that indeed was not always so. The Droid did wonder, could she feel it radiate from his circuits? Would the whine of his rotors and groan of steel speak to her of the Tragic Ode of Taanab.
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwwGk_HnIcs[/youtube]
It was a poem of catastrophic hardship and sadness, written 2,651 Years after the Treaty of Coruscant, 2 Years before the Ruusan Reformation.
Now, it never became as well known as the riveting verses penned by the dear poet Felloux, after the Battle of Mizra--which Six-O had fought during----but the Droid quite preferred it. Firstly, because he was among the final individuals able to produce the original lines spoken during the final vicious atrocities comitted there. Perhaps, moreso, because he had been the very harbinger that swept life from Abby-Lynn Mysek's eyes.
Under Skere Kaan had the Brotherhood of Darkness and their allied Forces become as plague to the land. Five hundred and ninety-eight days of despondent misery. Machines of War and Powers of the Force so horrid that even the most callous of this Century seemed as mere children enacting their blood fantasy.
There were no authentic monsters anymore, mere nominal pretenders---simple waifs forever trying to one-up their baseborn brothers and sisters.
But there was a day once, that this was not always so matter-of-factly stated.
Seven hundred and two million, six hundred and thirteen thousand, eight hundred and nine.
702,613,809.
The Ancient Automaton could recall every flesh animation that had met their end in that Campaign of extermination. It wasn't about the War being waged on that fertile soil. It wasn't about the profane cruciation, or the hurt of hunger, the raw suffering of squalid souls.
It was the aching agony of sorrow that drove madness of the minds so deep that the very bone that cradled movement could not shiver the hurt away.
A lesser creature than Six-O could not bear the haunting, were the organic brain able to hold such chilling abominations, the psyche would snap, cold grave dug early. A luxury that the Droid could never know. To abandon even the most minor detail, IGa-60 would cease to be.
This horror was he.
Less than three hundred and seven days had it taken for Religion to find Tanaab. A system of belief that somehow made cheerless acceptance of their inevitable pain. . . their unavoidable deaths. The Jedi had failed them. The Sith had toppled them. Six-O and the Machines, they were the ones that broke them.
The Steel Scourge.
An Oil Painting of the wicked execution square still existed out there, somewhere.
Abby-Lynn Mysek had sang her somber tune as she, as many would, offered her own life, so young of age, already battered and scarred from the harsh landscape of this existence. Unable to cope any further with the nature of her reality, or for that of the one she feared her illegitimate child would lead.
Her final goodbye to the Galaxy.
Six-O had not spoken at length with [member="Enyo Typhos"] yet, merely offered his untiring labor for the rapid assembly of their make-shift Medical Zone, wasting his talent cordoning zones for the wounded.
"Uh, you, Droid! Accompany [member="Enyo Typhos"] to a forward position, we'll be breaching that door any minute now."
The Droid would ponder once more, somewhere inside that chassis of hers, did she recognize him?
Was the Galaxy not the most cruel entity of all?
For in how many Timelines, how many Mirrorverse Realities. . . how many instances had this face had the misfortune of crossing his path?!
"An [member="Enyo Typhos"], this way, please." He'd never sounded so much like a Droid. Having battled together so fiercely, and her intellect far surpassing what any simple organic possessed, she undoubtedly saw through this I'm a Simple Droid, Don't Mind Me routine.
