Locked Out of Heaven

[Sarge Potteiger]

Corellia​

Coronet​

Coronet Healing Spirit Hospital​

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A month and a half. A month and a karking half. That's how long he'd bloody well been here watching the unconscious form of the Lady Protector. That Witch had removed the Vong from her, but she still hadn't woken. Not quite yet, at least. Must have been a hell of a number they did on her, but considering the Lord General had said she was dead...

Thump.

Well, bleedin' took a lot to get a person back from the dead.

Draped sideways across a chair in the hospital room, Hastings cast his forest green eyes out the window towards an indistinct shape on a rooftop across the street. They'd shut down this section of the hospital so that no one would bother them - or know about the Lady Protector until such a time as she was deemed herself - and had done so under the cover of replacing piping.

Thump.

Not that he'd wear coveralls for any other reason, but time had taught them that the best cover wasn't cover at all. Have an actual reason and no one would question you. Period. Her vitals were good, at least. Strong. Steady.

Just hadn't woken up yet. "KARK." He swore as the rubber ball he'd been bouncing hit an odd angle and deflected into a corner of the room. Grumbling to himself he stood and went to pick it up, giving the Lady Protector a long look as if staring at her would bring consciousness back. "He misses you, you know?" He says to no one but himself, voice carrying a Low Imperial bent, coarse and uncultured.

"Man has bloody well been going out of his mind these past few months. I don't get it. Just how special are you?" The Lord General had always been a hard man from what he'd known, but ever since he'd been conscripted to work under him, Hastings hadn't imagined the depths to which 'hard' alluded to. He pushed you further than you'd ever been pushed forward and expected that to be your baseline. Nothing less would do for him.

But Hastings had never met the Lady Protector; he'd only heard stories.

He wondered what she'd be like when she awoke.

He wondered how the Lord would react.

 

[Cira]

Do the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?

Of the one?

It is an age old question. Perhaps one spent in contemplation and introspection for those much like the Order of the Jedi. But for those of the Protectorate, of the Pyre, it is another statement that fills the candle lit memorials of every Protectorate dead on Fondor.

A simple statement that perhaps be forever etched in infamy.

No one is left behind.

Ashes to ashes. And Dust to dust. Thousands of Protectorate soldiers dead. The earth of Alderaan soaked in their blood. Not for her freedom. Not for her liberty. But for a single woman.

The woman laying in a coma in that singular bed.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The heartrate monitor would announce the constant steady beat of Cira's heart. Her vitals were normal. Everything checked out. Well, as much as everything could go. While the Yuuzhan Vong biots had been removed, further inspection and battery of tests would determine that there were aspects of her that appeared to be lingering Vong biots of those insect like tresses that passed for hair were in reality, a lingering shapeshifting application of her physiology.

Her secret was out. The former Lady Protector was a changeling, her DNA structure showing traces of human as well as Shi'ido. What little is known of the changeling race deems them as a rather shy but curious race. Few have ever been seen outside of Lao-Mon, for a bloody civil war had decimated their numbers. After the Gulag Plague, it only made it worse.

Whatever manner of sith sorcery, alchemy, and Yuuzhan Vong shaping, the end result certainly had used the unique abilities of Cira as a catalyst for full integration in the Vong Shaping.

Maybe that is why it had worked so well.

For a woman so well used to fracturing herself into more than a dozen aliases; playing different roles, different lives... the mantel of Zhaera Shai, The Hydra Queen, was as easily picked up and slipped on like a change of clothes.

Perhaps, that is the most frightening of all...

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A ͏St͢ar̴ ̢woul̕d͜ Fa̕ll

̕A̸rmies͠ w͝ou̷l҉d ̛be҉ ͢sh͘atte҉r̷e͟d.

Ẃo͝rl͘ds ͞w҉ould b̕ur͜n͝.͜ ̶

́F͞o̴r tḩe ̢One͟.̧
͠
F͡o̴r Y̵u͘n̛ ͟-̢ Amon

For ͞I ̢a͢m Z͡haȩra̴ ̷S̡hai
͠
T͟hè V͠e͟ss̕el ͠o͝f̨ ͞Yun҉ - Har̷la̶
̸
And̢ H͝is Glo̶r͢y̧ shall ̧b̸e̴ mi҉n͏e҉.̶ ҉​

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*****​

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Beep. Beep. Beepbeep.

Beepbeep. Beepbeep! Beepbeep! Beepbeep!

The woman woke with a start.

She took a deep breath, the amber orbs of her eyes panning to focus. Her body was tense, it was easy to see. There was a wild look in her eyes, along with confusion. The sickly sweet scent of bacta was in the air, prompting her stomach to clench. Medical bays.


She hated medical bays.

Beepbeep! Beepbeep! Beepbeep! Beepbeep!

Claustrophobia took hold. The walls would seem to close down on her. The heart monitor would go wild, screaming the thundering of her beating heart.

A voice would break through the edge of her hearing. A word of calm.

She would have none of it.

Her legs would draw under her, tendrils of dreadlocked insect like legs flanking her face, moving into a crouching position upon the bed. IV cords would pull, tugging at her skin over her hand.

The woman yanked it out.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

BeepBeep Beep BeepBeep Beep.

Hastings returned to his seat, spotting Twombly in his carapace armor, rifle in hands across the way on a rooftop. It was their old gear, before they upgraded to powered, and it was used for the new initiates. The rifle in the young mans hand was a sniper, laser variant, with thick bundles of power cords snaking from the battery well to a pack on his back.

Only the best for the Inquisition.

Only the best for the safety of the Protectorate.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBEEPBEEPBEEP

She was waking, of that he was sure. The sudden movements of the First Captain out of his seat elicited a reaction from Twombly, who brought the rifle up and set it to stun, resting it on the roof edge so he could get a clean shot should it be necessary. "You're alright." He says hurriedly, trying to make heads or tails of whatever in the world these monitors were saying.

He wasn't a medic.

He didn't know how to handle this.

"APOTHECARY." The guttural Imperial tongue of Hastings was loud, angry, and his words echoed out into the hallway where heavy, plodding footsteps could be heard. Taking a step back as she positions herself like a crouching feline on the bed, he sorely wished he hadn't been told not to be armed. The Apothecary wasn't either - so to speak.

A moment later, a Force-null bubble was created in the room as a massive figure in bone white stepped into the room, red eye lenses staring out from above a snarling speaker-grille. A surgeons emblem was painted onto his breastplate, the Omega symbol inverted into a horseshoe - the ancient sign for good luck - stenciled onto his left shoulderguard. He filled the room easily, in both size and presence, a god of war given form. "She is awake." The harsh mechanical voice says in surprise, a Ysamalir cage strapped to his back.

His right gauntlet ended in syringes and a small drill, clearly designed for the penetration of armor in the field. Hastings gives a slow nod, thankful for the fact she wasn't going to be able to get out past the Apothecary. The window might have been a good choice were it not covered by a small shield attached to the outside. They'd wanted it to look like a normal hospital room.

That didn't mean it was.

"You are in Protectorate space, Lady. Please, lay down. We will contact the Lord General immediately." There were no aggressive movements from either man, who seemed to respect her space. "Do you remember who you are?"

Already, Twombly was furtively trying to get ahold of the man at the top of his food chain, knowing he was on leave at the moment.

[member="Cira"]

 

[Cira]

Crouching like a rabid Nexu was more like it. The scent of bacta was thick, her nose highly sensitive. Her body equally more so. Her physiology would take to drugs in effects tenfold. She hated that medicine head feeling.

The confusion.

Twin glowing embers would bloom in her eyes. Everything was unfamiliar. Fear. Panic. A dire pressing need to get away.

She felt caged.

Tack on the massive hunk of metal with a very unfriendly gauntlet of syringes and drill.

Curses in tongues of several languages went blooming in her mind. All of them said ome thing -- run.

So she did.

Her body was a blur despite the Force null affects. Blood would trickle where she'd yanked the neefless, the heart monitor a rabid piercing wail as she'd sent it crashing towards Hastings. Cords would whip, entangling limbs. The sudden flip and thrust of another medical device went charging at big white.

A distraction meant to allow her to slip past him.

Granted it was to throw her body forward, slipping on the ground to use the momentum to go right between his legs -- and out the door.

Just like that, she was out.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

She was spry, he'd give her that. But she was hyped on adrenaline - few more minutes and being in a bed for a month and a half would kick in. Until then, Hastings watched the Apothecary spin with a speed that was entirely impossible for something so large and snap out a gauntlet to try and get ahold of her. A little too slow; he'd misjudged the reaction time.

There were two ways to go, but the first thing she'd notice about the hallway was that it was covered in thick plastic tarping; the kind used to keep dust out of places it shouldn't be in construction. Piping was being replaced all around, and down and to her right stood what appeared to be a work crew, diligently putting said new piping into place in the wall.

She could try to go that way; perhaps towards freedom.

The other direction, left would take her towards emptiness and again, potentially, freedom. But there was only one exit, and any signs around here were covered over by the tarping. The Apothecary followed her into the hall and would stick to her like the annoyance he needed to be; if she got ahold of the Force, who knew what she'd do with a reaction to waking quite like this.

Hastings would head towards the right, waiting for Sarge to show.

"He warned us this would happen."

"I know."

"He's gonna be smug about it."

"I know."

"How's he always right?"

The Apothecary moved after her, speaker-grille carrying the answer back to Hastings who would be headed towards the exit regardless of where Cira went.

"I don't know."

Outside, a lone, broad shouldered figure in a green, plaid button down stepped into the hospital. The front of his shirt was undone, showing where he'd haphazardly tucked a white tshirt into a dirty set of old pants clearly set aside for the express purpose of getting dirty. Void black eyes scanned the waiting room, and then he made for the lift. He didn't look happy.

[member="Cira"]

 

[Cira]

The female would roll to her feet, her eyes rapidly searching. She had to get away. The big hulking white figure was following her, and needless to say, she wasn't all too happy about it.

http://gfycat.com/SomberInsecureAmazondolphin​

A low growl would rip from her throat in warning, bare feet already prompting her to move back and away. A single ysalamiri bubble could reach up to ten meters in diameter.

All she had to do was outrun five.

She took off towards the right, down the corridor. Bumping into work crews that would look at her curiously as she went shoving past. Shoving objects into the ground to block the bulk of his path. One meter then three. He was still coming after her.

Feet went skidding across, her golden eyes flickering as she found another hall. More tarped walls. Left and right.

She went right.

Four meters. That Apothecary was on her like glue.

Where were the alarms?

Twin double doors out in front of her. Five meters. More work crews, more curious eyes. Some in shock. Others in wariness. Maybe some in fear.

Heart would pound, hands would burst through the door.

Six -- the Force suddenly went surging through her as she crossed the barrier, prompting a gasp. She gave a stumble, her senses ablaze. Vision would blur hazy, she was in a larger room -- four doors.

More people.

Too many people.

Far too many people.

Crowding, unfamiliar faces. The sickly sweet smell of bacta. The walls closing in. Needles.

No.

A frustrated scream would go ripping from her throat and the Force went bursting from her in a wave.

Then disappeared.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The lift opened, and Sarge was already running as fast as his stout legs could carry him; surprisingly fast, now, considering all the time he spent in his armor. The small comm he'd slipped into his ear when he'd arrived was presently being used by Twombly to keep him appraised of the Apothecary's position. Sarge knew where this was going.

He knew what lay at the end of this rabbit hole.

She had to be stopped.

Abandoning any and all pretense at stealth, his combat booted feet pounded out a heavy rhythm on the tiled floor of the hospital. Guards in carapace armor of the same make and model as Twombly's snapped their heads as he went past, unsure if they should follow or not. Few had ever seen him in anything outside of military issued gear.

Fewer still had seen him without armor.

But there he was in his bloody civvies running through a hospital and skidding to a halt in an area being used to prep surgical carts for the critically wounded from Centurion. Looking around as if expecting something, he closed his eyes and focused. There - the Apothecary was coming. Darting down a side hallway he made into a waiting room for families at the same time as Cira came plowing through the door.

Blood pounded in his ears as he brought his hands up to form a weak shield against whatever she was attempting to do.

He didn't wait to see if she'd actually managed something powerful or not, because he was headed straight for her like a maglev train. Nostrils flaring, breath coming in short, heavy gasps, his black eyes shone with a murderous gleam as he looked to where she'd been. "Do you know WHAT YOU'RE DOING?!" He snaps, fists clenched. "THE TROUBLE WE WENT THROUGH?"

His hands rose, and then he swept a wave of Force from one side of the room to the other, back towards the door the Apothecary was stepping out of. That would keep her around long enough for the bubble to bring her back out. Not that he couldn't smell her. He could, but only vaguely. She smelled like a hospital. They were in a hospital. Needle in a haystick if the Apothecary break her cover right now.

"LOCK IT DOWN." He yells to Hastings as he comes plowing through the door. At a word from the Captain, the floor did just that - the lifts were stopped, stairwells and rooms locked. The only places one could move now were through the hallways. Kill her.

Breathing like he'd just run a 5k, the man looked around, eyeing the Apothecary with undisguised rage. He couldn't see the look of pity Hastings was giving him.

 

[Cira]

The Force wave went crashing against the bent light shrouded Cira, but she stood her ground, having slipped a bit further along towards another exit when it hit her.

She went crashing against the wall, but thankfully not against the sphere of the apothecary. At least not yet. The noise of the alarms, Force wave, and all the chaos managed to hide the sound of her

Bright glowing yellow eyes would lift to lock upon the male whose angry voice went thrumming through her with vivid clarity.

That voice.

No.

An expression of sorrow would etch upon the woman's shrouded visage, bent light the only thing keeping her hidden from view.

She couldn't. Can't.

Scrambling to her feet in the chaos of a herd of people rushing to leave the vincinity, Cira followed in tow. Twin doors where they came and others were being evacuated out were her method of escape for now.

Under the shroud, her skin began to shift -- change.

She had to leave.

Had to get away.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge snapped his head around, lips curling only momentarily into a further snarl. "Who the hell turned on the alarms?" There was a few shrugs. "Turn 'em off. Tell everyone it was a fire drill." Pinching his nose, he went over to a nearby phone and picked it up, turning on the intercom for their floor. This was supposed to be a single floor lockdown. They'd planned for this.

Apparently they hadn't planned enough, considering someone forgot how to properly do their job.

There was a pause as the intercom for this floor turned on with a crackle. "Doufám, že když se konečně pneumatiky běhu, vaše nohy vás vedl domů."

A click was followed as he turned off the intercom. "Let her go. She's run her whole life. Don't know why I ever bothered expecting she wouldn't now. Stupid queen." Sighing, he shook his head and went towards the stairs, needing to follow his own fire drill orders for appearances and whatnot.

Then he'd be going straight home.

Straight home to think and try to forget he'd wasted years of his life on a woman who'd never know how to sit karking still.

 

[Cira]

I hope that when they finally tire from running , your feet will lead you home.

The words would press around her, surrounding her. That thrum of a tenor with the hint of a drawl. In it was that sorrow, desperation, anger, and disappointment.

Yet none bore heavier than the emotions her own confused mind would weigh upon her shoulders. Because something was really wrong, really really wrong. And it felt awful.

Skinshifting would ripple over her body, changing her height, her weight, even her skin color into a pale Wroonian blue. The dreadlocks would remain, lengthening until they would reach the middle of her back. Her skin over her body would darken, until new civilian clothing would clothed her, making her blend into the crowd.

Melancholy would drift ever lingering about her newly shifted features, her bright golden eyes slowly lifting towards the direction she'd escaped from.

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I kept the feelings in and really thought it had cost me.​

After a few seconds, the Force would shift around her, and she vanished in the dispersing crowd.

Then she was gone.