Toys in the Attic

[Cait Falcor]

Cait Falcor
Arkanis - Mexican Standoff
_______________________

Rider's pistol rolled forward on his trigger finger and found itself comfortably seated in its holster. Cait also stood down, the carbine emitting a soothing *bweee* to indicate that it'd been returned to Safety as she let it fall to its neutral position, rotating along the D-Ring that kept the butt of the small rifle in her shoulder-pocket at all times.

Phew Cait thought to herself. It would be a shame to have to do kick that well formed ass.

As tensions cooled Cait was able to process what Rider had said earlier about her 'making a move on him'. She met his eyes, and despite the weather blushed.

Cait...honey you are so out of practice. "Who knows, there's still plenty of time for surprises." She winked at Rider before stepping out of the line between him and the woman, and did her best to hide the growing blush What the Force was that? Are you a Mercenary or is this a bad day-time holodrama?

***

On the ground, the woman was ensconced within the lined poncho. A Thermal Blanket, it was not, but the Weather-Proofed outer layer and the Synth-Fleece inner layer had to be doing its job by now - retaining her own body heat. She seemed to be having an almost religious experience with the Caf -to which, in fairness I can completely relate - Cait's inner monologue contributed.

Cait squatted down, to meet the woman eye to eye. Green-Grey eyes met Cait's without flinching...there had to be a billion questions racing through the woman's mind...but she seemed determine to meet this new reality on her own terms.
"So...I guess you have questions - we do too...but lets...uhm...start at the basics, huh? I guess the first question is...do you have any idea who you are, or where you are? What this place is/was?

My name is Cait, I'm a freelance Soldier, I'm from The Galactic Republic...the uh...the Empire was overthrown a little after Palpatine was killed. This isn't the time for a history lesson...but you should know - you've got at least one friend in this galaxy okay? I'll help you figure this out all out, and your place in it, alright?"

Cait feared trying to dump too much information on the woman, but she deserved to at least get some kind of bearing. If she really was some kind of Old Imperial she was going to be in for a rude awakening...Cait was determined to help soften that blow as best she could.

"I have some spare clothes, they're going to be a little big...but they're warm...I'm afraid I can't help for boots though."

________

[member="Zee"], [member="Jonathon Patches"]

 

[Darth Caecus]

The tension seemed to dissolve in only a few heartbeats. She slid back down against the crèche, wondering why exactly her muscles weren't following instructions. Her hands wrapped around the caf again, taking another long drink, content, for the moment, that no one was going to shoot her.

For now. And for now was good enough. Especially considering she didn't have the strength the force gave a durni. Why? She should be fine after being brought out of stasis (so her memories told her). Perhaps not to full combat strength, but able to walk on her own. Every clone before her could. What was wrong?

Besides the fact that the installation was freezing, dark and obviously abandoned?

Her gaze had been distant, not really seeing anything as she'd tried to work it all through her head. But [member="Cait Falcor"] crouching down in front of her brought her focus instantly to the other woman. This close, she could see her clearly. She listened wordlessly as the other spoke, her face betraying nothing.

But her mind flickered though every detail, cataloguing subconsciously. But she was having a hard time keeping it all in focus at that moment. What was wrong with her?

She speaks like the Empire is ancient history. That's wrong. That's not accurate.

"That's not accurate," she commented automatically. "The Empire foundered when Emperor Palpatine died, but it was reborn twice more after that. Not counting warlords claiming the name."

Her name? Shiva. Xyra Sizhran, Director of the ISB. A hundred other names that she had used in undercover ops. Agent Marith Jan. Anya Darkstar. Name. Rank. She knew them all. Those were all there, waiting for her to say any of them. To tell the truth. Or to lie.

In a way, she did both.

"Zee. My name is Zee. This is an Imperial Science Facility, which should be obvious....."

​Like ancient history....

She trailed off, eyes coming in to focus as they swept around. And caught sight of the crèche next to her own.

Dark.

Without another word, she put the caf down, almost knocking it over. It took all of her self control to not scrabble across the floor to the pod. Pulling herself up she didn't hesitate- even though she already guessed what she'd find. After all, the cloning pods should never be completely dark.

Not if they were working.

Her breathing was heavy, ragged as she looked directly down through the view port. Even in the dark, it was impossible to not see the subtle gleam of bone. She stared down at a skeleton- her skeleton- the sound of her own blood filling her head, heart beating wildly in her chest. Hands clung to the crèche like talons as she used it to steady herself. As she looked up, grey-green gaze casting around, she saw the room in its entirety for the first time.

Dark. They were all dark.

She looked back down into the pod beneath her hands, eyes traveling the length of her clone sibling. No. Not sibling. Of herself. That was her in there. Dead long enough to be nothing but bone and scant sinew holding it all in place. This must be hell. It couldn't be any place else. This was her, not merely another copy of her. She was already dead, nothing but bones and dust. And this was hell. This was retribution for the wrongs she'd done, as she always knew one day would come.

Whiteness started to eat away at the edges of her vision but she shook her head, hands clenching the crèche so hard that it hurt, her knuckles bloodless. At some point, the poncho had slipped from her shoulders, but she hardly noticed.

"How long?" She whispered, not looking at the other two people in the room. Were they really there? When she turned back around would they still be there? Or were they figments, part of this hellscape? Falcor and Spectre, of course that's who she would see first, if this were her torment.

But when she turned around, they were still there. Standing, staring, baffled perhaps, worried. She couldn't read their facial expressions. But they were there, and not as wandering, vengeful geists. But as flesh and blood.

Betrayed undead she almost could have faced better. That she could have bourn as being nothing more than she deserved.

She sagged against the crèche then, and asked again, her voice faint.

"How long has it been? Tell me.... what year is it?" She whispered, sharp grey-green eyes looking directly at [member="Jonathon Patches"].

 

[Jonathon Patches]

As the blaster was slowly lowered - to no small relief of Patches - and the safety engaged, he let out a small sigh of relief. That Cait was so quick to go from threatening to end his life to matching his banter did cause some concern. He now found himself wondering if she hadn't really meant the threat... or if she was unstable. Cute ones are always crazy, he mused to himself.

He decided it was best to keep that little thought to himself though. He was rather enjoying not having a blaster trained on him, and did not see any sudden need to rush right back into that scenario.

As Cait attended to the "victim" - though Patches knew much better than to call her that - he stood there, in slight disbelief. It couldn't be... he thought to himself, uncertain of the scene before him, or how he had gotten to be here. Yet there it... nay, she knelt.

On the outside, Patches may have appeared calm. Years of assuming alter egos, deceiving others and playing a role had served him well. He'd learned to suppress tells, hide facial expressions and reactions he didn't want to convey, and convert nervous energy and ticks into simple breathing exercises. So if he seemed calm on the outside, it hid a sith storm of mixed emotions, panic, and a sense of disbelief.

Cait played friendly with their new "friend", as Patches took a few steps to the console, and started punching up any data he could find. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe that wasn't Xyra Sizhran before them, a women that he had spent just as much time hunting as running from. Though her insistence that the Empire was alive and well, and her apparent loyalty to it wasn't promising.

His fingers tapped the console a few times, trying to find answers. Much of the data was encrypted or corrupt, but maybe he would find some answers to the several hundred questions running through his head.

Cait, however, appeared intent on adopting their new member, as she offered her friendship almost immediately. She may look cute and cuddly, but that's no Ewok you have there Miss Falcor... he thought to himself. She has the teeth of a Nexu and the claws of a Rancor.

He continued to work on the console, his eyes never having left it as he responded, "I'm afraid you are missing a few more incarnations of the Empire young Miss. There's been at least seven versions since Palpatines death... and that doesn't include warlords. The seem to almost have a cyclical nature to them," he said, adding with a half grin, "Come to think of it, I think we are almost due for another version, now that I think of it."

His eyes never left the console, as he searched for an answer, any kind of answer, as to who this person was. He must know... he had to know.

"The year?" he asked, though given the state of the facility, he could hardly blame her for asking that question.

"835," he said simply, his eyes fixated on the screen, never raising them.


[member="Zee"]

[member="Cait Falcor"]

 

[Darth Caecus]

The data on the console before him was indeed either corrupted or encrypted. But the encrypted parts? No trouble for someone like Patches. After all, the Imperial code was over 500 years old. It was child's play compared to what he was used to cracking now.

Tap tap, tap tap.

Imp*8%4k-4cility 8749(87 Head Sci*^5*st S4sh4 C4l*b (M4rk 3)

Mark 3? What did that mean?

Prim48)7 4uthorizat(%4 Dir*ctor Xy^4 3#izhr4n. Clonin1 B4nks to b* k*56 4t full c4pa76$2 of 12 4t 4ll tim*s. M4rks 6-18 in longt*rm st4sis 8%3-l 4ctiv4tion r*quir*d.

Some of it was just garbled trash. But some of the letters were easy to deduce in context where the symbols replacing them remained the same.

89asjksdbusa7889pypisks*gGy4#&@P(*U#Ku8e&kjhsdfuis786&UI{OIJKJ:

Hmm. Okay. Just trash there. He scanned through paragraphs of corrupted nothing and then-

Prim48)7 4uthorizat(%4 Ch4rl*s V**r$. 4ctivate Shiv4 M4rk 6.

Charles. Shiva. Mark 6.

Shiva.

She stood there, though she couldn't have answered in that moment if she were standing or sitting. She just stared at the back of [member="Jonathon Patches"] ' head.

835. 835?

Over 500 years.

Zee knew she was a clone. That knowledge had been preserved- a necessary evil to be certain the clones could be more easily handled. After all, they were never meant to believe themselves to be the original. And it made the chance of psychosis less if there was never an existential who am I crisis to juggle. They knew exactly who they were, and how they fit in to the grand scheme of Xyra and Charles' machinations.

Over 500 years.

There was nothing in her conditioning that could prepare her for this. Nothing that allowed her to properly-

There was no properly here.

She blinked very slowly. As if it would accomplish something other than a momentary darkness. But then, she'd had enough of darkness.

The Empire, her empire was gone. Even if the way he'd spoke hadn't made it very clear that indeed, no Empire flung itself aloft to the stars, any empire calling itself that wasn't hers. 500 years? Everyone she had ever known was dead. Every action ever taken by the original, every plan laid down, they were dust, just as surely as the grit beneath her feet.

Like every single one of herselves in these lifeless pods. Dust.

Her knees buckled and she caught herself, just barely, on the edge of the dead pod she was leaning against.

Over 500 years.

"835," she echoed finally. And then, suddenly, she laughed. A full throated, head thrown back laugh that denoted either insanity or damnation. It wasn't clear which.

"Charles you bastard," she managed to get out, laughter still bubbling, uncontrollably from some deep font within her.

She pounded her fist on the lifeless pod, but it was impossible to tell if it was with anger or mirth.

"You unimaginable bastard."

​Zee laughed until she wheezed, and then wheezed until her eyes watered, oblivious to whatever strange looks she might be getting. Head hanging, she spoke again, her tone tired but calm and lucid.

"Cait. Cait was it, yes? Would you mind getting me that caf I left by my crypt? I'd appreciate it."

[member="Jonathon Patches"] [member="Cait Falcor"]

 

[Cait Falcor]

Cait Falcor
Arkanis - Cryo Chamber Shiv_21
___________________________

"Cait, Cait was it, yes? Would you mind getting me the Caf I'd left in my crypt? I'd appreciate it."

Cait was still a little shocked. In fairness, she was no student of history, and had always had a hard time keeping the various incarnations The Empire seperate, and could never really tell what the difference was between that and the (also) various incarnations of the First Order were.

In her head, they represented a perhaps misguided attempt to impose order upon the chaotic writhing mass of life that was the settled, known, galaxy. Like any Sentient-Run Organization of sufficient size, The Empire, like The Republic, or frankly any government, lead to endless paperwork, fief-building bureaucrats and a central government that was often completely deaf to the needs of the people it pantomimed to serve.

Her schoolwork had made it clear that The Empire had been involved in some messed up stuff, but Cait had seen first hand how the Republic's Principals quickly fell by the wayside when no one was looking and they impeded "progress" - She loaded that word with as much scorn as she possibly could.

Same poodoo, different flag. As if to serve as proof, Zee stood there, evidently realizing she'd been left for dead by her government for Centuries. Whatever values she's served, likely dust and forgotten. Like all that we did on Rendili.

Cait knew about as much as any graduate of The Republic's Secondary Education system did - Jedi good, Sith bad - trying to seperate Jedi from Republic and Sith from Empire seemed a fruitless exercise in pedantic futility.

Her experiences in the One Sith war had muddied that black and white reality quite a bit...pompous overbearing Jedi, callousing throwing away "mundane" lives in fruitless frontal assaults that only served to garner prestige for one frighteningly aloof and blood-thirsty Jedi Knight after another.

Champions of the Light my ass. One group can agree on Red Sabers, and the other has every color in the rainbow, and they're supposed to be the Ordered ones?!

But this was no time for Political Science, and Cait pulled herself, with no small amount of effort, out of her memories, and back into the moment.

She wordlessly found the ceramic canteen, checked the volume of Caf within (roughly half full) and handed it to Xyra.

"So, um...[member="Zee"], if its 835 now...what year did you get put in there? And who is Charles?" Cait paused a second, and looked back at [member="Jonathon Patches"] "and, who did you think she was? I'm sorry I drew on you, but she's" Cait gestured to the tiny, nude, freezing woman wracked with despair for emphasis "not that person, she's maybe 120 seconds old, if we're being generous. I like you, Flynn, but I'm not prepared to have you shoot her for the sins of her former self. Employer or not, that's a hunzhang line we don't cross...savvy?"

Cait was fully aware that she didn't have all the data, and if we're being honest with ourselves she was ready to believe that one of Zee's previous Incarnations had been involved with some fethed up poo doo to need this many clones. But this copy, she at least got the chance to become a monster or something else on her own. And if it gets there, Rider, I'll do everything I can to stop her...even if it means blaster bolts.

 

[Darth Caecus]

When she reached out to accept the caf, her hand was shaking, but only slightly. It shook from 500 years in deep cryosleep, from physical needs that could not be simply wished away.

But it didn't shake from fear or dread. It didn't shake from confusion.

She resettled the poncho wrapped around her shoulders, using one hand to secure it at the base of her throat, the other bringing the canteen to her lips. One, two great swallows and she sighed softly, eyes closed. It was, after all, really good caf.

Zee's eyes remained closed as [member="Cait Falcor"] spoke, addressing both of the other creatures waiting in the grave silence.

Creatures? Plural? Is there something I know about that man? Flynn she calls him. I don't remember.

"I like you Falcor," she said softly. Sharp, grey green eyes opened again, focusing on the other woman's face. "You remind me of someone. From a long time ago. You assume the best in people. And you want to see them rise- to whatever that highest point in themselves is. Because at your core, you are good. Not a saint, but, good. Just getting a job done. You don't become your job, do you? Partly because it's just who you are, it's in your nature. And partly because you have people who care about that person you are. Family- whatever that word means to you- you have it. And it makes it easy to wear the job like a set of clothes because whatever happens on the job, it's not you. Just what you do. The past doesn't really interest you, not other people's anyway, because you can see a future. For them and for yourself. It's lovely, really."

Right in that moment, Zee was Xyra Sizhran. The analysis, the drawing of threads of scant information together to form an eerily accurate narrative. Most of it was pulled simply from what little she'd already seen of Cait- both consciously and subconsciously catalogued. Part of it though- it couldn't be helped that some of it was based on parallels drawn from her own Falcor.

Her gaze canted to the man she'd addressed as Flynn a moment ago. At first, she was still speaking to Cait while she watched him, but eventually, that changed.

"Your friend here, on the other hand. He drew on me because he is interested in the past. Interested enough at least. Interested enough that he recognizes certain things when he sees them. Because part of him is living in the past- isn't it? Your future sits only as far as the tip of your nose. Because the past holds everything you hold dear."

She paused, watching him. After all, no matter what he'd said when he had put the gun away, there was a reason he'd drawn it. And as their eyes met, they both knew it hadn't been a mistake. [member="Jonathon Patches"] had been right.

There was no way she could have known exactly how accurate her statements about him had been. There was damage done- and she didn't remember Jonathon Patches. She could only go on what she was seeing, here and now, and some deeper well of subconscious instinct. Somewhere, part of her knew him. Recognized the fellow creature behind a mask, both generally and specifically.

Xyra had been a lot of things. Soldier. Woman. Not always a good friend, but always at her men's backs. She was a liar when it suited her purposes. But one thing she never lied about (only once, and that was necessary, damn your eyes. And Ayden never forgave me for it) was exactly what she was. If she wasn't undercover or already playing out a role that needed to be filled, Xyra had been brutally straightforward and honest. It would have been easy to fall in to the role that Cait was offering here. She could put on that face, allow her physical weakness to shine and pretend to a mental fugue far greater than her rapidly clearing mind actually clung to. It wouldn't be hard. It would in fact be very, very easy to fall in to the trap of deception. After all, it was second nature to the woman who she had been cloned from.

Second nature.

Beneath it though, there was a first nature.

"You're right, in some ways," she murmured, looking back at Cait. "I'm a copy. And an outdated model at that it seems. I'm not the person I was cloned from by definition. But I know what she knew-" she paused frowning. "Mostly. I suspect that something went wrong. Charles..... Charles Veers was the man who set up this facility. Apparently a very long time ago. He- he assured me- her- that there were fail safes in place. That certain things couldn't happen. Either he was mistaken, or he lied. I don't know. I suspect the later. I don't think either of us was ever once fully honest with the other, after all. This facility should have survived even the fall of our Empire. I suppose it did. But us- the clones- never should have been left untended. Or if we were for too long, a death switch would trip. If the Empire was gone, with no chance of revival, then we were supposed to never wake up. Perhaps the death switches worked on the others. Maybe it only went wrong in my system. I don't suspect I'll ever know. Which, I might add, galls me to no small end."

This was the voice that Patches would know. The woman who had spoken to him on Neimodia. Honesty because lies were of no use to her here. Details left out for the sake of brevity perhaps, but not because she was hiding them. Why hide behind lies when the truth was so much more effective? And where had lies upon lies gotten her?

To a dark and cold facility, surrounded by dust and dead versions of herself.

"Her name," she said clearly, speaking in clipped tones, "Was Xyra Sizhran. And she was born in 295. I don't know exactly which year I was cloned- I suppose they considered that information irrelevant. I don't know when she died, or how. She- I-" Zee paused, a wry grimace on her face. "Pronouns in this instance are not very useful, are they? You are right- I didn't do what she did. My hands did not enact her plans. But that blood is still on them. I remember them. Not in an academic way, but as though I did them, do you understand? She was a soldier first, a soldier raised by a soldier and unlike you, when she took off those clothes, that was still what she was underneath. It soaks me all the way down to the marrow, unable to be put aside."

She looked down at her hands, holding the canteen and the poncho tightly. The silence filled the room as though all of its occupants were under a spell. A good story was like that, after all. What happened next? How does it end?

But there was no happy ending for her to give them here.

"She became the Empire. Took the weight of what needed to be done and wore it like a mantel she would never remove. There are things that a legitimate form of governance cannot do and retain their mandate. The first iteration of the Empire didn't understand that and was destroyed for it. My version learned better. But that didn't mean that dark work wasn't required. Just that it couldn't appear on any official orders. That Empire needed Monsters, but could not afford to become the Monster itself. So the Monster became the Empire instead. And she did it well. On paper, she was the head of the Internal Security Bureau. But in reality she was the person that removed the obstacles in the path to what was supposed to be a better galaxy."

The bitterness in her voice was so heavy one could almost taste it.

And then, again, she laughed, but this time the sound was dark, a chuckle and a shake of her head as if she was finally understanding a joke someone told her a decade ago.

"I never expected to live in that better galaxy, you understand," she said softly, almost too softly to hear. "People like us, we don't get to do that. There's no place for us once that utopia has been built. No one wants to be reminded of what civilization costs. And that cost was great. So when I say that I was a monster, I do not want you to think that I am speaking out of self pity, but out of point in fact. The cost for the utopia she thought she was building numbered in a billion lives. And that was for only one of her acts. I can tell you the exact number of lives other actions cost. She remembered every. single. one. Every life, every death. Because that was part of why she could never live in the world she thought she was creating. She remembered the price."

Now she breathed in deeply, closing her eyes for a moment.

"She was right," she said quietly. "She didn't get to live there. Because there was no amount of death that can create a perfect galaxy. And because I know that, she must have known it too."

 

[Jonathon Patches]

I need to get a new line of work... Maybe I should run a fish taco stand on Velusia...

The thought seemed quite appealing at the moment. Quiet, secluded, and reserved to living a life on and off of the beach. Wouldn't have to deal with all this da-shiang bao-tza shr duh lah doo-tze... For a few long, lingering moments he thought about it. Working regular hours, serving up tacos to tourists, and going home each night. His biggest headache would be dealing with customer complaints; for which he would obviously have a sign labelled "Customer Complaints" on a blender, or some equally destructive apparatus.

He momentarily returned to reality at Cait's inquiry as to whom Patches thought she was, slightly perturbed that his Taco hut fantasy was being interrupted.

"Huh? I mistook her for someone else... a woman whom tried to kill me once," he said. A lie, but not really a lie... or was it? He couldn't actually recount an instance where Xyra had tried to kill him... there may have been some blaster waving here, a squad of troopers there, and some words exchanged... but no real blaster fire had been exchanged. Then there was the bikes, and the shorts that went with the bike... Of course that all took place on Velusia.

And then his mind went back to owning a taco stand on Velusia. Ahhh, velusia. Long white beaches, clean oceans, and not a care in the world. I could do it too you know... more than enough credits saved up.

Of course, reality would come to a crashing halt, as the choice words spoken by the woman whom made Patches trigger finger itch echoed in his head.


"Your future sits only as far as the tip of your nose. Because the past holds everything you hold dear."


"Pffff, I don't think you've looked too closely; this is no small nose here. This thing can go on for miles," he said. An admission of the web of lies he weaves? Or the fact that Patches was not known for having the most petite of noses. Probably the latter, though there was some truth to the first, no matter how you looked at it.

In truth, he knew what was before him. The potential and danger of what sat before him was not lost on him. She could be a powerful weapon, a powerful ally... or a powerful enemy; the latter of which was more familiar to him. He didn't quite buy the whole having her memories, but not having any of the blood on her hands story. Sure, those hands may have not committed the acts, but are we not all some kind of manifestation of our memories?

His blaster remained holstered for the time being, but the safety was definitely off. For now, he wouldn't try anything. He would let the foul creature before them feign innocence and spout her lies. Plus, he really didn't want to have to shoot Cait too.

There was no doubt Zee... or Xyra, - or Shespawn, Patches new favourite name for her from this point on - was plotting something. Some angle. Patches could feel himself being sized up. He knew he was being evaluated, poked and prodded with every word that dripped from her mouth. He did his best to not betray anything.

His expression remained blank, his hands at the relaxed position - not resting on his blaster either - as she seemed to come to some realisation that Patches would have been more than willing to share some years ago, and save a few million lives in the process.

"There is no better galaxy..." he said blankly, his expression more like giving a lecture in a classroom than anything else.

"It doesn't matter what the year is, who is in power. There is no good or evil, there is only people. People that are hungry for power, for order, and for a better civilization. The name is different, but the outcome is always the same. When each one fails, like the others before them, a new one rises up," he said, letting his words sink in for a moment. Speaking from a bit too much experience perhaps, he felt like he had seen more than a dozen empires or factions rise and fall over the years; if he was to count, he was certain he could find many more.

"Sure as I know anything, I know this - they will try again. History has taught us that. They'll swing back to the belief that they can make people... better," he said. And I do not hold to that...

He had said enough for now. Probably shared more than he should of; his lack of fondness for government being clearly conveyed. His words probably leading to more questions for Cait, and no doubt leading to further analysis from the shespawn.

Sometimes you just need to know when to shut up Patches...


@Zee @Cait Falcor

 

[Darth Caecus]

"Sure as I know anything, I know this - they will try again. History has taught us that. They'll swing back to the belief that they can make people... better."

​There was a long silence after that. The cold seemed to settle ever deeper. And then-

"They're wrong," came the quiet, bitter voice. "But then, I suspect, you know that."

She was.... agreeing with him. And while he couldn't know it, there was no angle. No plan. Just an understanding of herself that meant only one thing- this was what she was. Could she do better? Be something more than a monster? She didn't know.

She suspected that the answer was no.

"I'm cold," she said suddenly. "There's.... a locker. With my-her- no, my things in it. Probably even boots that fit me," she said with a ghost of a smile at Cait.

[member="Cait Falcor"] [member="Jonathon Patches"]