When It Starts to Snow

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Every day is a good day to die."​

​

Today was yet another day that another batch of recruits would come in, disembark, and be forced to face the harsh realities that their lives were forever being altered. They hadn't asked for it. They probably didn't want it. But if the Protectorate was going to stay Sith free... this had to happen.

He'd had to rationalize this to himself; and he still was. The Jedi were known for taking kids at a young age. No one had argued it because the Jedi were beloved. Paragons of all that was good. Who wouldn't want their child to be a crusader for justice? The sort of person whose very existence demanded respect?

This was so, so different...

Times had changed. The galaxy was a much darker place. Everyone had ulterior motives. Nothing was secret. Corruption and deceit lay around every corner, lurking and waiting for the moment to dismantle not just peace... but innocence.

And it pained him that in combating this, he was doing much the same thing. The ends justified the means. Maybe he had finally become Cater.

What would she think of that?​

​

What would she think of this?​

​

She'd hate it.

And why shouldn't she? This is wrong.​

​

I know.

Yet you aren't stopping it.​

​

Sometimes you're going to be wrong before you're right.

Nothing about this will ever be right.​

​

Time will tell.

You know you don't approve of this. Why lie to yourself?​

​

Because it's easier than facing the truth.

Stepping outside into the bitter, frigid air, he made his way up towards the landing pad as a massive stormfront began to roll through. Heavy winds were already buffeting the battlements, sporadic drops of rain smacking visibly off the black basalt stone their grand fortress was built from. Already the dropship was slowly, circling, until its landing ramp faced the neck that connected to the hangar.

Inside were a group of young, pre-teen males. They were on the cusp of adulthood. Capable of making their own decisions on most worlds, but certainly not capable of going to war. Not yet. That was some years out. They'd been issued environmental suits and they looked as awkward as he'd felt at that age.

They were lead down the ramp by a Corporal, his blue armor standing out starkly against the yellow of their own suits. "Single file! Hustle UP." He snapped, and the boys hurried in that characteristic bumbling manner of someone caught between knowing what to do and knowing better than to make a mistake. "...pathetic." He adds, shaking his head, orange lenses scanning them and motioning them forward towards Hastings, who stood just inside the lip of the hangar and was motioning them forward.

To a recruit, they all slowed a little as they passed the great mountain of grey that was standing impassive before them. All knew better than to stop, or even question. The Corporal - recently promoted - was a young man by the name of Lornen. Sarge only cared about their last names. Coming to a stop next to the power armored warrior, he looked up and gave a bit of a sigh.

Sarge could practically feel the concern radiating off him in waves. "Is this right, sir...?" He asks quietly, using a private comm line so he could be heard over the gale winds. "I ask myself that every day, Corporal. Then I remember that a soldiers life is sacrifice, and these boys were willing to make it. They may be young, but they can follow their hearts.

...maybe some day I'll be able to follow mine again."

Lornen gave his superior one last sad look, one hidden behind their impersonal rebreathers, and then jogged inside, not wanting to be outside when the storm broke upon the great stone edifice. Behind him, as stoic as ever, Sarge stood and let the rains wash over his armored form, optics blurring from the water battering him.

"You're condemning them to a violent death, you know?"​

"I am aware."

"Are you really though? This won't fix anything."​

"It won't? It might not. But it's not my job to fix things. It's my job to prevent them from being broken."

"...and if you fail?"​

"I've failed once. I shan't do so a second time."

Then, slowly, his feet moved, carrying him inside. And, as he passed across the threshold and into the interior, the massive hangar doors began to slide closed with a whine of power. The metal slamming together marked a new beginning for all involved.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"You're more than your past. But it still defines who you are."​

"So who is She." Someone asks. Who, he can't be sure. Too many faces, too little care. By the time they were properly trained enough to be worth half a fart in a firefight... well, they'd be a last name and a mask. A faceless, implacable mass of blue duraplast and bright orange blasterfire.

At that point, what they looked like was irrelevant. It was a simple matter of how well they did their jobs. This was the Protectorate, after all. Some degree of competency was to be expected. "She?" He asks, lifting his head, black eyes scanning the classroom.

There was a little bit of a tilt to his head, which was almost comically small between those over-sized pauldrons of his. "Yeah. She. I heard you say something about Her while I was on my way to the bathroom." The boys says, filled to the brim with that teenagerish enthusiasm that comes from thinking you've got a teacher in a bind. "Head." Sarge corrects dryly.

Or that perhaps you've found some sort of a secret.

What wasn't funny, however, was the way his brow furrowed and black eyes narrowed. "She was very important to me. It was my failures that got her killed. I was distracted, and in turn distracted her. I wasn't calm. I wasn't reliable. I let my emotion get in the way.

And it was because of that She is no longer with us."

Well, that was one way to shut them up right quick. "She was not unlike a mother. Protective. Fair. Capable of great compassion. But knowledgeable enough to know when to let you fall on your face so you could learn to get up again." There was a bit of a smile there.

"It is because of Her we have a nation to fight for, and it is because of Her we shall do our duty. Just as one would protect a home, so too must we protect what She built with the help of so many others."

No one spoke a word. "I guess that answers your question then." He says finally, turning back to the holoprojector and scrawling some words with his hand before pausing and looking out the door. "I'll leave you in the care of Aila." He says hurriedly, slotting the AI into the machine before leaving the room.

She would continue their lessons.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"He who sees the doom of others can deliver it."​

​

To say that Sarge had never seen marksmanship so poor in his life was a lie. He had. Once. It was a gobshite-tier holo featuring the Empire's Stormtroopers who, despite some of the best training in the galaxy, couldn't hit the broad side of a krayt dragon.

But boy were this kid giving them a run for their money. He hadn't seen a center of mass shot all day that wasn't luck. To be fair, however, these blasters were as large as the individuals firing them and with far more power than they were used to.

Their armor wasn't made yet, and wouldn't be until they'd stopped growing. So they would have to learn to fire without its support. "Don't fire from your hip." He says suddenly, the boy squeezing the trigger once more in surprise before turning towards him, barrel pointed to the ground. "It's heavy, I know. That's quite a bit of metal. But you're either going to fire it correctly or you're not going to fire it at all."

He motioned with a hand. "Again." This time, the boy hefted the weapon all the way up to his shoulder - although it seemed he'd collapse under the waist. Were they really that heavy? He couldn't believe that. "Down the scope." The boy tilted his head and squeezed the trigger.

Better. Much better. Not perfect. The recoil was still giving him fits, but if he could learn to imitate that shot regularly, there may be hope yet.

"You're committed to this."​

"Dumbest question I've ever heard."

"Not an unfair assessment, perhaps. You did build whatever the kark this is."​

"A home. A building block. A sanctuary."

"For yourself."​

"Never said it wasn't."

"You're an odd man."​

"The galaxy was built by odd men."

Stepping back so his pack was flush with the wall, he folded his arms across his chest and watched as the boys continue their fire drills, instructors walking up and down their ranks and offering what help they could. In contrast to how most soldiers got trained, there was no overt yelling or degrading here.

That didn't work on anyone younger than 18 anyway. There was no macho desire to prove anyone wrong here. It was just kids wanting to learn. To grow. They would nurture that. If they couldn't hack combat, they could find a role in support.

And there would never be any shame in that; he had promised himself that. They would feel enough shame in failure without having to get it rubbed in on a consistent basis by their fellows. With a final nod of approval that everything was going move, he left, needing to get out of his armor and shower. He'd been awake for almost two days, his insomnia preventing him from getting the rest he needed.

Perhaps tonight would be the night.

If he could only be so lucky.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"The sound of silence is a powerful thing."​

"A mediation room?"

"A meditation room."

"Why a meditation room, Lord?"

"To meditate, Hastings. I'd thought that was obvious."

"No. The real reason."

"That is the real reason. I can't sleep. So meditation is the next best thing." That finally drew a sound of understanding from his advisers throat, as the man gave a nod and cast his attention down the hall. To either side were large statues, formed of the same basalt as the rest of the fortress. Each was a person of importance to the Protectorate.

But the one at the very end was Cira. A daily reminder of his failures, but also a reminder that she'd had a dream. An idea. A people she wanted nothing but the best for. It was this goal that would drive him and his men forward, even after everyone who inhabited this place now were long dead.

He pointed to a side hall. "There's an empty barracks at the end. Put it there." Hastings shook his head. "The armorers keep their tools down there and the smiths store their bars there as well." Sarge frowned. "Really? There's not enough storage room in a fortress operating at a fourth of its capacity?"

Hastings barked a laugh. "No. There is. But none of it is close." Sarge didn't laugh. "Lazy. We can't have lazy." There was a shake of the giants head. He inhaled a little and began walking down the large corridor, taking a left rather than the right towards where he'd wanted his meditation chamber.

"You have any ideas, Sergeant?"

"You could put it down by the Tombs."

"Hilarious."

"I'm serious. It's as quiet as you'll find."

"It's also the furthest point from the entrance in this place and if, Stars Forbid, someone comes knocking... I'd like to be there."

"Just put it by the security room then."

"Too noisy."

"Forges?"

"Same."

"Why not just turn your quarters into one."

He stopped, looking down at the Sergeant for a long moment. "Maybe I do need sleep more than I realized."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"By fire will you be cleansed."​

​

Night cycle. Inky darkness reigned through most of the fortress through which silence dominated. Hunched over in his room, Sarge's silhouetted form was only lit by the glowing blue of the AI to which he was speaking. Seated at his desk, his fingers scratched at the wood in thought.

"Where would the artifact be, Aila."

The program shook its - hear - head. "I can't be sure, Sergeant Major. Where do you think it is?" That drew a frown from his clean shaven features, brow furrowing in annoyance. His palms pressed to his forehead before dragging up to run his fingers through his hair.

To say he was wracking his brain was an understatement. They'd been at this for hours. "I can't think of anywhere but Fondor, but that's far too obvious." He shook his head. "Then maybe obvious is good. That doubt would keep others from guessing."

"Perhaps. Well, I mean, it would have to be kept somewhere she'd be able to get to without raising questions. Which would mean she couldn't disappear to some abandoned world to study it for prolonged periods of time. It would also need to be secure enough - just by location - that she would feel OK leaving it alone should she not be able to reach it for several weeks or months."

That drew a deeper frown. "Naboo, perhaps. But she didn't spend much time there. Not that I could tell, anyway. I think Fondor is pretty much our only bet." He sighed, pushing himself up and leaning back in exasperation. "Which leaves us with figuring out where it would actually be held."

There came a snort. "That's the easy question. A vault of some sort. Everyone, everywhere, would keep something like that in a vault. Likely shielded from scans and the Force. And that way, even if someone just stumbled across it... you couldn't just waltz in or, hell, even blow your way in if the door was thick enough."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"If the path to salvation leads through the halls of purgatory, then so be it."​

​

The rhythmic beeping of sensors and scanners were covered up by the faint murmur of voices into comm units. All around him sat soldiers, each of whom was more than capable of defending their home. But more importantly, they'd been trained to maintain their all important communications link to the outside world.

Their other important duty was to search for anything suspicious and put it in a file for him to look at whenever he had the time. Most of the time, Hastings got to the file before him, clearing it out before he could digest the information found therein.

Perhaps this was the Sergeant's way of keeping him from seeing ghosts where there were none. Or perhaps this was the way in which they were unable to perform their duties. Regardless, he'd made sure to reach the file first today. Opening it up, he pulled out the lone sheet set inside.

Maybe Hastings had beat him here and left this for him...

The flimsi crinkled between metal fingers, eyes colored of the void settled upon its lines. "Two passengers on a trip to Thyferra. Not on the manifest. Believed to be a simple computing error." Why was this left for him...? There was nothing inherently suspicious about this.

Errors occurred all the time. Files got corrupted. Data was input incorrectly. "Lance Corporal, do me a favor. Bring up the logs on this flight manifest." With the Red Queen incident and Omni's attacks, the computer systems logged all access attempts and what actions occurred during them.

Even the legitimate ones.

So far as he was aware, no one had found a way around this quite yet. But, so far as he knew, no one below General was gifted with that knowledge. "Sir, looks like someone removed the passengers from the manifest. Not sure why."

Sarge frowned. That's why Hastings had left it for him. "Alright, get their names and then have someone monitor them. We won't move just yet."

The Lance Corporal gave a nod and began pulling up the necessary information for easy access later. Maybe they'd finally have something to do other than train.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"I surrender up my heart and swap it for yours."​

​

As he'd once done so many moons ago on Hoth, Sarge pressed a fingers to his forehead before taking it down to his navel. Lifting it up, he pressed his fingers to his left shoulder then right, muttering a quiet prayer as they hit atmo. The pair they'd been hunting before had turned out to be a false alarm.

They had simply been on the run from some criminals and had wanted to avoid being caught. They'd been told the Protectorate had services for such things and sent on their way. There was no need to involve the Inquisition. Not yet, at least.

Funny that the word, nay, the title, held such an Imperial connotation. It was a powerful word... Inquisition. There was just something fear inspiring about it. The connotation. The weight behind it. Everything. Perhaps the Empire had been right to label their efforts as such.

It certainly fit their bill.

Regardless, as he scanned the twenty men he'd brought with him. The pair had been running from a crime consortium operating out of Aleen. So it was they'd come to this desert world. Thankfully it was temperate rather than oppressively hot, but that was of little consequence.

What was, however, was their need to make sure these criminals were apprehended. Word through the underworld held that they were hording Sith artifacts, and these need be recovered or destroyed to prevent their taint from spreading.

There was a quiet hope within him that these artifacts were fake. Still, they couldn't take the chance, and having regular troops roll through would likely not be worth the effort. So here they were. 20 highly trained soldiers and what amounted to a walking talk.

This should be more than enough.

Their target was a massive cavern deep within the wastes - a cavern that was connected to the Underworld of this planet but had been sealed to prevent the poisonous air from getting into its depths. Coexistence was paramount for the two species here.

Wisely knowing that no one would be checking said cavern so long as no air reached the Underworld, they had set up shop and taken to running what amounted to a black market from its damp interior. There was a whine as the dropship settled down about a klick out from their target, ramp lowering as the soldiers hurried down and brought their weapons up.

Fanning out, Sarge stepped down last, looking around as he used the haft of his halberd as a walking stick. They were going to try something new today. Two of the soldiers had swapped out their Hellfire rifles for flamethrowers. The hope was that they'd work exceptionally well in the tight confines of their objective.

Their secondary purpose was scouring any trace of the artifacts from the complex.

"Move out." He rumbles, sweeping his blade towards the rock outcropping some distance away. Hefting weapons and explosives, they headed out, HUD's automatically sweeping the horizon for target profiles.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Don't dull the sparkle in your eyes."​

​

Their base hadn't been what he'd been expecting. Anyone claiming to have Sith artifacts should have been swimming in security. They weren't. It almost wasn't worth the effort. They'd managed to wall off the maw of the cave, a thick metal door coated in the local dirt to help obscure it from a distance.

It really wasn't that bad of a job, all told.

But the actual thickness of it was laughable at best. To say it was for show was being generous. A single charge had turned it to molten scrap.

The interior hadn't been much better. It looked like a pirates den. Knick-knacks everywhere with a raised platform at the far end with an oversized desk and chair. He'd never forget that desk. Brilliant, dark mahogany wood. Vornskr leather on the chair and all manner of curios and credits stacked atop it like a trophy case.

It was intricately carved, depicting all manner of beautiful women and sexual acts. Whoever owned it clearly thought very highly of every part of themselves. But no sooner had his eyes laid upon it then a wayward blaster bolt split it in half and lit it afire, and where he'd been standing, mouth agape... he began to move.

A sprint carried him into the interior as the men fanned out, taking cover and laying down disciplined volleys of fire. His halberd came across in a horizontal sweep, cleaving a fleeing Weequay in two at the waist. Blasterfire pattered off his thick armor, heating it and sending molten rivers running down it where impacts were concentrated.

Behind him, there was a whoosh of sucked in air followed by a great gout of flame as the flamethrowers ripped into fabric and wood, sucking the air from tight hallways and room. He had to mute his exterior pickups because the screams were simply too intense.

This wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter. He waded through a tide of death, blood and charred flesh, bolts exploding torsos and coating the walls with chunks of what had once been people. It was over in scant minutes, leaving Sarge alone in front of that door.

That blasted door that likely hid not only the ruler of this sad slice of the galaxy, but also the artifacts. Cocking his fist back, he threw his weight behind the punch and sent the door in like a battering ram.

....empty.

An oversized bed. A few cages which he presumed were used for his slaves. Or maybe roleplay...? He shuddered at the thought and turned around, facing his men. Not a casualty. Nary a stray shot, either. Other than the poor desk. Running his fingers over the top of its scorched surface, he shook his head. The Halberd hadn't registered anything, but...

His head lifted, peering into a hidden compartment of the desk that had been exposed when it cracked in half. Reaching in, he pulled out what looked like a training saber. The halberd finally lit up half-heartedly.

Probably a Dark Jedi's.

What a waste of manpower.

"Burn everything. Especially this." He says, walking from the room and letting the flamers do their job of scouring the place clean. Whenever the owner came back, he'd be in for quite a surprise.

Not that Sarge cared.

He did care that he'd wasted his time, however. Maybe he was crazy.

But at that moment, somewhere far away, said Lord of the Desk was selling a pair of holocrons - generally worthless, really, but certainly Sith - to a very rich client. So it went.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"The time for using a knife to remove this cancer is long gone."​

​

They hadn't even made it down the ramp of the dropship and out onto the landing pad before exhaustion had well and fully set in. The trip from Aleen was a relatively short one, but the crash following the surge of adrenaline was hardly a matter to scoff at.

Looking forward as the great doors of the hangar slid open before them, he let his men go first as the dropship lifted and then made for the interior. They could, feasibly, load in the hangar. He preferred to have them disembark outside, however, because being cooped up in the interior for 100% of the time was never good for mental health.

Even if the weather outside was quite literally deadly.

"What did you hope to accomplish?"​

​

Feet lifting, he began the slow walk inside, heartrate monitors on each of the soldiers slowing down until they were well within normal limits.

"I don't know. Some good, I imagine."

His own, however, was spiking. A side effect, perhaps, of the fact he was having a conversation with his subconscious.

"So that's what you call a massacre? Doing 'some good'?"​

​

The halberd dipped forward until he was holding it one handed, haft and blade parallel to the ground.

"We found something, at least. Even if it was nothing."

"Now you've contradicted yourself."​

​

Without justifying himself with a response, he made for the communications room, hoping beyond hope that there was something there for him. He needed to feel like he hadn't gone to the looney bin these past few months. That, at some point, he hadn't decided the deep end was the perfect place to go diving without learning to swim.

Maybe he was more unbalanced than he thought.

Or maybe he was seeing a future still some time away.

It was hard to tell. The ebb and flow of the galaxy was near impossible to predict, but he'd always had a knack for picking up on things well before they occurred, making him take actions he couldn't even begin to fathom at the time. That was his sole lifeline just then.

The knowledge that, perhaps, this would all mean something some time down the road.

Stepping into the hub, he looked to the file and found it empty, forcing a shake from his head. Turning to leave, he was arrested by a hand on his armor. "Sir." Came a quiet voice.

He lifted his hand, taking the offered sheet and frowning. Without a word, he left. Gunta-Le, their erstwhile artifact hunter... had issued a bounty on whomever had ruined his headquarters. Sarge didn't care about that. What he did care about, however...

There was finally a hint of a smile. He was using the proceeds from the sale of his holocrons to fund this endeavor. Oh, but there was times he loved the criminal underworld. A bunch of idiots, the lot of 'em.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"What size you wear? I wear 10s."​

​

The trail lead to Fondor. More specifically, some of the lower, nether reaches of the industrial planet. That meant the Lord wouldn't be able to come. So he'd sent Hastings in his stead. If it would keep his home from falling prey to the Sith, he was willing to do just about anything.

Like fake an eye-twitch and stammer as he slummed it in an alley. A drug dealer nearby doubled as an information broker, but he was wary of anyone with the cred to back a good lead. Bad business sense hidden under good business sense.

So instead, he'd gone for the free version of this. Hang around. Pretend to be homeless. Eavesdrop. Hastings was an unassuming fellow, really. Short. Stocky. Green eyes that had long lost their luster peered out past dirt caked skin and tattered clothing that looked like it was approaching threadbare.

Most folk considered him a drain on society, and that was good. The information he'd gotten so far was good. Their target was a Falleen fellow by the name of Xendor. In this sector of space he was a mid-level crime lord. Just rich enough to be smart and just poor enough to be stupid.

That bode well for their mission.

Pushing himself up the wall, hacking up a cough from the industrial fumes, Hastings shambled his way forward towards the mouth of the alley and the street beyond. A dumpster sat off to one side, a droid dutifully emptying its contents onto a nearby skiff for transport to a local collection area.

"'scuse me..." He mutters, tearing open a bag and pulling out a still fresh slice of bread. Part of the reason the broker chose this location for his business was because it was a high end restaurant. A stroke of luck for Hastings because it allowed him access to the food they tossed out daily.

He'd have lost more than 12 kilograms by now if that weren't the case. Reaching up to scratch at the lice in his matted hair, he cast his gaze up and down the moonlit sidewalk. Or rather, lamp lit. Chemical haze kept the moons light from ever reaching here.

But that didn't stop the street lamps from struggling to keep illumination going this late at night. He watched one flicker, then began to hobble his way down the street. A silhouetted figure stood up ahead, using a call box to speak with someone, and as Hastings passed him he palmed the man's wallet.

If you were going to become a part of the environment, one had to mesh with the environment.

Bumbling down the cracked ferrocrete, he opened the cred chip using a battered datapad with a cracked screen and checked what it was he'd swiped. 100 credits. Not too shabby. Maybe today was a good day after all.

That would be enough to get him a decent meal and some fresh water to clean some grime from his face. If he were lucky, within a week he'd have the information he needed. If not, well... it was just like living in the field.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge felt his lips twitch in annoyance as he stood on the gantry and allowed the armor to be pulled from his frame. It was too large for him. A bit too bulky. He didn't like his fingers being in hooks near the wrist rather than in the gauntlet. Yeah, it gave him extra reach, but it was clunky.

It wasn't comfortable.

So he'd reforged the armor, somewhat. In so much as he had made a few alterations. Namely making it more his size. Now he wasn't eight and a half feet tall, or something similar. He was a bit closer to his own height, if off by about... ten inches.

Still, it was better than it had been. It would feel good to get the suit off either way. As the breastplate was pulled off by small electronic hands, tired eyes of the deepest voids lingered on an indiscriminate point on the floor, a frown half formed on his face without him realizing it.

A cough from the corner alerted him, but did little to change the cast of his features. Lifting his gaze, he let it fall upon the disheveled form of Hastings. The cough was a question. He knew that much. "I don't know what to do." He says quietly, avoiding the return look from the stout career soldier.

"About?"

"Everything."

Confusion meant he was going to have to elaborate. That drew some ire from him, but it melded quickly into the miasma of what he could only assume was depression. Emotion didn't last long, aside from his self-loathing. "Why are we doing this? For the Protectorate? That's a joke. I'm on a crusade to solve my own bloody failures, to get back a woman who probably couldn't be arsed to care beyond the yelling."

He sighed, even as his gauntlets were tugged off and retracted, leaving his scarred torso on full display with his legs still covered by his greaves. "Or, perhaps, you simply knew someone had to prevent yourself from making the same mistake twice. So you cut yourself off, surrounded yourself with the people you needed - lonely soldiers devoted to a cause - and then made due, suffering in silence as you seem to enjoy."

Sarge darkened his brow, a low near-growl emanating from his throat. It wasn't a protest, but it was hardly an affirmation. "I just wanted to protect the house she'd built. Wolves are at our door. Some even got inside. Someone has to keep the place tidy."

That drew a smile from his adviser. "There you go. You know exactly what to do. Maintain the peace." Sarge quirked his lips upward, although it looked disapproving. "So what do we do about what we've done?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to do. We both know this isn't the Protectorate - at least not in its current incarnation."

"No, no it's not. She'd be sorely disappointed. I've been disappointed in myself." He frowned. "I think we've sent our message. No more branding. But... we're still going to make our raids." Hastings smiled. "We wouldn't have it any other way, sir." The Sergeant left, leaving Sarge standing alone in his underwear atop the gantry, body reeking of stale sweat.

"Hastings." He called, and the man stepped back inside as Sarge lowered himself to the floor and inhaled slowly. "Think she'd forgive me?" His friend's brow furrowed, and Sarge realized the man didn't know what in the world he was talking about.

He was smart enough to tell this wasn't about Cira. "Only... one way to find out, I imagine." Hastings says, sounding as confused as he looked as he departed again with a shake of his head. He had been sorry, but once you knocked a vase onto the floor and it broke... apologizing wouldn't put the vase back together again. That required attention. Glue.

This was exactly what happened last time Cira had died. He didn't want to repeat things. Pulling his legs to his chest, he set his forehead down on his forearms and began to cry, shoulders shaking quietly as he allowed himself this moment of self-loathing and pity.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

His foot was going a parsec a minute as he sat, staring down at the sheet of what he could only term parchment. It was thick, finely made and certainly not something you used for anything short of a diplomatic treaty that folk wanted a permanent copy of.

But here he was, leg moving with pent up energy as he stared down at the vaguely yellowed page. This was his desk. His room. Still, as he looked around all he saw was the rust coated walls of the Works, a lone lamp set next to him as flakes drifted lazily from the ceiling as tremors he'd never feel shook them from their homes above him.

Part of that smell of old paint still clung to his nostrils. Biting into his lower lip, he shakily pulled a pencil from the drawer to his immediate right and tapped the tip of it against the sheet. "How do I even begin..." he mutters to himself, frown creasing his face.

I'm losing my sanity.

He blinked, staring at the words he'd written in his curious mixture of cursive and block, tiny letters arcing upward ever so slightly. "Kark." It was a whisper, one that floated lazily downward to almost caress the page where he'd just admitted something he'd hoped not to face.

I'm losing my sanity like I lost you. My grip on reality is tenuous at best. I've long been a man who wakes every morning with some grumbling and anger but... when I step outside I can't help but smile. The sun's warm touch. The gentle caress of a spring breeze. The brilliant blue hue of a sky pockmarked every so slightly by whiffs of puffy clouds.

But then darkness falls as the sun sets, and I find myself back in the same place I've always been. Alone. Afraid. Terrified.

But for once it's not because I feel I've not done something with myself. That I haven't accomplished things of note. It's simply because I've failed. I've failed myself. I went over a cliff after everything on Coruscant and I think I went so far over the edge I started to come back.

But I'm not there yet, not quite yet. There's still too many problems to fix within myself for me to ever truly be able to help the Protectorate in the ways it needs to be. But until then... and by the Force do I hope it's soon... we'll continue our silent vigil over your lands.

There won't be corruption here so long as I draw breath, and I merely pray I don't have to eat those words at some later date.

Regards,

B.