Theme
Whisper
''....James.....James!!!....''
''....Admiral?....''
''....Status!!!....''
''...I....I've been...better....''
''....you...you've looked better.''
''....much....obliged....''
''....when...when we get out of this...remind me...
...remind me to pay the doctor to look at that face of yours.
It's bad for morale.''
''....I didn't...realize...any...any of us were getting paid...
...or...that we had doctors.''
''Then remind me to steal a doctor...
...next time we hit an Imp base.
Along with some deodorant.
If the Imp's don't kill us than your stink'll do the job.''
''...Wh...why don'tch you say...that to my face...
...Sir.''
''There'll be time for me to kick your sorry arse later...
...Goose.''
''...what...what happened to James?
...thought we were gettin' formal...
...might...finally...find out your real name...
...give the boys back on the fleet...some...something
...to talk about.''
''What's the tally up to now?
...don't give me that look, of course I know the bet. It's my fleet.
I know everything that goes on in my fleet.''
''...fi-five hundred credi-''
''That's all?!!
''...and three months rations...''
''Now, that's more like it.''
''I was an orphan.''
''...wh-what...are you doing?''
''Shut up and listen.''
''...yes....sir...''
''I must have been out there for days, without shelter, food or care before someone from the orphanage finally found me. They were shocked. They were somehow used to sudden unannounced arrivals at their door, but usually with some indication, perhaps even a message. I didn't cry once, not a single tear or cry for help escaped me, so no one ever came. Until a stroke of luck caused them to finally cross me. I was just a baby. They took me in, clothed me, bathed me and slowly carved out a place for me within their halls. Looking Glass was it's name, an orphanage strangely cut off from the Core Worlds, clinging to the surface of a remote moon, with no other signs of life. For a time as a child, I thought this was for the safety of the children, I couldn't have been more wrong. It was a wonder I survived those few days out in the cold, let alone the many days thereafter.
For seven years I stayed there, and for seven years, I never uttered a sound. You can probably guess how I acquired the most clever nickname in the galaxy given my mute youth, 'Whisper' the maidens and other children began to call me. Along with some other, less reputable and less sanitary names. Le'ts just say I wasn't very sociable for much of my life, I grew from the quietest baby they had ever encountered, to the most silent child they had ever raised. They gave me the silk and leather for my sixth birthday, fashioned into a poorly stitched, makeshift blanket. It felt somehow familiar, despite having not encountered it since I was just a month old. I clung to it like we cling to clean air. It became a part of me. I think I believed my parents may have held it at one time or another. They must have. It was the only keepsake that remained, the only symbol that lingered of my origins. It seemed to seep into my very being, because for a time, all my clothing reflected it's colours, even my the colour of my eyes had become a gleaming, deep sapphire. 'Blue' they would sometimes call me, another increasingly clever moniker from the denizens of Looking Glass Orphanage.
I noticed during my time there, that no one ever came to claim any children as their own, none came to foster the lost youth that rested on the remote moon. Perhaps it was simply the most unpopular establishment in the galaxy, I could never truly tell. My only hope of escape from the place, was through the books scattered in the attic, thousands of old tomes, whose authors insisted on using rudimentary utensils to write their works in dust pages, instead of typing them on modern datapads. I remember gaining an affinity for the smell of the books, the feel of the leather bindings. I must have read hundreds by the time of my seventh birthday. I was lost in my own world, it was no wonder I never felt the need to speak, the books told me everything I needed to know. Through the stories and the two years that followed I discovered dance and artistic expression. While the other kids played with datapad holo-games and kicked balls made of fabric around the overgrown garden outside, I danced alone in the attic. Without any instrument of any kind, I made up sounds in my head based on descriptions within the books. They made it sound like magic, like something more powerful than the Force itself, something I had also read quite a bit about. Profound prospects like focused meditation, connecting with living things, and letting go of your past so it cannot be used against you. It was the purest form of philosophy my young mind had ever seen. I remember wishing I could be a Jedi at one time, all the stories talked about male Jedi saving princesses and helping ill equipped villagers but then leaving them behind to shelter others. I remember wishing I could chop the princesses head off and fill it with ribbons, all without moving a finger. I didn't like the idea of being saved, even though I didn't want to be in Looking Glass anymore. I would save myself.
It was on my ninth birthday, when he arrived. He spoke with the maidens while the other children and I sat in rows of five, staring at the adults speaking in hushed tones, barley above whispers. I could see at that moment why it had been so frustrating for others who tried to speak to me, it was then that I noticed something else. The entire time they spoke, the man stared at me. His eyes never shifting even as I tried to avert my gaze, dark brown things that dangled helplessly from his wrinkled forehead, over his large hooked nose. This was the ugliest man I had ever seen. I think that was the first time I remember feeling fear. I remember never wanting to feel it ever again. He spoke the name they'd given me, and asked me if I wanted him to 'take me away from this miserable place'. I stood, and whispered a single word. 'No'. I guess you could say my first word was memorable.''
''...y'know Admiral...this...this is the most I've ever heard you talk...
...do I...do I really look that bad?''
''Prettiest pile of shit I've ever seen, Goose'',
she lied, eyeing the drops of blood pouring from his forehead.
''...th-thanks...so...the bastard took you anyway?''
''The very next day. Ugly shit called himself 'the Messenger',
few in my past have real names. We're all just walking titles with delusions of grandeur'',
she spat out some more of her own blood and continued.
''...you saved...hundreds of thousands...of lives...
...you became....a hero...you scoured the entire planet...
...assembled a refugee fleet....
...you were responsible for the only victory...
...in...in the Battle of Coruscant.''
''I'd be lying if I said that was my original intent,
but you left out a few minor details.''
''...like?''
''Well, there's the fact that I basically blew up the Underworld.
Destroying a few dozens battalions of Sith invaders and their commanders in the process.
And not to boast, but I ensured the retreat of countless soldiers, Jedi and civilians.
I guess you mentioned that last part.
Then there's Nathaneu Bastele....''
''..th...former...Chief..of..State..?''
''Ripped his sorry decaying ass right out of the ruins of
the Galactic Senate,
transported the ungrateful twirp all the way to Corellia,
so he could start up a resistance there.''''
''...not to..sound...like a broken record here..
...but...there really...is a lot people don't know about you....''
''Truer words, James.
Truer words.''
He was gone. His inevitability had finally taken him, something she was anticipating the second her eyes reached him, blade between her lips. He was lost. Another good soldier fallen to Imperial malcontent. She wanted his final moments to be more than a silent acceptance of them, in a cell not of his own choosing. Her story, her past had given her hope, it made sense to her that she finally share it with someone else, even secrets that she told others she would take to the grave. The fleet would arrive soon, she'd given them a signal before their imprisonment. She hoped it would take less than month for their systems to track it, part of her even thought that James might make it, but a small part of her wished he wouldn't. Her past might make her strong, but for others to know it, might make her weak. She wouldn't take that risk again. She wouldn't restrict herself to all too simplistic balance of life and death. She was tried of it. When the torturers returned for his body days later, her rescue came. The Orchestra stormed the facility, her loyal rebellion returned for her, cutting down every imperial in the makeshift prison before finally reaching her cell. Some looked on somberly as they discovered their fallen comrade on the floor of her cell. Some carried him out, covering his face in one of their coats before releasing Whisper from her chains. As they provided her with water, she stood and gave them orders to retreat to the ship.
''James worked as an engineer for the supply ship,
correct?''
''...uh...yes, Admiral.''
''I want his body cremated in it's engines,
we'll send his ashes to his home world.''
''Yes, sir''.
''And gentlemen...he won the bet on my past, but you're not
to give him a single dime. If I hear of anymore bets,
you'll be joining him.''
''...uh yes, sir...Admiral...sir.''
''One last thing...
...how did he get the name Goose?''
''Poor soul grew up on a farm,
tended to it's machinery for his mother,
before the Imps came...
...sir.''
''Noted.
Let's return to the fleet.
It's time to get back to work.''
Whisper
The edge of the blade sliced a sharp chill through her lips, until it slowly and carefully reached the interior of her mouth, gently piercing the flesh within as it grazed the inside of her right cheek. It's point cut deep without resitance, suddenly unleashing an unbearably bitter and intense heat. It was pain, a feeling with which she was intimately familiar. It had returned to her again, like the arrival of an unwelcome and old friend, one who she never sent an invitation. The taste of the knife was salty and cold, carrying with it a memorial residue of every life it had taken, and every life it has tarnished, until it's taste was swiftly replaced, with that of her own blood. She was dizzied by the sensation, but not yet overwhelmed by it, for she had tasted blood before and knew deeply, that this would not be the last time it reached her senses in some form or another. Blood to others was an indication of harm, of weakness, something to be feared and avoided, but blood was her work, blood was that which she sought, blood was not a side effect of her living, blood was her life, but since her captivity, her life was no longer her own. Like her body, it had been thrust forcefully into a cage of her undoing, so that her enemies might unmake her mind and bleed forth her secrets. Before joining the war and becoming part of a conflict greater than herself, she had had enemies, but now, her enemies had armies. The times had changed, grown darker and less defined, but her blood still tasted the same. There was still an oppression to be fought. There was still an objective, the same as before but with varying circumstances. The mission always remained the same. The mission was to survive. At any cost.
Without moving her head, serrated dagger still clutched between her teeth, her eyes slowly crept to the right of her, desperately searching for something until finally it came into view, her eyes showed a moment of relief, despite her own predicament. A soldier under her own command was chained up next to her, his head hanging in a look of shame, his arms pointed upward, chained by the wrists to the decrepit ceiling above them. He was on his knees, both physically and mentally. He had all but given up on the mission, he no longer believed in the possibility of survival, and she knew that more than he did. She could still think, in his current state, he may not have even been capable of thought anymore. Slow breaths, perspiration and bleeding where his only actions, the only indications of life that still clung to his still form. This was a man who no longer believed he was alive, this was a corpse slowly accepting it's inevitable fate. She wished to show her defiance of that belief, to show him that escape was still possible, that reprieve was still ahead of them, but the blade in her mouth sought to block that desire, before it was suddenly torn out from her without warning, unleashing a short but audible coughing scream of relief, before she spat her own blood onto the boots of the man who had wounded her. His boots responded in kind, with a number of unrelenting kicks, before they triumphantly strolled away, leaving the living corpses behind, and slamming a cell door shut behind them. She had lost count over thirty incidents before, but knew intimately that they had been tortured for weeks, without pause and without a change to their approach. It took them over twelve days before they even uttered a question, and another three before they uttered another. These were acolytes of pain and masters of torment, these were men with vast experience in the harrowing realm of wartime torture. For a brief moment, she cursed herself for the side she found herself on, but pushed the thought to the back of her mind as she looked to her companion once more.
She called out to him.
Without moving her head, serrated dagger still clutched between her teeth, her eyes slowly crept to the right of her, desperately searching for something until finally it came into view, her eyes showed a moment of relief, despite her own predicament. A soldier under her own command was chained up next to her, his head hanging in a look of shame, his arms pointed upward, chained by the wrists to the decrepit ceiling above them. He was on his knees, both physically and mentally. He had all but given up on the mission, he no longer believed in the possibility of survival, and she knew that more than he did. She could still think, in his current state, he may not have even been capable of thought anymore. Slow breaths, perspiration and bleeding where his only actions, the only indications of life that still clung to his still form. This was a man who no longer believed he was alive, this was a corpse slowly accepting it's inevitable fate. She wished to show her defiance of that belief, to show him that escape was still possible, that reprieve was still ahead of them, but the blade in her mouth sought to block that desire, before it was suddenly torn out from her without warning, unleashing a short but audible coughing scream of relief, before she spat her own blood onto the boots of the man who had wounded her. His boots responded in kind, with a number of unrelenting kicks, before they triumphantly strolled away, leaving the living corpses behind, and slamming a cell door shut behind them. She had lost count over thirty incidents before, but knew intimately that they had been tortured for weeks, without pause and without a change to their approach. It took them over twelve days before they even uttered a question, and another three before they uttered another. These were acolytes of pain and masters of torment, these were men with vast experience in the harrowing realm of wartime torture. For a brief moment, she cursed herself for the side she found herself on, but pushed the thought to the back of her mind as she looked to her companion once more.
She called out to him.
''....James.....James!!!....''
''....Admiral?....''
''....Status!!!....''
''...I....I've been...better....''
''....you...you've looked better.''
''....much....obliged....''
''....when...when we get out of this...remind me...
...remind me to pay the doctor to look at that face of yours.
It's bad for morale.''
''....I didn't...realize...any...any of us were getting paid...
...or...that we had doctors.''
''Then remind me to steal a doctor...
...next time we hit an Imp base.
Along with some deodorant.
If the Imp's don't kill us than your stink'll do the job.''
''...Wh...why don'tch you say...that to my face...
...Sir.''
''There'll be time for me to kick your sorry arse later...
...Goose.''
''...what...what happened to James?
...thought we were gettin' formal...
...might...finally...find out your real name...
...give the boys back on the fleet...some...something
...to talk about.''
''What's the tally up to now?
...don't give me that look, of course I know the bet. It's my fleet.
I know everything that goes on in my fleet.''
''...fi-five hundred credi-''
''That's all?!!
''...and three months rations...''
''Now, that's more like it.''
His bloodied lips seemed to curl for the briefest of moments, a hint of a somber smile, before he resigned to let the muscles in his face fall and stiffen once more, into an unreadable mask. Whisper had reached out to the life inside of him in the hopes of dragging it kicking and screaming back into the forefront, but the broken man couldn't help but resist. He needed more than mere survival, he needed a reason to live. Ten years ago she became responsible for the lives of thousands of men, women and children just like him, ten years ago everything changed. And now in the present, his hope was her responsibility, however fleeting and desperate that hope may be. It was her duty to save him, a prospect that ten years ago would have made her laugh. Times were different. She was different, and yet, many things remained the same. Twisting her chains around her wrists, she used what strength she had left to pull herself up gently from her aching knees, turning to face the man under her command. She rested once more with a faint sigh of relief, and began inspecting his wounds more intently, but before she could make it past the first head wound, she made a decision. If he needed hope, she was about to give it to him. The rumours surrounding her mysterious past were a source of great interest to the fleet she now commanded, they provided a fleet of desperate men and women with something to talk about, something to debate over, something to keep them focused. Their cell wasn't the only place were hope was fading, the fleet was slowly becoming devoid of it as well. She knew they needed a different kind of hope than the hollow shell before her, their's needed to be physical and material. He needed a story. She couldn't ask him to tell his own, he needed to think this wasn't the end for him. Painful though it was.
''I was an orphan.''
''...wh-what...are you doing?''
''Shut up and listen.''
''...yes....sir...''
''...they found me next to some trash, wrapped in cobalt leather and navy silk....'',
she paused, cleared her throat....and then carried on.
she paused, cleared her throat....and then carried on.
''I must have been out there for days, without shelter, food or care before someone from the orphanage finally found me. They were shocked. They were somehow used to sudden unannounced arrivals at their door, but usually with some indication, perhaps even a message. I didn't cry once, not a single tear or cry for help escaped me, so no one ever came. Until a stroke of luck caused them to finally cross me. I was just a baby. They took me in, clothed me, bathed me and slowly carved out a place for me within their halls. Looking Glass was it's name, an orphanage strangely cut off from the Core Worlds, clinging to the surface of a remote moon, with no other signs of life. For a time as a child, I thought this was for the safety of the children, I couldn't have been more wrong. It was a wonder I survived those few days out in the cold, let alone the many days thereafter.
For seven years I stayed there, and for seven years, I never uttered a sound. You can probably guess how I acquired the most clever nickname in the galaxy given my mute youth, 'Whisper' the maidens and other children began to call me. Along with some other, less reputable and less sanitary names. Le'ts just say I wasn't very sociable for much of my life, I grew from the quietest baby they had ever encountered, to the most silent child they had ever raised. They gave me the silk and leather for my sixth birthday, fashioned into a poorly stitched, makeshift blanket. It felt somehow familiar, despite having not encountered it since I was just a month old. I clung to it like we cling to clean air. It became a part of me. I think I believed my parents may have held it at one time or another. They must have. It was the only keepsake that remained, the only symbol that lingered of my origins. It seemed to seep into my very being, because for a time, all my clothing reflected it's colours, even my the colour of my eyes had become a gleaming, deep sapphire. 'Blue' they would sometimes call me, another increasingly clever moniker from the denizens of Looking Glass Orphanage.
I noticed during my time there, that no one ever came to claim any children as their own, none came to foster the lost youth that rested on the remote moon. Perhaps it was simply the most unpopular establishment in the galaxy, I could never truly tell. My only hope of escape from the place, was through the books scattered in the attic, thousands of old tomes, whose authors insisted on using rudimentary utensils to write their works in dust pages, instead of typing them on modern datapads. I remember gaining an affinity for the smell of the books, the feel of the leather bindings. I must have read hundreds by the time of my seventh birthday. I was lost in my own world, it was no wonder I never felt the need to speak, the books told me everything I needed to know. Through the stories and the two years that followed I discovered dance and artistic expression. While the other kids played with datapad holo-games and kicked balls made of fabric around the overgrown garden outside, I danced alone in the attic. Without any instrument of any kind, I made up sounds in my head based on descriptions within the books. They made it sound like magic, like something more powerful than the Force itself, something I had also read quite a bit about. Profound prospects like focused meditation, connecting with living things, and letting go of your past so it cannot be used against you. It was the purest form of philosophy my young mind had ever seen. I remember wishing I could be a Jedi at one time, all the stories talked about male Jedi saving princesses and helping ill equipped villagers but then leaving them behind to shelter others. I remember wishing I could chop the princesses head off and fill it with ribbons, all without moving a finger. I didn't like the idea of being saved, even though I didn't want to be in Looking Glass anymore. I would save myself.
It was on my ninth birthday, when he arrived. He spoke with the maidens while the other children and I sat in rows of five, staring at the adults speaking in hushed tones, barley above whispers. I could see at that moment why it had been so frustrating for others who tried to speak to me, it was then that I noticed something else. The entire time they spoke, the man stared at me. His eyes never shifting even as I tried to avert my gaze, dark brown things that dangled helplessly from his wrinkled forehead, over his large hooked nose. This was the ugliest man I had ever seen. I think that was the first time I remember feeling fear. I remember never wanting to feel it ever again. He spoke the name they'd given me, and asked me if I wanted him to 'take me away from this miserable place'. I stood, and whispered a single word. 'No'. I guess you could say my first word was memorable.''
''...y'know Admiral...this...this is the most I've ever heard you talk...
...do I...do I really look that bad?''
''Prettiest pile of shit I've ever seen, Goose'',
she lied, eyeing the drops of blood pouring from his forehead.
''...th-thanks...so...the bastard took you anyway?''
''The very next day. Ugly shit called himself 'the Messenger',
few in my past have real names. We're all just walking titles with delusions of grandeur'',
she spat out some more of her own blood and continued.
They took me in the night, carried me like you would a basket of junk or a pile of books. My first trip off world was against my will, but any feeling of disdain I had was lost, when I saw the stars shooting past my window. Beyond the books and merits of stories, the stars were the only other thing that ever provided me with a modicum of comfort, because no one could take them away from me. Even if I couldn't see them, I knew they were there. I still feel the same way now. Suddenly, as slumber crept over me, I felt nothing. I had managed to steal one book from the orphanage, hidden amongst by blue sheet, it was a book about dance. I read it eight times before the ship suddenly began to shake violently. Before I could think to scream, I saw the sky change. The stars became one as the view transformed into white clouds and gale force winds. We weren't crashing, we were landing. We had arrived at our final destination. An icy world, known as Solace. It's snow covered grass crunched underfoot as walked down a scarce stony path from our ship. It led to an enormous estate of various ancient, stonework buildings, all a splendor to behold. We entered the palace with haste, stepping through enormous obsidian doorways into the largest building in the entire area. A central hall greeted us as we went inside and as we came to the middle, we made an abrupt stop. The Messenger took my things and left, leaving me alone, but before long, a man approached from the opposite end of the hall, he was the first alien I had ever encountered. A grey skinned Zabrak with no horns and eyes as red as rubies. He looked at me and smiled with an impressive array of ghostly white teeth. He told me to call him the Father.
He made a thousand promises that any girl would love to hear at the age of nine, but they all fell on deaf ears as I marveled at his various collections that adorned the palace walls, what impressed me the most, were the ancient weapons. All those sacred, whispered promises came with a catch of course. He informed me that in order to earn my 'gifts' I would have to accompany the messenger on his many tasks throughout the galaxy, so I may learn things I would otherwise be ignorant of, or so he claimed. It started off slow at first, odd jobs here and there. Solace was our home base, we ate and slept there. I worshiped the library and played with a thousand ancient artifacts while nobody was looking. He had no servants nor other employees of any kind and every time I asked him what he did to earn such wondrous things, he began to promise me more gifts for my deeds with the messenger. I would never call him Father, only THE Father. My father was the man who made me, the man who, with my mother, wrapped me in a silken sheet and sent me to Looking Glass. He was no more my father than the messenger was my mother. We would deliver packages, question thousands of people on thousands of planets, relay messages, bring people and items to other locations and various other things that I did not quite understand at the time. This went on for over a year until four months past my tenth birthday. I had become tougher then, more stern, more reserved, hollow. I was slowly coming into womanhood and The Father never stopped reminding me how beautiful I was becoming, but he didn't need to tell me that, I knew I was becoming better, faster, stronger. I could feel it in my very bones. On that day, he approached me at the icy grounds outside the palace, placed a wooden stick in my hand and told me to attack him. I tried for hours, it reminded me of dancing alone back at the orphanage, there was no music here either. What was fighting after all, if not a dance without music?
Then my real training began. I never questioned the teachings, I did nothing but embrace them. Perhaps at the age of ten, all I needed was focus, attention, activity. I enveloped myself in the act of change, of betterment, I allowed them to take my hollow form, and sharpen it into a crude blade. I understood in quick time that whatever it was he did for a living, it wasn't safe and probably illegal. I was right. He didn't lose his horns in a shaving accident and they didn't grow back for a reason. They'd been sliced off by his brother and doused in chemicals, so they would never grow again. He had passed on this tradition to others he had worked with, The Messengers nose was not real, but prosthetic, having been chopped off in a battle. The fighter does not choose what part of themselves to lose, that happens naturally. It's what they do after they lose that part of themselves, that matters, that is the choice. These were the teachings they passed to me. The thoughts the carved into the mind of a ten year old girl. Gone was the sweet quiet orphan girl who loved to dance, she didn't exist anymore. I was Whisper the stick fighter. Blue the sword wielder. I was a woman. I was a killer. And I knew it long before he told me. They called themselves 'The Hollow Men'. A society of workers, messengers and killers. They recruited orphan children from a network of orphanages and other facilities sponsored by the criminal underworld, to ensure a continuous supply of personnel to keep their industries churning, it was the perfect form of recruitment. I knew a rich man wouldn't take a child from an orphanage unless he wanted something and I knew he wasn't rich by chance. Why else would he send me out on countless jobs if not to keep me distracted from what went on back at Solace? They needed to know if they could trust me. Whisper the orphan girl. I don't know if they ever did.But I knew they meant to test me.
Six more years I spent with the Hollow, training throughout the galaxy in a myriad of different fields, honing my craft, sharpening my focus. Blades, blasters, hand-to-hand, stealth, dance, swimming, piloting, they even brought in a woman to teach me arts of seduction, all with the intention of crafting me into the perfect tool for 'the Family'. Another name for their 'organisation'. By the time of my seventeenth birthday, I was capable of fighting ten men at once with a serrated knife. I could shoot the fake nose off the messenger from three hundred yards away with a standard military blaster and I could run for twenty kilometers without breaking a sweat. They had taken an orphan girl, fascinated by art, dance and the adventures of the Jedi and turned her into a soldier. And I was thankful for it. I grew to love them for all they had done for me, nearly forgetting the longing I had to find my own parents, until finally, I did. They hollowed me out, so they could use my shell to fulfill their goals. It was six days after my seventeenth birthday, when the test finally came. The Father took me to the central hall were we had first met, he was wearing full body armour, with no helm, the Messenger was not far behind us, both had their own personal blasters at their sides. When we stopped at the same spot we had years before, I took a moment to look at my own reflection in his crimson, ruby eyes. My body had grown into that of a lustrous, athletic and yet voluptuous, woman, with bones carving out the curves and contours of my porcelain skinned body. With long jet black hair, painted blue lips, sapphire eyes and long pale legs, I marveled at how confident I felt in my own beauty, in my own body. At the time, I saw it as another weapon. An example of how poisoned my mind had become.
Two brutish men came into the hall, carrying between them a struggling shape, clad in a black burlap sack and shaking violently. They dropped the person at my feet and removed the sack over their head. It was a young girl, with short auburn hair and eyes as green as the blades of grass I remembered from the garden outside of Looking Glass. Her blotchy skin was sprinkled with freckles and tears and when she met her eyes with mine, she collapsed in fear. I didn't understand what was happening, but before I could react, the Father placed his gun in my hand, raised my arm and aimed it at the sweet child's head, she was roughly nine years old, the same age I had been when I was torn from Looking Glass, my home...it was my home, I realize that now. They took me from my home. I can't, I couldn't. I shook violently, nearly frothing at the mouth as I placed the barrel of the gun at her forehead, my eyes darted around quickly as the four men around us took one step away. And that's when I made the most important decision in my life. 'No', I screamed. I pushed the girl to the floor of the palace hall and spun around in an abrupt and fluid movement, spinning the blaster between the fingers of my right hand as I shot the two brutish men in their knees, immediately bringing them to the ground. The messenger stepped forward, I spun around his left side and threw my leg backward, kicking him forcefully at the back of his head and bringing him to the ground immediately. As I turned, the Father had the young girl in his arms, he held her almost the same way he had held me when I was her age, but his hands covered her mouth and throat. He screamed at me in an archaic language, I recognized it as the language of his people, and I understood. I'll never forget the words.
The blast fired, my arm shook, the girl screamed. The father fell. I ran forward, gracefully ushering the girl to the side so I could take him in my arms, to cradle him as he once cradled me. I urged him to speak, to tell me who started all this, that if he ever truly loved me, that he would tell me what I wanted know. He said nothing. He couldn't. Death took him before he could defy it. He was my first kill. Before the Messenger could stand, I pulled a knife from the corpse's belt and plunged it deep into his chest, his eyes met mine, I watched the life drain from them as I did the Father. My second kill. There would come a time when I stopped counting, because it stopped mattering. I took the Messenger's blaster, whatever credits he had left in his pockets and ran, with the girl shaking in my arms. On the way out, we stumbled across my room, I made no show of things, merely grabbed the book and blanket I had taken from Looking Glass and kept running until we finally reached outside. I had spied an old mining vessel I had never seen before, most likely the vessel that had brought the green eyed girl to Solace, to test their newest recruit. Before I could step toward it, I looked down to find the girl reaching out with one hand towards the falling snow. She was smiling. By the look in her eyes, she had never seen the likes of it before. To catch such innocence in the midst of such violence had a profound effect on whatever humanity I had left within me. Whatever remained that had convinced me to betray the Hollow Men and their hollow promises. It was hope I guess, my first real encounter with it. I liked it far more than my first encounter with fear. It seems so obvious, but for me, emotions took their time to reveal themselves.
He made a thousand promises that any girl would love to hear at the age of nine, but they all fell on deaf ears as I marveled at his various collections that adorned the palace walls, what impressed me the most, were the ancient weapons. All those sacred, whispered promises came with a catch of course. He informed me that in order to earn my 'gifts' I would have to accompany the messenger on his many tasks throughout the galaxy, so I may learn things I would otherwise be ignorant of, or so he claimed. It started off slow at first, odd jobs here and there. Solace was our home base, we ate and slept there. I worshiped the library and played with a thousand ancient artifacts while nobody was looking. He had no servants nor other employees of any kind and every time I asked him what he did to earn such wondrous things, he began to promise me more gifts for my deeds with the messenger. I would never call him Father, only THE Father. My father was the man who made me, the man who, with my mother, wrapped me in a silken sheet and sent me to Looking Glass. He was no more my father than the messenger was my mother. We would deliver packages, question thousands of people on thousands of planets, relay messages, bring people and items to other locations and various other things that I did not quite understand at the time. This went on for over a year until four months past my tenth birthday. I had become tougher then, more stern, more reserved, hollow. I was slowly coming into womanhood and The Father never stopped reminding me how beautiful I was becoming, but he didn't need to tell me that, I knew I was becoming better, faster, stronger. I could feel it in my very bones. On that day, he approached me at the icy grounds outside the palace, placed a wooden stick in my hand and told me to attack him. I tried for hours, it reminded me of dancing alone back at the orphanage, there was no music here either. What was fighting after all, if not a dance without music?
Then my real training began. I never questioned the teachings, I did nothing but embrace them. Perhaps at the age of ten, all I needed was focus, attention, activity. I enveloped myself in the act of change, of betterment, I allowed them to take my hollow form, and sharpen it into a crude blade. I understood in quick time that whatever it was he did for a living, it wasn't safe and probably illegal. I was right. He didn't lose his horns in a shaving accident and they didn't grow back for a reason. They'd been sliced off by his brother and doused in chemicals, so they would never grow again. He had passed on this tradition to others he had worked with, The Messengers nose was not real, but prosthetic, having been chopped off in a battle. The fighter does not choose what part of themselves to lose, that happens naturally. It's what they do after they lose that part of themselves, that matters, that is the choice. These were the teachings they passed to me. The thoughts the carved into the mind of a ten year old girl. Gone was the sweet quiet orphan girl who loved to dance, she didn't exist anymore. I was Whisper the stick fighter. Blue the sword wielder. I was a woman. I was a killer. And I knew it long before he told me. They called themselves 'The Hollow Men'. A society of workers, messengers and killers. They recruited orphan children from a network of orphanages and other facilities sponsored by the criminal underworld, to ensure a continuous supply of personnel to keep their industries churning, it was the perfect form of recruitment. I knew a rich man wouldn't take a child from an orphanage unless he wanted something and I knew he wasn't rich by chance. Why else would he send me out on countless jobs if not to keep me distracted from what went on back at Solace? They needed to know if they could trust me. Whisper the orphan girl. I don't know if they ever did.But I knew they meant to test me.
Six more years I spent with the Hollow, training throughout the galaxy in a myriad of different fields, honing my craft, sharpening my focus. Blades, blasters, hand-to-hand, stealth, dance, swimming, piloting, they even brought in a woman to teach me arts of seduction, all with the intention of crafting me into the perfect tool for 'the Family'. Another name for their 'organisation'. By the time of my seventeenth birthday, I was capable of fighting ten men at once with a serrated knife. I could shoot the fake nose off the messenger from three hundred yards away with a standard military blaster and I could run for twenty kilometers without breaking a sweat. They had taken an orphan girl, fascinated by art, dance and the adventures of the Jedi and turned her into a soldier. And I was thankful for it. I grew to love them for all they had done for me, nearly forgetting the longing I had to find my own parents, until finally, I did. They hollowed me out, so they could use my shell to fulfill their goals. It was six days after my seventeenth birthday, when the test finally came. The Father took me to the central hall were we had first met, he was wearing full body armour, with no helm, the Messenger was not far behind us, both had their own personal blasters at their sides. When we stopped at the same spot we had years before, I took a moment to look at my own reflection in his crimson, ruby eyes. My body had grown into that of a lustrous, athletic and yet voluptuous, woman, with bones carving out the curves and contours of my porcelain skinned body. With long jet black hair, painted blue lips, sapphire eyes and long pale legs, I marveled at how confident I felt in my own beauty, in my own body. At the time, I saw it as another weapon. An example of how poisoned my mind had become.
Two brutish men came into the hall, carrying between them a struggling shape, clad in a black burlap sack and shaking violently. They dropped the person at my feet and removed the sack over their head. It was a young girl, with short auburn hair and eyes as green as the blades of grass I remembered from the garden outside of Looking Glass. Her blotchy skin was sprinkled with freckles and tears and when she met her eyes with mine, she collapsed in fear. I didn't understand what was happening, but before I could react, the Father placed his gun in my hand, raised my arm and aimed it at the sweet child's head, she was roughly nine years old, the same age I had been when I was torn from Looking Glass, my home...it was my home, I realize that now. They took me from my home. I can't, I couldn't. I shook violently, nearly frothing at the mouth as I placed the barrel of the gun at her forehead, my eyes darted around quickly as the four men around us took one step away. And that's when I made the most important decision in my life. 'No', I screamed. I pushed the girl to the floor of the palace hall and spun around in an abrupt and fluid movement, spinning the blaster between the fingers of my right hand as I shot the two brutish men in their knees, immediately bringing them to the ground. The messenger stepped forward, I spun around his left side and threw my leg backward, kicking him forcefully at the back of his head and bringing him to the ground immediately. As I turned, the Father had the young girl in his arms, he held her almost the same way he had held me when I was her age, but his hands covered her mouth and throat. He screamed at me in an archaic language, I recognized it as the language of his people, and I understood. I'll never forget the words.
I gave you a life. That's all we've ever done for the children, given them a purpose!! If you cannot set aside your past and do what we will you to do, then you are not worthy of family and you will always be what all orphans are. Alone!!
I raised the gun toward him and spoke.
Not alone. Free.
I raised the gun toward him and spoke.
Not alone. Free.
The blast fired, my arm shook, the girl screamed. The father fell. I ran forward, gracefully ushering the girl to the side so I could take him in my arms, to cradle him as he once cradled me. I urged him to speak, to tell me who started all this, that if he ever truly loved me, that he would tell me what I wanted know. He said nothing. He couldn't. Death took him before he could defy it. He was my first kill. Before the Messenger could stand, I pulled a knife from the corpse's belt and plunged it deep into his chest, his eyes met mine, I watched the life drain from them as I did the Father. My second kill. There would come a time when I stopped counting, because it stopped mattering. I took the Messenger's blaster, whatever credits he had left in his pockets and ran, with the girl shaking in my arms. On the way out, we stumbled across my room, I made no show of things, merely grabbed the book and blanket I had taken from Looking Glass and kept running until we finally reached outside. I had spied an old mining vessel I had never seen before, most likely the vessel that had brought the green eyed girl to Solace, to test their newest recruit. Before I could step toward it, I looked down to find the girl reaching out with one hand towards the falling snow. She was smiling. By the look in her eyes, she had never seen the likes of it before. To catch such innocence in the midst of such violence had a profound effect on whatever humanity I had left within me. Whatever remained that had convinced me to betray the Hollow Men and their hollow promises. It was hope I guess, my first real encounter with it. I liked it far more than my first encounter with fear. It seems so obvious, but for me, emotions took their time to reveal themselves.
I don't how long or how far we traveled, but I knew I couldn't stop until she was safe, she was the only truly valuable thing left on board the ship. Like the clever children back at the orphanage, I'd given her the name of Emerald, reflecting her striking eyes, still filled with tears at the time, despite her smile. She looked to be covered in all sorts of grime and dirt, her clothing was nothing but rags and torn animal skin. A slave, I believed and still do. She was a different kind of beautiful, earthly and ethereal, she was natural in the truest sense and incredibly pure. I told her my name and she smiled again, she seemed to like the sounds of words. I wrapped her in the charred, cobalt blanket and set her to sleep in one of several quarters on the ship. I didn't like the notion of smuggling, the work was to easy and provided little danger or even effort. I wanted something dangerous, radioactive, bloody. It's what I know after all, the blood dance, but then I had someone I needed to provide for, sweet Emerald. We spent weeks feeding from the supplies already stored on the ship, soldiers rations and watery soups, but they were good enough for survival. I passed the time by teaching Emerald all sorts of tricks that I had learned, she seemed to love knitting and dancing in particular. The first time we landed on a planet, I returned to the ship to find that she had knitted the blue blanket I had been wrapped in as a child, into a finely cut jacket fit with all sorts of compartments, and other intricacies. I remember being angry at first, but that quickly subsided when I recognized her natural talent. It was't happiness I felt with her, I think I simply just....content. I fit the jacket on, holstered Father and Messenger and it felt right, like an amalgamation of events, an order to the universe.
We journeyed to the Core to look for answers. To search for any connection to the orchestrated efforts of which we had both been unwilling victims. After countless threats and broken bones, Father and Messenger eventually earned me the right to speak to one of the criminal underworlds highest ranking contacts, the owner of a shuttle repair shop, a droid named 5D-C2, who many called 'Vice'. He became a close ally over the two years I spent hunting down every last remnant of their organisation throughout the criminal underworld. It was a bit of a bloodbath. Sometimes I wouldn't see Emerald for days as she stayed aboard whatever ship we had at the time while I carried out the wetwork. By the time I'd killed them all, it'd been over a year since we left Solace behind. I'd gained a reputation as a mercenary in the underworld, and Emerald was starting to go out into the world by herself, working all of the legal jobs she could find. She seemed to wish that I could live that life with her. For such a young girl, she was a little obsessed with normality. I took a thousand jobs and a thousand more after that to finance our lives, undercover work, assassinations, heists, even taking part in the war on a number of occasions. Although I never picked a side. I've never been interested in government, people mattered to me, people and their stories, just to see if their stories were as insane as mine. Quite often, they were, but that was before the dark times. Before the invasion. Before fate sought to embrace the approach of the Empire, as it engulfed Coruscant with his gaping maw of destruction.''
We journeyed to the Core to look for answers. To search for any connection to the orchestrated efforts of which we had both been unwilling victims. After countless threats and broken bones, Father and Messenger eventually earned me the right to speak to one of the criminal underworlds highest ranking contacts, the owner of a shuttle repair shop, a droid named 5D-C2, who many called 'Vice'. He became a close ally over the two years I spent hunting down every last remnant of their organisation throughout the criminal underworld. It was a bit of a bloodbath. Sometimes I wouldn't see Emerald for days as she stayed aboard whatever ship we had at the time while I carried out the wetwork. By the time I'd killed them all, it'd been over a year since we left Solace behind. I'd gained a reputation as a mercenary in the underworld, and Emerald was starting to go out into the world by herself, working all of the legal jobs she could find. She seemed to wish that I could live that life with her. For such a young girl, she was a little obsessed with normality. I took a thousand jobs and a thousand more after that to finance our lives, undercover work, assassinations, heists, even taking part in the war on a number of occasions. Although I never picked a side. I've never been interested in government, people mattered to me, people and their stories, just to see if their stories were as insane as mine. Quite often, they were, but that was before the dark times. Before the invasion. Before fate sought to embrace the approach of the Empire, as it engulfed Coruscant with his gaping maw of destruction.''
''...y-you were on Coruscant when they hit it?
...what...what about Emerald?
...ho-how come I've never seen...
....or heard of her...?''
''She....she was killed instantly in the first bombardment.
She was on the surface, in whatever ship we were calling home at the time.
I was below, on a job.''
''...just...like that?''
''Just...just...like that.''
...what...what about Emerald?
...ho-how come I've never seen...
....or heard of her...?''
''She....she was killed instantly in the first bombardment.
She was on the surface, in whatever ship we were calling home at the time.
I was below, on a job.''
''...just...like that?''
''Just...just...like that.''
There had been rumours for weeks that they were coming, that the war would be at our doors in days, but no one listened. Like all things, the common thrall worried about their day to day and didn't stop to think what may be happening outside of themselves. I was no different, I was busy casing a target during a card game in some god forsaken alley when the bombardment hit. I knew what it meant. I'd been reckless. Emerald was gone. The hollowing settled in me once more, something vacant was resting in me. My mind ran rampant, until finally I realized are only hope of escape from the carnage on the surface, was to flee to that which lay below. I allied with a group of strangers I'd stumbled upon, in a territory I was familiar with, known as Smuggler's Wake. After a number of fierce battles with other criminals, vagrants and even a number of Sith patrols, I came up with a more precise plan. Fishing a street urchin out of a dumpster, I was shocked to find a little girl. Nearly overwhelmed a rush of emotions given Emerald's fall, I asked her to lead us into the ancient sewers below, in the hopes of searching for a ship. Her name was Thea, and either out of fear or kindness, she guided me and my new found allies into the deep, through a network of ancient gravi-tunnels. Within hours, we were at the end of the world. Five thousands, nine hundred and ninety nine levels below the surface. It was an abandoned network by some lost government, possibly used for maintenance or sanitation monitoring for such a vast city planet as Coruscant. The children of the streets were using it as a network for pick pocketing and other merits for survival, under the guidance of droid custodian responsible for monitoring the ancient tunnels.''
''C3-C?
...so that's...that's where you got...''
''Yes.
...so that's...that's where you got...''
''Yes.
C3 used a fleet of over thirty sewage treatment vessels to monitor the enormous network of tunnels riddled beneath the planet, they were designed to transport waste off-world and thus were hyperspace capable, but the systems built above the tunnels blocked their path, and thus the network and fleet fell into disarray. Using Thea's influence over the droid, we convinced him to launch the fleet in unison, tied to a single command ship. We had our method of escape. The only thing left was to make sure nothing stopped us. So I made another important choice, another based on trust. The mercenaries that helped me get that far, were men and beasts unknown to me. I didn't know their histories, nor did I know their intentions. All I knew, was that I had a crowd of children, a way out and a room full of mercs I didn't trust. Once I led them on board one of the ships, I stole one of their grenades, closed the docking doors, activated the engines, ignited the grenade and betrayed every last one of them, for fear that they would betray me. The explosion was massive, and for the children and their droid custodian, it was our signal to leave, but we were no longer fleeing for our own survival. With over thirty ships at our disposal, a fleet C3 called 'the Orchestra', it was our responsibility to use them. I trust you know the rest.''
''...you saved...hundreds of thousands...of lives...
...you became....a hero...you scoured the entire planet...
...assembled a refugee fleet....
...you were responsible for the only victory...
...in...in the Battle of Coruscant.''
''I'd be lying if I said that was my original intent,
but you left out a few minor details.''
''...like?''
''Well, there's the fact that I basically blew up the Underworld.
Destroying a few dozens battalions of Sith invaders and their commanders in the process.
And not to boast, but I ensured the retreat of countless soldiers, Jedi and civilians.
I guess you mentioned that last part.
Then there's Nathaneu Bastele....''
''..th...former...Chief..of..State..?''
''Ripped his sorry decaying ass right out of the ruins of
the Galactic Senate,
transported the ungrateful twirp all the way to Corellia,
so he could start up a resistance there.''''
''...not to..sound...like a broken record here..
...but...there really...is a lot people don't know about you....''
''Truer words, James.
Truer words.''
''I left the jacket Emerald made me in the Underworld, let it burn in the fires of Imperial conquest, all traces of blue were left behind, even my eyes grew grey. I didn't need it anymore, because then everything changed. Her need for me to leave behind a life of criminality was the seed that took root in my soul, I guessed you could say the fires of that conflict allowed that seed to grow. In a way, I should thank the Imp's for giving me a new life, I was growing tired of the old one, so I left it behind as we fled the planet. Little street urchin in my lap, hundreds of thousands of strangers huddled together behind me, on thirty ships I'd ripped from the bowels of the underworld. Once we finally escaped Sith patrols, upon realizing the ships were so ancient that they couldn't be picked up on modern sensors, we flew as far out as possible, nearly going beyond the Outer Rim so that we might take shelter from the brewing rise of a new victorious Empire. I spent days nursing the wounds I'd suffered fighting on Coruscant. Sith blades, Mandalorian blasters, grenade impacts and orbital bombardments had all graced my flesh. It was a wonder I survived at all, let alone managed to save others, but now that I had saved them, I was responsible for them.
Many decided to leave, many decided to stay, it's the way of things in the aftermath of that kind of conflict, but sometimes it's better to be alone, so no one else can hurt you. Those that stayed, mostly stayed out of a desire for revenge, seeing the fleet I'd gathered as a potential for a rebellion against the Sith and their Empire, despite our severely lacking resources. As you know, we began to taking refugees on board from other worlds, I believe we got you and a few others from a tiny moon in the Mid-Rim. It went on like that for months, many began calling me 'Admiral' for a time, a moniker that managed to stick after they repeated it enough. Before I knew it, I was a commander of a rag tag fleet. We did everything we could to survive. Piracy. Smuggling. Old tricks die hard I guess. The Hutt Cartel and other organisations grew weary of our efforts, as we entrenched on their territories. 'The Pale Bitch', they started to call me. As if such a title would weaken mine or our resolve, but it couldn't. Our desire to defend and aid the helpless in the aftermath of enemy victory was limitless. We were driven by belief, by focus. Nothing could stop us. Nothing can. Bastele knew that. That's why he fought so desperately on Corellia, that's why I left the fleet for a time to fight alongside him, before welcoming him to the fleet in secret. That's why, despite all our failures and our losses. We're going to win this war.....''
Many decided to leave, many decided to stay, it's the way of things in the aftermath of that kind of conflict, but sometimes it's better to be alone, so no one else can hurt you. Those that stayed, mostly stayed out of a desire for revenge, seeing the fleet I'd gathered as a potential for a rebellion against the Sith and their Empire, despite our severely lacking resources. As you know, we began to taking refugees on board from other worlds, I believe we got you and a few others from a tiny moon in the Mid-Rim. It went on like that for months, many began calling me 'Admiral' for a time, a moniker that managed to stick after they repeated it enough. Before I knew it, I was a commander of a rag tag fleet. We did everything we could to survive. Piracy. Smuggling. Old tricks die hard I guess. The Hutt Cartel and other organisations grew weary of our efforts, as we entrenched on their territories. 'The Pale Bitch', they started to call me. As if such a title would weaken mine or our resolve, but it couldn't. Our desire to defend and aid the helpless in the aftermath of enemy victory was limitless. We were driven by belief, by focus. Nothing could stop us. Nothing can. Bastele knew that. That's why he fought so desperately on Corellia, that's why I left the fleet for a time to fight alongside him, before welcoming him to the fleet in secret. That's why, despite all our failures and our losses. We're going to win this war.....''
''...James....James?''
He was gone. His inevitability had finally taken him, something she was anticipating the second her eyes reached him, blade between her lips. He was lost. Another good soldier fallen to Imperial malcontent. She wanted his final moments to be more than a silent acceptance of them, in a cell not of his own choosing. Her story, her past had given her hope, it made sense to her that she finally share it with someone else, even secrets that she told others she would take to the grave. The fleet would arrive soon, she'd given them a signal before their imprisonment. She hoped it would take less than month for their systems to track it, part of her even thought that James might make it, but a small part of her wished he wouldn't. Her past might make her strong, but for others to know it, might make her weak. She wouldn't take that risk again. She wouldn't restrict herself to all too simplistic balance of life and death. She was tried of it. When the torturers returned for his body days later, her rescue came. The Orchestra stormed the facility, her loyal rebellion returned for her, cutting down every imperial in the makeshift prison before finally reaching her cell. Some looked on somberly as they discovered their fallen comrade on the floor of her cell. Some carried him out, covering his face in one of their coats before releasing Whisper from her chains. As they provided her with water, she stood and gave them orders to retreat to the ship.
''James worked as an engineer for the supply ship,
correct?''
''...uh...yes, Admiral.''
''I want his body cremated in it's engines,
we'll send his ashes to his home world.''
''Yes, sir''.
''And gentlemen...he won the bet on my past, but you're not
to give him a single dime. If I hear of anymore bets,
you'll be joining him.''
''...uh yes, sir...Admiral...sir.''
''One last thing...
...how did he get the name Goose?''
''Poor soul grew up on a farm,
tended to it's machinery for his mother,
before the Imps came...
...sir.''
''Noted.
Let's return to the fleet.
It's time to get back to work.''
Last edited by a moderator:
