Dav Man'Sell
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Affiliation: The Jedi Order - Jedi High Council/Jedi Praxeum of Yavin IV
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Jul 25, 2013 11:08:37 GMT -8
Bohemian's Rhapsody - An Untold Tale- Principal Authors: Dav Man'Sell
- Who can post on this thread: Dav Man'Sell
- I want to receive critical responses: Y
- I will be using standard Universe rules here (e.g., canon-only, fleet limits, etc.): Y
Location: Presbalin, a world in the Gordian Reach sector of the Eastern Outer Rim. Timeframe: Approximately 5 years prior to the Mandalorian Holy War. Wyren Starla is the commander of Bohemian Squadron, an elite X-Wing squadron with the Peacekeeping Taskforce based in the Yavin system. She's also, most would say, one of the finest non-force sensitive starfighter pilots in the Galaxy. Those who know her know her as a determined, kind hearted, and talented officer, pilot, and leader. Though a few, just a few, have noticed a sadness about her, a pervasive if subtle and hidden sorrow.
Wyren wasn't always a fighter pilot. Once, she had been a normal girl, with dreams of being a singer. She had lived a simple existence, a quiet life with the man she loved. She had been happy. How she had gone from that life to this was a tale never told to her squad mates or her colleagues. Only two people, Wyren, and the man who had recruited her into the Yavin forces, have known where that life went. Until today.
Bohemian's Rhapsody - An Untold Tale is the first in a series of stories that will shed some light on the lives of some of Yavin IV's inhabitants. They will offer a look into key moments of those people's past, moments that shaped their present selves, and changing the way those characters are seen forever.
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Dav Man'Sell
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Posts: 741
Affiliation: The Jedi Order - Jedi High Council/Jedi Praxeum of Yavin IV
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Jul 25, 2013 16:18:53 GMT -8
This chair is uncomfortable.
That was the only thought that managed to creep through the haze as she sat in the sterile looking room. The walls were solid, with no windows, and only a single door. The lighting for the room consisted of three recessed lighting strips in the ceiling, which cast the room in a harsh and over-bright, cold white. Four small translucent domes were attached to the wall a little down from the ceiling - these, she guessed, were probably holo-cameras.
Only three items populated the room in any way that could be called furnishing. Dead centre was a table. Rectangular, about a meter and a half along the long edge, less than half that along the wide edge. It was made of dull sheet metal, with simple legs, and was bolted to the floor.
Either side of this, there were two chairs of an equally simple design, and it was upon one of these that she now sat. The other was currently unoccupied. Had been for what felt like the longest of times. Ever since the Bothan had left.
The other chair, unlike hers, appeared to have some functional padding on the seat of it. For a moment, she considered standing up and swapping seats. In the next moment, she dismissed the idea - there wasn't much point, anyway. It didn't really matter.
Nothing really matters.
It was a phrase that had circled her mind a few dozen times in the past hour. Between the repetitions, she found herself wondering, questioning, whether everything she'd been through in the past two weeks had been real, or whether it had all been something she'd imagined.
She looked down at her hands. They were still stained. Stained with grime. And blood. Some of it hers. Some of it not.
Her wrists felt irritated by the metal around them, something that she was now dully becoming aware of. The binders were just tight enough to squeeze, and on the very rare occasions that she moved her hands or arms, they would sometimes catch her skin, pinching slightly. The pinches were the only real sudden and sharp thing she remembered feeling. Everything else... everything else felt hazy, dulled, grey, a chronic ache somewhere in her chest and gut that seemed to have lasted forever. She knew, in her rational mind, that it hadn't been that way. There had been desperation, and anger, and oh so much pain. Not physical pain. Something deeper, something worse, a pain in her very soul, something that had begun when --
She squeezed her eyes shut, her face, she didn't doubt, screwing up in the bubbling emotions that now raced up, cutting through the dullness and the grey. Her chin dipped right to her chest, and the emotions washed over everything, becoming all she knew, all she could experience. Her gut heaved in an unvoiced sob, followed by a second one that carried with it a sudden, rasping cry. She brought her hands to her face, clenching them into fists as the right hand binder pinched at her skin, pressing them into her forehead as she bent forward, almost double. She could feel the tears now, streaming down her face, and the dullness was over ridden entirely with that gut curling hurt. She just wanted to curl up and sleep and never have to wake up again. Or wake up and discover it had all been a nightmare.
The sharp sound of the door locks disengaging prompted the end of her sobs, and her head snapped up, a slight panic now joining the pain, eyes fixed on the door. Was the Bothan returning? Would he bring more questions? She didn't know. She didn't want any more of it, though. It wasn't the questions, so much as the cold sneer, the non-sympathy, the accusation in the furred man's voice. She didn't want any more of the feeling that she was some vicious criminal. That she had done something wrong.
The door slid open. The Bothan was there, by the doorway, as were two others. One was the armed, fully armoured guard that had stood vigilantly by the exit during the Bothan's earlier visit, his every detail concealed beneath the armour so that the only thing she could ascertain was that he was bipedal and of average height and build for any one of a hundred humanoid species. The other was a man, Human, she thought, though his face was concealed by shadows from the door frame, casting deep black into the dimly lit corridor. She didn't know why the corridor was so dimly lit, but it was disconcerting to her. Perhaps that was the point.
The man appeared to be taller than both the Bothan and the armed guard. He wore a long coat in black that fell to his ankles, and golden buttons gleamed upon the chest. The coat had something of a military feel to it, but an archaic one. The only other thing she could make out were his feet, in brown boots, tucking out from under the front of the coat, and his hands, which were slightly tanned, large, and definitely human-looking, protruding from the sleeves of the coat. He turned now to the Bothan. When he spoke, quietly, it carried a strong quality, rich, and had the accent of a core world occupant - Coruscant, perhaps, or one of the other worlds that sought to mimic the Coruscanti dialect.
"Thank you, Detective. I'll come and see you once I'm done."
The Detective seemed agitated by this, fur bristling along the back of his neck and the crown of his head, but rather than offer a reply - which she imagined would have been delivered with the same scornful tone that all his words to her had carried - he simply nodded, and stepped out of sight. The tall man took a turn towards the door, and the armoured guard took a step forward to join him inside.
"That's ok, officer. Your presence won't be necessary."
The armoured guard - an officer, apparently; she hadn't much thought about the rank of the faceless guard before - stopped, and broke silence, the first time she had seen any of them say a word since she had been in this place.
"Regulations state an armed guard to be present in all interviews."
The voice was mechanical - not a droid's voice, but a voice passing through some kind of vocoder or comm unit. The effect rendered the voice almost completely nondescript. She supposed that was another deliberate effect. She found the effect chilling, and had she not been sat, leant right forward, staring out of the door and into the corridor with barely even so much as a blink of her eyes, she might have shuddered a little. The tall man, however, seemed unperturbed, both by the voice, and the statement. His left hand lifted, making a gesture in the air, almost as if brushing the remark slowly aside, as he spoke again.
"It's ok. An exception is being made in this case. You can wait outside."
There was a moment's silence, as the helmeted head of the armed guard seemed to list slightly to the right. The tall man just watched, saying nothing, exhibiting no further movement or response. Then the guard gave a small nod.
"Ok. If an exception is being made... I will wait outside."
Now Wyren did blink, her lips parting slightly. That, she decided, was a little odd.
The tall man turned back to the doorway now, and stepped far enough forward that his face was no longer masked by shadows. He had strong features - sharp cheekbones, a broad jaw, a strong looking chin with a dimple, and large, dark eyes that seemed to fall on her now with a deeply attentive look. It felt like he was doing more than looking at her. It felt like he was studying her. The thick brown hair on his head, parted on the right side and swept scruffily over to the left, flicked away from laying flat in heavy locks. A thin stubble graced his cheeks, chin, and top lip, kept tidier than the hair.
As he reached the chair on the other side of the table, she suddenly became aware of the peculiar way in which she sat, nearly doubled over, staring at him. She straightened up, perhaps a little too fast to be natural, and, hands still held together by the cuffs, wiped the tears from her cheeks with two sweeps of her right hand, before she rested them in her lap. She sniffed. Blinked. Watched this man in silence with curiosity, only passingly aware of the door closing to the room behind him. He seemed familiar to her, though she couldn't place where she had seen his face. Not that that meant anything. Her oldest friend could walk through the door, and the way she was feeling at that moment, she probably would have needed a minute or two to recognise her.
The tall man didn't seem too bothered by her silence. His eyes had fallen from her face to the back of the chair opposite, which he slid out in a casual-yet-purposeful movement, stepping around it to take a seat. As he sat, the coat swept open, revealing a cream - or would it be more of a beige? - coloured tunic of some kind beneath, smartly cut down to mid-thigh in something resembling a formal jacket style, red piping running down the edge of the lapel and following the seal of the jacket-come-tunic. A thick brown belt sat over the top, and a dark red shirt underneath. It was an intriguing style. It gave her no help in recognising the man, save that she had the feeling he might well have been wearing a similar coloured top before.
He drew the chair forward, leant towards her slightly, and clasped his hands before himself with his forearms resting on the tabletop. She blinked again, and swallowed, but still said nothing, and made no further movement. His eyes looked into hers, and once more, it felt like he was studying her. He offered a small smile.
"Hello Wyren. Do you remember me?"
She blinked once more, a small frown on her brow. Clearly they had met before. The more she thought on it, it seemed to be relatively recently, too. A few months ago? Maybe?
What had she been doing a few months ago?
"The flight school?" It took her a moment to realise that that was her voice. It had a rasp to it, one that was not normal for her, and it sounded strange in her ears. After a second, her brain caught up fully, the pain and confusion clearing a little. She swallowed heavily, cleared her throat, and spoke again. "You... you came to see me after the final exams at the flight school... right?"
He nodded, the smile growing a little wider, though it was still small.
"Yes."
That confirmation opened up the memories, and suddenly, his face, the conversation they had had before, when, where, it all came back to her. He'd approached her, introduced to her by one of the instructors. Offered her a job within a military starfighter unit. She had turned it down - she'd only wanted to get her flight license so that she could get a little courier job, something to help pay the bills. She'd flown a little as a child, back on Commenor, with her father, but after she'd moved away she'd not really kept doing it. A little recreational flying here and there, which she enjoyed, and had demonstrated some skill for. A heck of a lot of skill, in fact, if the various flight instructors she'd been with on those little flights were to believed.
It was because she was apparently a bit of a natural that had led her to signing up for the flight school. And with training, she'd only gotten better. Her final scores had been so good, apparently, it had caused quite the stir amongst the teaching staff, which had in turn led to her first meeting with the man that now sat opposite her.
Part of her questioned why he might be here, now, after what had happened, but as soon as the question crossed her mind, the answer presented itself from within her memories. He'd told her, last time they'd met, who he was. What he was.
Jedi.
If there was a Jedi here, sitting opposite her, that surely meant she really was in trouble... didn't it? Or maybe he was here to help her? She couldn't really make sense of it, and didn't expect she'd figure it out all on her own if she tried to. One part of her mind echoed that thought again - It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters. - but it was quickly silenced by the rest of her. It did matter. Jedi didn't do things that didn't matter. And she would find out why it mattered, she was sure, in the course of time.
It was he who broke the silence, his eyes dropping to her restrained hands.
"They look uncomfortable. Allow me."
He made a gesture towards the binders with two fingers of his left hand - the binders were suddenly loose around her wrists, and when she glanced down at them, she realised that they were, in fact, open. Her eyes shot back up at him.
"How did you..."
"It's a common model." He gave a small shrug. "Broken myself out of similar pairs several times in my life. Imperial Stormtroopers never liked it when you opened their binders with little more than a thought."
In another moment, she might have smiled. Laughed even. The woman of two weeks earlier, the woman he'd first met at the flight school, she would have laughed. Probably made some kind of comment on how he didn't look old enough to have had to worry about Imperial Stormtroopers - which, in truth, he didn't, although age probably meant something different to a Jedi than it did to normal mortals.
As it was, on this occasion, she simply stared at him. She didn't know, really, what to say, so again, they descended into silence. The question whirled around her head, over and over - Why are you here? - until she could take it no more, and this time, it was her turn to speak first.
"Are you here... to help me? Or to help the police?"
"Both."
She frowned at this. Both? What did 'both' mean?
Almost as if he could read her mind - maybe he could. Jedi had telepathic powers, didn't they? - he explained further.
"With everything that's happened here lately, there's a lot of pressure on the Police to look like they're doing something in the name of justice. I intend to help them realise that 'justice' and 'scapegoat' are not the same thing. Help them bring the real criminals down. What you've done might, strictly speaking, be of extremely questionable legality, but in my experience, questionable legality doesn't always mean wrong."
She frowned a little more, her eyes dropping to the tabletop. It sounded to her like he already knew the story she'd told the Bothan detective - a story the Bothan had been reluctant to believe. It also sounded like this Jedi was less reluctant.
"You don't think what I've done is wrong?"
Her eyes met his again. This time, it was his turn to frown, and he seemed to consider his words for a moment, looking away from her as he did so.
"Well... that all depends."
She swallowed.
"On what?"
Her voice still had a croak to it that wasn't hers. His eyes met hers again.
"On why you did it. I don't generally condone the concept of revenge for revenge's sake. It's not good for the soul, holding that kind of desire in your heart, using it for motivation."
She looked down again, eyeing the table, examining the nicks and dents in it's surface, her mind trying to understand it all, trying to remember what her motives had been when it had all started, when she had set out to --
Was it revenge? Was that what I wanted?
Some part of her had, perhaps. She had been angry, she was hurting, she wanted someone, the right people, to pay for that. Was that revenge? Or something else? There was more to it than just her revenge, though. She'd set out to do what she had done for a bigger reason than that.
"It was more than that. I wanted to avenge everyone who'd died. I wanted to make them answer for what they had done. If I had been able to do it without..."
It was strange. How hard it was to say the words that now formed on her lips. To state what she was about to state.
"... without killing them..."
The croak seemed somehow even worse. Her eyes looked up to meet his.
"... I would have."
It was the truth. She hadn't set out to kill anyone, at least, she didn't think so. Maybe to some extent, there were moments when that was all she had wanted, and she had certainly set out knowing that it might well end up being a kill or be killed scenario, but what had mattered to her, what had really mattered to her, was making sure that their crimes had not gone unanswered, as it had looked like they would.
"You wanted justice."
She blinked back a fresh wave of tears that had started to build within her, threatening to streak her face once more.
"I wanted to know that they wouldn't be able to do to somebody else what they did to me."
The tall man's chin lifted at this, and he seemed to consider her words for a moment. He gave a small nod.
"I can understand that feeling."
She felt herself relax, just a little. He understood. He believed her. He was going to help her.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea what to call him. They had been introduced, when they first met, but what he had been introduced as, apart from that he was a Jedi, completely evaded her. Here he was, to help her, and she didn't even know his name. She suddenly felt a strange pang of guilt - strange both because it seemed like an overreaction to forgetting the name of someone she'd only met once, and because, in the grand scheme of everything she'd just done, feeling guilty about this was, to the rational part of her mind, somehow disproportionate.
"What's your name?"
She asked, and straight away, was unsure whether to feel honest for admitting she didn't remember it, or insulting for having forgotten it in the first place. She wanted to apologise, to assure him that it was nothing personal, and that she felt bad for having forgotten it, but saying anything at all felt like tremendous effort for her.
"Dav. Dav Man'Sell."
He hadn't been offended. The small smile that he gave her assured her of that. That, she thought, was a good thing - although, did Jedi feel offended? Could you offend a Jedi? She hoped she wouldn't find out. Not when this Jedi could well have been her only friend on the entire planet right now.
He - Dav - leaned back in the chair, his hands coming to rest flat on the table's surface. The index finger of his right hand tapped gently, noiselessly, on the metal surface, as he seemed again to study and consider her, before speaking once more.
"Perhaps the best thing to do at this stage is to tell me what happened."
She frowned.
"The Police already know..."
"Tell me again. Tell me everything. The whole story, right from the start."
She swallowed. It was a long story. But it wasn't as though she had anywhere else to be, and maybe, maybe if he knew everything, he might be better able to help her.
"Ok." She nodded. Her hand picked up the binders, she leant forward, and put them on the table. With them out her lap, and out of the way, she leant back into her chair again, her hands cupping together in her lap as if they were still bound after all.
"Ok."
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