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Post by Hez on Dec 15, 2014 20:04:52 GMT -5
There is a sound of thunder and it sometimes feel as though I have a brain that never stops ticking, is why it is that sometimes often I drink too much and too sometimes spice sorry. I'm sorry. If you couldn't handle that first sentence you may want to go ahead and switch off the datapad now. This will not be light reading. I--[DATA CORRUPTED]--
Hezch'orba'nuruodo. Cipher Agent. Serial number 800-73-55.
Cipher Agents are not allowed to keep their names but my people are proud and unique allies to the Empire. I will not forget. I know and am and have been many people and always will be and I forget sometimes. Most times. It's why I drink the way I do, it doesn't help but it can't hurt any worse than--[DATA CORRUPTED]--I was once a proud soldier of the CEDF. Reconnaissance was my specialty, my MOS, but I always wanted to move in closer. Wanted to speak, wanted to touch. There is a sound of ryll spice dissolving in a cold glass of water and suddenly I go back, hidden in Republic space with my wife and she O and I we must be careful, careful. Secret, no oh and she is the only one I can tell anything to, anything. I break down gazing into her beautiful blue eyes and hair, oh irony her and I are perfect counterparts. Her hair is like fire, my eyes are like fire and yes we are drowning and yes yes no! they may be onto us. At this point in my lie I make a convincing Corellian. My accent is impeccable but they don't know of my species yet, wait. This isn't right, that was...nine, ten years ago? She--[DATA CORRUPTED]--
Hezch'orba'nuruodo. Cipher Agent. Serial number 800-73-55.
This drones on and on, by the way, so if you don't have the patience for it don't say I didn't warn you. Often I tend bar at the Slippery Slopes Cantina. I took the position as temporary work while laying low and gathering information, plotting out my next move. The wine I pour is purplish-red and would be what I'd look like if my face and eyes all melted together. Ha. Did I say that out loud? Must have, Vell is laughing with me again her charming smile and suddenly I look and her face has melted, really melted--!--it's bones, only bones. Old old bones. and someone else is here too. quiet, watching, listening. someone i never noticed before. green, eh? love the haircut. what's her story? never-you-mind, fool, you have a weapons shipment to offload and O no how now i am fighting for my life the Cathar has struck me has struck me down i am down i--wait--she is...is she? are you? here to save me?
Hezch'orba'nuruodo. Cipher Agent. Serial numbe--[DATA CORRUPTED]--800-73-55.
You all call me many things and we sometimes have trouble sorting out which one I actually am is why sometimes I zone out and stare off and hide my face behind this datapad tablet. Serial number 800 something but they called me Cipher Eight...or was I Cipher Nine? My wife and someday soon now a son tho no it is not allowed, would never be allowed can never go back and if i am my cover blown--somewhere remote. Somewhere safe where they can never find us. The Jedi can hide us, help us and Uphrates is nice, remote. Never fancied myself a farmer but even they won't find us there, not even the Guard--shh! someone is coming, someone is listening. do you read me? Is there anybody alive out there?
Hezch'orba--[DATA CORRUPTED]--. Cipher Agent. Serial numbe 800-3-55.
He made me swear secrecy, and I owe him that. I owe him my life. But this...thing...inside of me. It can't be controlled. Can't be trusted. It doesn't seem to like me. Considers me weak, helpless. I am...confused. Are we a force of benevolence? We are never to fight without reason and are to defend the defenseless but we...it...was born of Darkness? I cannot fathom it. This is beyond my comprehension. I closed the door on the last intruder, shut him out, but this? Beyond my capabilities, beyond my worth. What if...what if he hurts her? I'll never forgive myself. I can hardly forgive myself for what I...watched them...do to her. I...can't...not after...please...my love..?
Hezch'. Cipher Age. Numb Eight-Zero-Zero.
No! This is all out of order. Everything is breaking down, destabilizing. He killed me in cold blood and nobody noticed it happened twice now but not he is dead I have his head in a jar now. and her She retrieved me, brought me back to life. but when i watched Her kill her then she--we--all did. all I could do. i eviscerated myself. Over and over and somehow my tears are not just saline anymore, they are blood. Blood drips from my eyes as I see her killing herself, over and over and over and Over so i do the same while my dead wife looks on, disapproving but. I don't see my boy. Where is my son? Did that ever even happen? BEFORE i was even READY only to stab me in the back and twist the knife why? WHY?! How could you do this to me? This is all out of order if not an hallucination. Avee. I love you. And I always will. No matter who or what--[DATA CORRUPTED]--What?! No...no, sir, of course not. This was all part of the plan. Yes, sir, it was a deep infiltration operation deemed highly sensitive. I apologize for not informing you, sir, but it was beyond your classification level. Yes, Watcher 5 can vouch for me as well as Keepe--Yes, sir. No, sir. I understand, sir. This is all out of order. Glory to the Empire. For the Republic. Wait, that memory was out of order. This isn't right!
Hez. Cipher Eight.
I, Hezch'orba'nuruodo, resident of--[DATA CORRUPTED]--being of sound--[DATA CORRUPTED]--declare this to be my Last Will and Testament. I hereby revo--[DATA CORRUPTED...BUFFERING]--nly request is that it be inexpensive, nondescript, and bear only these words: "Sei cart bat, vim nan'ei von'bah."
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Post by Hez on Feb 6, 2015 16:00:42 GMT -5
Cursing under his breath, the agent quickly ducked behind a wall and pulled out his security scanner, aiming it back toward himself, just over his left shoulder. Angling it carefully, he confirmed what he’d suspected—he had picked up a tail. His pursuer's reflection on the small blue viewscreen vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but it had been enough. Average height and build, hooded, strong jawline, something protruding from his lips. A toothpick? He tucked the scanner quickly into his pocket and stepped back into the crowd, careful to blend into the foot traffic. It had been about an hour with no sign of his pursuer, and he’d somehow still managed to keep track of his original target. He resumed the casual, lazy stroll he'd adopted before, tucking his hands into his pockets. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of the man he’d only seen for an instant. Judging by the flesh tones, the figure had either been human or Zabrak. No, hooded Zabrak stand out, he thought to himself, you can always tell by their horns. Unless they'd been surgically removed, that is, but even that seems a little extreme for--
A sudden hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts. Whirling around out of instinct, he'd almost pulled his blade before catching himself and balling up his fists. Again, he addressed himself mentally, recalling his invented identity and attempting to remind himself of it. The lies rang out in his mind like rapidfire blaster bolts discharged into the sky. You are Corellian. You prefer whiskey to wine and drink it to excess. You're sloppy. You do not use precision or subtlety. You do not manipulate, you do not assassinate. You are not an atrocious sentient being. Stumbling slightly into a feigned brawler's stance, he blinked as he focused on his adversary, indeed the man who had been tailing him. K’pah. "Hey!" he belted in a genuine-sounding Corellian accent, "What's the big idea, pal?!"
The hooded human male grabbed him by his shirt and spun him around, shoving the cipher agent into a nearby alleyway with an unexpected strength. A mugging? He raised his hands above his head. “Hey, man, n-no need for trouble. Y-you can have all the creds I’ve got on me…” No stranger to close combat, he nonetheless faked cowardice to avoid this distraction. His mark was getting away.
“I have no interest in your credits. Doubtless your masters have provided you a limitless budget for whatever underhanded operation you’re here to carry out.” The stranger spoke with a tone both accusatory and familiar. “Why were you following that man?”
“If you know as much as you let on, you know I can’t tell you that,” replied the agent, dropping his false accent after a careful pause. He had no time for games. He’d been made. There was no avoiding it now. He quietly reached for his blade, confident his opponent would be too distracted by his glowing red eyes to catch his more subtle movements.
“Just as you know I can’t let you carry out your mission. Did you think I would somehow forget?”
Wait, what?
The Chiss took a moment to examine the man, aided by his natural ability to see in the dark. The subject’s body language and voice conveyed muted notes of indignation, anger and perhaps loss—but all carefully held in check behind some barrier of calm. His arms were crossed, true, but his muscles were relaxed, more akin to someone waiting in a queue than to someone preparing to fight. There was venom in his words, but they were spoken softly.
“I can see you’ve at least learned to hold your tongue,” the man continued, “Though I question the wisdom of using the same false identity twice in your line of work.” The agent said nothing, merely blinked. The stranger went on. “You wore a mask back then, of course. Then came the body paint and false lenses.” The agent frowned in irritation, but still said nothing, tightening his fist around the handle of his knife. “Eventually you showed her, though. You were the first member of your species we’d ever seen. I wish you had been the last,” he mused somberly, lowering his arms into a defensive stance.
“What the devil are you talking about?” the agent finally hissed, pulling his blade in anger. A foolhardy move, and he knew it. He’d spent too much time among these people. He was starting to adopt their habits. “Who are you?!”
This time it was the stranger’s turn to remain silent. The agent had lost his tactical advantage. Time to flee. Creeping back a few paces, he searched the alleyway over one last time, and activated his stealth field generator. His only way out was past this bircisb. He watched as the man sighed, closed his eyes, and drew back his robes, unhooking a matching pair of lightsabers. A Jedi. He’d been cornered by a Jedi. That explains the ‘shove’, he thought, as a grin crept across his face. Suddenly things had gotten interesting.
The Jedi spoke with something resembling remorse as he ignited his weapons. The plasma blades crackled to life, eerily illuminating the alleyway with their yellow glow. “I don’t know why you’ve chosen to return here after what you did. After what I allowed to happen. And averse as I am to the life he has created for himself, I cannot allow you to torment that man any further.”
Blade in hand, sidearm at the ready, by all means prepared for this battle, the agent nonetheless found himself slowly paralyzed by words, as though poisoned. You are not an atrocious sentient being.
“Your trail of blood ends here. Now. I cannot allow you to escape this time, Hez’chorba.”
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Post by Hez on Apr 2, 2015 19:27:07 GMT -5
Light and pain. For about the past decade, he’d woken up the same way nearly every night: cold sweat, sitting forward abruptly, breathing heavily. This time it had been different. Bright light, sharp pain. Unable to sit up, unable to do anything besides writhe in the bed. Something…The dream had seemed less of a dream somehow, and had also ended in light and pain. But he was surely awake now, why—?
Pain. Excruciating pain. Eyes closed now, no light, but still the pain. And…a sound. A familiar hum. Hard to distinguish over his nociceptors screaming. He had been screaming too, he just realized. Lips curled into a sneer, eyes closed, cold sweat, pain. Breathe. Think. Calm.
…
Slowly, now, remember. A medical shuttle. Compact, designed for stealth, and plotted on a course for the Galactic Core. Something about…home. But was he leaving home or…returning? Slowly, then, Hezch’orba’nuruodo sat up. Blinking, adjusting to his surroundings, attempting to recall the events that led him to this situation. Bright light shone down from above him, pristine and sterile. Various monitors displayed biometric information, mostly in his native language. His eyes traced out two figures on the screen nearest him, both seeming to rise and fall in conjunction with the rhythmic sensation coming from his…legs? His knees. Both knees. “Butur vosiset,” he spoke aloud, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice.
Most puzzling. How had he wound up in this bed? And good heavens, he must’ve looked like a wretch. He reached his hand to his right temple to brush his hair back, a subconscious tick he’d picked up when they first started going gray, when he felt something out of—
With a sudden swiftness he swiveled the bedside control panel in front of him, sitting up straight despite his muscular system’s reluctance to comply. After a short series of keystrokes a holoscreen appeared over the far ends of the armrests, flashing for a moment before displaying his reflection to him. N—
No. No one was immune to vanity, it seemed. He looked the scar tissue over slowly, scanning from his singed temple all the way down to his jawline. Complete careers in two separate military forces. Over ten galactic standard years of frontline combat experience. Close quarters combat training and thorough utilization of said training. Nothing. Nothing had ever scarred him before. The Corellians he once sparred with had warned that a boxer wasn’t a boxer until his nose had been broken. He’d brawled with the best of them, his ‘pretty boy’ face never sporting much more than a bruise that healed up over time. This…this was…
The holoscreen deactivated after a few minutes of inactivity as he stared dead ahead, blinking away the tears. Tears? Over something as shallow as this? Something literally skin-deep? No, there was something worse than vanity at play here. He closed his eyes and leaned back, deflated, onto the bed. As his head hit the pillow it all came rushing back to him. Everything. Her righteous rage, the droid, the shrapnel, the fall, his legs buckling, and his pathetic form lying folded at the foot of the stairs, losing consciousness as she spoke steely words he never would have expected from her.
Aveena.
The trip from the Outer Rim to the Galactic Core took time. He seemed to have countless hours at his disposal to think things over. It hadn’t been a dream that woke him earlier. It had been a memory. An intense recollection of events that had transpired long ago, so real it had felt as though he was experiencing it all over again. But there was something missing. Not from the memory itself, the events had played out in full. It was just that…there seemed to be a purpose to it, one he couldn’t quite grasp yet. So many layers of obfuscation, even within his own mind. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was merely the galaxy tormenting him further. Not content that he would likely never again speak to the last woman he loved, fate wanted to wake him from his surgery with a long-lost memory of a dead friend. And in stark contrast to the memory itself, the Jedi Skypp Heetshooter had ultimately given his life so that Hez could continue with his. But what reason had he now for that? It all seemed so useless now. She would never speak to him again. Not after what he’d done. No matter how good his intentions had been.
To call it ‘waking’ would have implied that he slept at all, but when he stirred the next day he began to test out his replacement knees, as per his doctor’s orders. The butur vosiset worked well, thought Hez, but he’d better not get used to it. He would’ve killed for a glass of Whyrren’s right about then, but perhaps a break from it would do him some good. The walk from bedside to the cockpit would normally have taken him two minutes at most. Instead it took more than twenty. Pivoting his body and shakily lowering his haunches onto the helmsman’s chair, he sighed deeply. After a few minutes, he wiped the sweat from his brow and pivoted forward, slowly, staring out of the viewport at the stars as they streaked by. He checked the instrumentation, checking to see how long it would be new before the shuttlecraft reached Nar Shadaa. He still had some time, it seemed.
He still had some time.
"She may never speak to me again,” he spoke aloud to no one in particular, “but I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try saying something to her.” Sitting forward gradually but with purpose, Hezch’orba’nuruodo picked up the datapad in front of him and began composing a letter.
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Post by Hez on Apr 4, 2015 1:39:38 GMT -5
No. Too bitter. Yes. Again. No. Too angry. Yes. One more time. No. No, NO, NO. It seemed that even the hum of the engines fell silent as the datapad soared across the room, pirouetting once or twice midair before loudly shattering as it crashed into the instrumentation panel at which it had been violently flung. Following the impact, small sounds returned to the shuttlecraft as if emerging from hiding spaces: the beep of the medical monitors, the hum of the engines, and most noticeably the short rapid breaths of the lone passenger. "There's no point," Hez said to no one. "You're wasting time." Angry as his previous action might have seemed, his voice carried no furor, in fact no passion whatsoever. He wasn't bitter, he wasn't angry, he wasn't sincere or heartfelt anymore. He was suddenly numb. It was as though a switch had been flipped. A kill-switch. This phrase, in particular, resonated in his head for a while. After a few minutes of silence, Hez traced his hand along the scarred right side of his face before quickly nodding. He sat upright in the bed, dressed in the uniform he had designed for the academy but with his chest lapel undone. Indeed, he appeared quite relaxed as he swiveled the medical bed's control panel around to face him. The medical shuttle's computer systems featured an intuitive interface with what might've been considered impressive security policies—maybe, perhaps to an unseasoned slicer. His smirk faded after only a moment, but part of him was grateful for the message. It was the only thing in days he had smiled at. Within a few minutes he had administrator privileges and quickly located what he had been seeking: the chemical composition of the butur vosiset being administered into his bloodstream twice daily. Strange. There were some days when he couldn't repeat something you had told him the very night before; ask him to recall the recipe for an odorless poison he had once used to assassinate an alien dignitary seven years prior, however, and you'd have dosage information before you had time to write it down. All the more reason, he thought, as he calmly made adjustments through the control terminal. He had no qualms, no questions. Merely an objective. To one observing it would have seemed an activity just like any other he regularly performed—except, that is, when he paused to remove his shirt, blinking briefly at the insignia on its sleeve before calmly folding the garment and placing it on the nightstand beside his bed. He returned to his task without any further delays. Upon completion, he exited administrator mode, adjusted the bed so that he was nearly lying flat, and swiveled the control panel back to its original position. Within a few minutes, the injector probe floated out from its storage panel and administered the newly modified medication. He'd allowed himself a few concessions: painless and sleep-inducing. He watched as the equipment in the room began powering down, one by one, ending with the lights. His eyes were now the only light source in the room, and soon enough that wouldn't be the case. Hez closed his eyes and exhaled. . . . . . "Henry." No. No, no, no. "Henry." No. Not this. Not now. Not that name, not that voice, not... "Henry, open your eyes." He had no choice but to comply. If for no other reason than so that his eyes would not drown in the tears they were almost instantly flooded with. Should this be the last thing he was to see, hallucination or not, he wanted to see it clearly. Through the saline sheen he saw her, unlike he had ever seen her before. Not even on Voss. She sat at the food of his bed, blue and shimmering. Transparent, but her features were crisp. Not a holoprojection. As beautiful as he had ever been, her thin eyebrows framing her smooth features with a look of calm sincerity. He couldn't speak. Most of his muscles were incapable of responding, as a side effect of the injection, but his tongue especially felt heavy. Only his eyelids and his lungs responded, it seemed, as hot tears rolled down both sides of his face onto the pillow. The vision of his departed wife spoke once more, not judging, not accusing or accosting as he expected, no, deserved. "Henry," she said, "Live." The last word echoed in his mind as everything else grew dark. It wasn't a request, it wasn't a suggestion. But it had come too late. Everything was fading, even his tears were slowing down at this point. Puzzled to the last, Hez reflected on what he had just witnessed. So strange...so surreal. That a ghost should be so practical. . . . . . Hezch'orba'nuruodo opened his eyes. He was sitting upright in the medical bed, wearing his academy uniform, the top button undone. On his lap, a datapad. He picked it up and turned it over, blinking at the two words displayed on the screen accompanied only by a blinking cursor. The shuttle's onboard computer beeped an alert before making announcement over the comm system. "Now entering the Y'Toub system. Estimation time til Nar Shadaa atmosphere entry: 30 galactic standard minutes." He turned the datapad off, set it on the nightstand, and blinked back a single tear as he prepared for his arrival home.
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