Ambrosia Aderanne

From Star Wars: Age of Alliances MUSH
Jump to: navigation, search

Ambrosia Greystorm (Aderanne)

Title: Major
Race: Human
Sex: Female
Occupation: Classified
Homeworld: Pyrdir
Organization: Rebel Alliance - New Republic
Ship: None

Early Years

In compliance with Psych Eval Order #423

Mandatory Data Entry

Military Personnel Journal #19321

Subject: Ambrosia Aderanne

Imagine if you will a world of placidity, a world where nature and technology dwells lovingly along side one another and the meaning of the words “bad news” is all but lost on its native inhabitants. I don’t remember this world, but I’ve done a little reading through databanks over the years and scrounged together some few facts on the planet predating its Imperial takeover. Looks like a nice place, houses a mother load of useful minerals. It’s called Pyrdir, for those of you who care to know.

I was born there, on this Pyrdir, to a man and woman by the names of Jerome and Maya Aderanne. Again – I don’t remember names or dates, but information has its way of filtering around in this galaxy if you know where to look and who to interrogate. What I do remember is that the woman – my mother – was a rather loud and boisterous sort with a head full of hair black as night, and my father was her polar opposite – quiet, fair-haired, nerdy type with an affiliation for botany books.

Now’s the part where the fun begins.

I’ll bet everyone can say they’ve had a shoddy birthday here or there. Nobody likes a party crasher. Especially when said crasher weighs twice the weight of an AT-AT unit. How, you say? Well, that’s simple: It was a PAIR of AT-AT units.

So picture if you will an Aderanne family outing in the yard. We stuck out like a trio of oddballs. Humans living on an alien world. My parents had their passion for xenobiology and alien botany to thank for that mistake. Anyway, back to the family outing. This was my first recollection of age because it was the day I turned two, which I suppose means I was born around the year 18 BBY. For those of you not so fresh on your history, this was the era in which Palpatine declared himself as Emperor.

Well somebody in Imperial Command got the bad idea that taking their mining of Pyrdir to the next level would be a good idea and even a worse idea that the prime time to launch the first attack would be the day of my two year picnic. I’m sure they had their reasons, but it really ruined the party.

Mom’s fluency in naughty words composed my last memory of her, but dad’s tact and poise scored him a ride on board the prisoner freight in one piece. As for me, I was really too young to negotiate a deal for myself, so they lumped me together with the rest of the alien kids they managed to scavenge away from dead parents. You can call it mercy if you want, but you know damned well what plans they had for us.

Forgive the lapse in my memories beyond that memorable day. For the next several years, once I was old enough to dress myself and push buttons (of which I did more than my share, but we’ll get to that later), I labored in a couple different factories. The big kids got to take the scrap we’d break down and piece it back together with help of droids into something new. Eventually I got stuck with that job, working a line of armor repair. Nothing too fancy as only an idiot would trust a bunch of rebellious kids with the safety of their future troops, but it was enough to keep us out of their hair and justify our existence and their expenses poured into our 're-education'.

But what the Imps were really doing in those factories was transforming not machines, not spare parts, but souls. The end result of our labor, our discipline, was to transform ourselves into empty shells. Shells don’t ask questions they shouldn’t. Shells don’t hesitate when given orders. Maybe they should’ve recalled THIS shell before she was labeled as ‘repaired’, but I became a master of disguise, imitating the bleary-eyed, dazed expression of all those other kids. By twelve – I say twelve because that’s said to be about the time girls hit that period of “special changes” – I’d become pretty good at blocking out the pain of those collars and biting my tongue when a proctor’s boot accidentally found its way into my gut.

Unfortunately for me I was good at my job and by let’s say fourteen my precision and attention to detail hadn’t gone unnoticed. I was due for a promotion – a promotion given to only humanoid girls about my age. Instead of standing for twelve hours a day in a factory I’d be receiving a higher education of culture. Culture being dance, that is.

I do remember that the food was better after my promotion. We even received some decent health care. Calloused fingers and broken nails became smooth again. Dirty hair became clean. But a dirty mouth was still punished. I never did learn in that department.

Now I don’t mean to brag, but I really began to excel in this line of work, maybe given an edge by the muscle earned over the past ten years of hard labor. My attitude started to drift out of that complacent ‘shell’ and back into its truer form which earned me a rather nasty beating at least once a week. I’d have made my mother proud.

Just a few years into this training earned me a place in the corner of more than a few conventions and meetings between Imperial officers so that I could provide the Empire’s finest with some entertainment between conferences. I had a friend with whom I frequently served alongside but I cannot remember her name. She had the misfortune of lacking human genes and the Empire’s disdain for the alien races would sadly be her undoing in months to come. At the root of it all, I am to blame.

Scandal’s not a hard thing to find in any political scene. The lives of Imperial warfare specialists and dingy diplomats are no exception to this trend. I know I had to have been about eighteen by this point in time because of the words whispered not so stealthily between my masters one night outside my cell. I say cell not because it was furnished with bars and chains, no. I say cell because the room – which I shared with my Wroonian friend – was locked nightly from the outside. The words were of course about me and went something like this: “You’re certain?” “Our medical lab is very proficient” “She is of adult age?” “Our records say she is. Marginally.”

I wasn’t aware of the new life within by this point in time, but the medical staff was and it wouldn’t be even a day’s time before word slipped to the Officers in question. Their decision, of course, was perfectly logical – damage control. The blame was cast to some poor private who without a doubt was beaten within an inch of his life and then discharged for tampering with his general’s property. As for me, I suffered a minimal battering – for what I could not understand – and spent most of the next five months locked in my cell.

Loona – that was her name – Loona fed to me news from the outside world during the few hours a day she was returned to our home and I grew anxious. An organized rebellion had formed and apparently was organized enough to cause the Empire significant grief.

I smiled in my sleep on that night for the first time in 16 years.

My next – there had been many – parade to the medbay delivered good news to the Imperial staff. The infant was developed enough that it would survive via machine-aided care easily and so before we had the chance to be acquainted, we were parted.

I can’t really make tangible to you through words how much that pissed me off. Not that I was fond of the idea of looking after a kid or anything. Not that I could. But it opened my eyes just a bit more to the disregard that my keepers had for the individuality of life. The sanctity of it all, you know?

I decided it was time for me to promote myself out of the joint and into that world where man was free and rebels could stick it to the super power that had grown. It was time to either end my life or change it. By this point, either option was equally viable in my opinion.

My life didn’t end, but Loona’s did.

Before I indulge you with details, let me explain something. I’m sure this is a no-brainer for most of you. “Service” is simply not allowed to taint the desks of officials by sitting at them. Especially not when high command was present.

While I might have excelled at tasks set before me, I also excelled at straying from them. Willpower was my weapon and I wielded it in full that day. About a year had passed since my discretion with the general, a.k.a. Private Tolm, and once my figure returned to its desired state I was allowed back in the ring. My reputation could be thanked for the second chance and it would be the makings of my future reputation that would take me out of it once more.

I’ll make it simple. After serving the beverages of choice for each man and woman at the table, I took note of an empty seat. Here was my chance. Loona made some pretty fierce eye contact with me across the room when she sensed my intent but I ignored her plainly and took that seat at the table for myself. Let me just say that one second in one of those cushioned chairs is to die for, which is good, because one second is about all I got to relish.

Ever wonder what your own hair, own skin smells like after it’s been seared with more volts of electricity than most slaves can count? I know that smell. My years on the factory line and my determination to flip them all the deserved “bird” kept me wedged in that seat after the initial shock had passed. My ears were ringing pretty badly so I didn’t hear the growl of demand for me to prostrate myself on the floor and beg forgiveness for the atrocity of my actions. Or did I?

Somebody’s hand yanked me there nonetheless by my blistered nape and I’ll admit that one tear did fall once thrown there. Still, I kept silent, smiling in spite of myself. The General, of course, now looked like a complete fool in front of his boss for failing to control his pet. If I’d known what they were going to do next I probably would have mumbled a sorry.

Loona, who was looking completely mortified by this point, had dropped her tray. She was kicked over to my side while the assembled party watched in mild amusement. My ears were still a bit numb but I did hear the threatening tone directed at me. Maybe the intention was to make an example before High Command, maybe the intention was to put into action the anti-alien sentiment that all the hearts in that room felt, but whatever the reason, Loona was now a bartering tool in efforts to force me to my knees.

She was dead before she hit the floor. I guess they upped the volts on her collar. Maybe she had a previous offense I didn’t know about. Regardless, my single confidant in that metallic hell hole was dead and I apparently was going to join her. So my actions to follow condemned. When Loona fell, I rose, but not in the kneeling fashion they’d hoped for. It was more of a lunge, really. I won’t deny the pleasure I felt at having landed my fist so solidly into that man’s crotch and wish I could have felt his face tear beneath my nails, but that damned collar put me out so fast I didn’t even get to grin.

My awakening occurred inside a cool, dark place that smelled of solvent – most ship floors do. I was to be terminated not immediately, but sent to a more magical place of pain that required a quick trip in a transport. They’d tagged me for it, too, having injected a pair of chits beneath my skin. It bled only a little.

Maybe I was still dazed from the electrical encounter, maybe it was that uncontrollable, “primal rage” you hear prisoners talk about so much in their defense. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But I didn’t get on that transport with intentions to die. That vessel meant to carry me to death carried me to freedom. My handlers were a little worse for the wear when I was finished – one dead – and I finally learned to use those weapons I spent years piecing together as a teenager.

Unfortunately, nobody had the kindness to share with me the finer details of flight. In fact, I really had no clue. I suppose it’s pure luck then that after the craft managed to take off and the jerk at gunpoint punched in his crafty coordinates that the navcomp malfunctioned and set us course for some backwater planet. I shot him before he could share this newfound information with his colleagues on the mother ship. Oops.

This time as I was racing towards death I did get to grin a little to its face. Or maybe it was a grimace. The crash wasn’t so bad in the end – I was alive, obviously, and had a bit of ammunition to make use of. I imagined that the all-knowing eye of the Empire would find its lost little spawn eventually so I didn’t waste time in distancing myself from the little freighter. I vomited. A lot. That much remains vivid in my memory.

There must have been debris or something remotely sharp because I did succeed in carving the ID tags out from beneath my skin. It was messier than their insertion and bled a hell of a lot, but freedom never hurt so good.

Luck, destiny, Force, whatever you believe it, was on my side for the next few weeks. Just so happens that this piece of nothing planet I landed on was a smuggling stop-off point for traders on the various runs and reaches. With Imperial-grade weapons to barter and no questions asked I had haggled my way on board such a ship and used the bits of ornamental jewelry and a peek beneath that finely woven clothing to get a decent destination out of my flight. I ended up on Tatooine – a far cry from the paradise I very much needed. Word of mouth spreads quickly of course on that planet and it didn’t take long to find useful bits of information pertaining to the rebellion.

With nothing else to do and even less to lose I pursued those gossip trails until I met up with my first Rebellion contact. Can’t remember her name. But a week into my induction into their little posse I was made aware for a third time of my age – 22. Blood and bone tests can do amazing things but I still am not fond of medbays.

Rebel Alliance/Republic 4 ABY - 12 ABY

For those of you who value time, that point in my life occurred just some months before the battle of Arisnar. 4 ABY, I believe. I did participate in that battle – as a scout – and went on to make a few acquaintances. Among those few, those elite, to make it into my circle of trust were Naga – a human look-a-like battle droid with slight identity issues, and later Kort Garret – one of our winged finest to this date.

Since that miraculous turn of events I’ve seen a lot. Done a lot. Sullust, Mon Calamari, Coruscant, Arisnar, Endor...many places, many fights. I was around when the Kimrath Claw was invented and served in its ranks. My mentor until his discharge – Bakrak Lirak. Tough love from that Shistavenen. I’ve stood within the majesty of Jedi Temples and squashed bugs on giant tree branches of Kashyyk. I’ve taken a punch for Han Solo, shared a laugh with Chewbacca, humiliated Mister Calrissian, and talked squat with some of those ‘famous’ names of our time.

They’re flesh and blood all the same but I recognize their sacrifice and efforts have kept our Republic alive, built it into what it is now, and they have my eternal gratitude. But if word gets out to Calrissian that I said such then I swear by my title – semi retired C.O. – that I will hunt down the source and pound your face in.

Now. Where was I?

Ah, yes. My achievements. My instructions say I’m supposed to talk about my ranks, how I got to where I am today...huh. Nothing fancy ever flew my way. Promotion comes easily when your blood is shed – this I’ve learned. I’ve lost a finger, hearing in both ears, a knee, patches of skin, heads of hair, and now I’m ready to retire and let some other poor sucker do my job.

As it stands, my last rung of the ladder to be achieved was the role of Major– three blue dots mounted on my shoulder in triangular formation. I’ve strictly kept to the ground-pounder side of things. I’m not a fan of being airborne, lofted days beyond an atmosphere, vulnerable to the mercy of the elements...No.

I am a fan, however, of being able to see eye-to-eye with my opponent and enacting the lovely purpose of knives and feet. My aim with a firearm of late has left something to be desired, this I’ll admit. I blame the combination of nerves and inability to focus. Bet those are comforting words to read, hm? Kimrath Major unable to focus. Tell me about it. I’ve stayed well out of the line of fire for several months. Last brush with active duty had me stranded with a few surviving team members in the desert for months until we were able to make contact with home.

Since then, I’ve tasked myself with beating, er, exercising new Claws into shape between my leaves of absences. Yeah, the rumors are true that this salt's reaching the end of her rope. I’ve been considering retiring from my post, finding my way elsewhere. If you’d walked my shoes you wouldn’t blame me. I’m a person that’s lived a war, first on one side, then the other. I never received a fancy education or had academy friends. I never worked a civilian job that was legitimate. There’s a lot I haven’t done – normal things.

I’d like to just be normal for awhile, if that’s okay.

I don’t know who reads this crap anyways, but if you are reading it then there ya go. There’s the secret behind “ice queen” Aderanne.

Can I go now? Are we done here?


(End Mandatory Journal Entry)