Log:Questions and Answers
Interrogations
Location: Cells - STA Spearhead Base
Participants: Angouri Dros, Oran Arcantael, Ravelyn
Harsh. Bare. The prisoner cells are large enough to accommodate two prisoners, the walls dark gray painted stone, chips having flaked away to reveal the lighter stone beneath in places by previous occupants. Carved and jutting out from the stone wall are slabs for sitting and sleeping, blankets and items of comfort starkly absent.
A grated hole sinks in to the left of the cell in against the corner wall, allowing individuals to relieve themselves as needed, water rushing beneath the grate to collect and draw away waste.
Prison isn't as exciting as Angouri always imagined it to be. Why do those that have experienced it always look so tough and brooding? She hasn't done much more than engage in cryptic, pleading conversations with the Supreme Leader - really, she thought he would be taller - sleep, and try to procrastinate relieving herself in full view of the guards or surveillance they may have. That last one has been, perhaps, the most arduous part of this process - it's a grate on the floor, and there is no dignity and privacy to it.
Angouri Dros, as she is often found now, is curled into an impossibly small ball beneath the slab that is meant to act as a bed, her head hidden beneath her tail, like some poorly designed, puffy pillow for a children's bedroom.
The guards don't mock or jeer at her, they don't pick on her, they don't converse, and they are unresponsive to attempts at conversation. Maybe that makes it less shameful to pee through the grate, but up close and personal, the thoroughness of the Order's conditioning is unsettling to experience. They're living beings in those white suits, aren't they? But they act like something... else.
"You can go. Wait by the entrance." She /knows/ that voice, and the troopers obey it unquestioningly, tromping off to the end of the corridor to be replaced with... Oran, the man who is the source of so many problems (for honestly a lot of people). "Hello, Angouri," he greets, pulling up a chair to a table just on the other side of the field separating them. "I won't ask if you're having a pleasant stay, since you're obviously not meant to."
As soon as she feels Oran's presence approaching, that blinding blanket of fear returns, pressing at Angouri from all sides: thick, suffocating... But something else has crept in since her imprisonment: it's boredom. Fear and dread get old, eventually, and the guards aren't made for good conversation. "Long time no see." Angouri croaks out, the forced appearance of flippancy a faltering one as wide, amber eyes peek over the tail curled around her. "Sorry 'bout yer bank account. Can't say ya spent yer creds wisely, though - M'not what they call a 'smart investment'." Perhaps she's becoming accustomed to the slow, arduous wait for death - really, what other way does she have out of this? Complacency and acceptance have blossomed to defiance; if she's going out, she'll go out kicking. Maybe. The feeling comes and goes in a see-saw of defiant, stubborn anger and cold, hard fear.
Oran takes out a datapad and a stylus, and begins to do what looks like note-taking as they converse. He could be doodling or drawing rude pictures though, who knows. "You're thoughtful," he dryly replies regarding the bank account, "But the Order has deep pockets, we experience no scarcity of resource or cash flow, and the price paid to the hunter was," a vague gesture as though shooing an insect. "Negligible." The Coruscanti man pauses there and looks up, raising a brow. "I have noticed, however, both in reviewing your conversation with Ren and in our limited interactions together, that you are unfailingly self deprecating. You're not a good Jedi, you're not worth anything, you're no one, over and over. Why?"
"Well, s'true - ain't it?" The amaran replies, shrugging as she unravels. There is obvious effort put into removing herself out of her curled position, both because she's become stiffened by the uncomfortable confines and because she is visibly struggling against the instinct to hide in the corner from this monster. "Don't got no reason t'lie. Don't got nothin' t'hide - I already told yer boss why I joined, an' I told 'im that I'm happy t'change m'name and leave th'Jedi behind if y'all let me go. Y'don't gain nothin' keepin' me around; Rey, she's got... A big heart, but she ain't dumb enough t'try breakin' me out." Sitting cross legged, the amaran pulls her tail into her lap.
"Yer rich, so you know. Cost versus benefit; I don't got no information for ya, I don't know nothin', an' they ain't gonna risk a rescue mission on my account. I don't see no point in none'a this - way I see it, yer just goin' ta kill me when ya realize that there's nothin you cin get from me, an' I don't want t'spend m'years rottin' away, shittin' in a hole. So." She holds her hands out, the little black paw pads facing up. "Figure it's better t'just be honest an' get it over with."
"I've always pictured you lot as an optimistic, scrappy bunch. You're rather hopeless and dour, aren't you? It's off-brand, Puppy." Oran pauses to neatly record some notes. "Don't be naive. The Jedi would not just let you vanish into the wild; they would at the least keep tabs on you from afar, an invisible leash they justify to themselves as 'caring.' Both of the galaxy's groups of active force users are loathe to let one of our own 'disappear,' and you ought to let go the notion that such a thing will be permitted to occur. It won't." He folds his arms. "I am rich, and your cost is almost nothing, your benefit yet to be determined. Keeping you here indefinitely is not any particular hassle or expense to me, so you can let go your notions of instant death along with the rest of it. Why do you believe the Jedi wouldn't rescue you? Have they told you, explicitly, that you are untalented in their arts?"
The padawan visibly deflates, shrugging again. "Well, if that's m'situation, then I hardly think m'dour-ness counts as off-brand, does it?" Angouri sighs. "Still, couldn't hurt t'try. They cin keep tabs on me all they want, you lot could too - all I ever wanted was t'tinker with stuff. Don't matter none t'me if I got creepers poppin' on t'see if I'm dead'r not." But the argument has lost the fight, she didn't have much hope staked on it to begin with, but there's little else to think on while locked in this box.
"An' no, ain't nobody said it /explicitly/, but they don't got to. I ain't goin' on all the fancy missions; I needed rescuin' on th'ones I did go on. Ain't been deemed worthy enough t'get a lightsaber, and once you put that price on m'head, they let me do even less. Which is fine with me, I just..." She waves her paws dismissively. "S'/their/ arts. Like ya said. I only ever used it t'get people buyin' my stuff, back when I was merchant-in. An' I didn't even know I was doin' it." Leaning back, the amaran wrinkles her nose. "I'm pretty self-aware, Orange, an' I'm tellin' ya now: ain't a benefit t'keepin' me here. Let me go, kill me, leave me here t'rot - all threes got th'same results fer ya, an' it's a whole lotta big-blank-nothin'."
"None of us have the life we would have made had we been able to author it ourselves, Puppy," Oran states, flatly. "None of us. It's childish and irritating to harp on and on and bloody ON about how you're just some poor dumb little girl who only ever wanted to play with your little boxes of toys, about how everything is so sad for you because no one will leave you alone to go buy power couplings and circuitboards at the mall. Perhaps the Jedi were gentler with the subject? I don't have to be. Shut up about it. Let the past die. Your stakes are higher now, and no one cares that it being thus isn't what you prefer. Own what you are, or this is exactly as hopeless as you've been whining it is."
Back to the subject at hand, and he makes another note on the datapad. "So you're weak and inept. Shocker. You believe that this alone is cause enough that more than one Jedi would simply write you off? None of them would argue that you deserve a rescue and further training?"
There's another shrug. "Sure." She decides, flatly. "Then stop askin' questions, 'cause I've told ya all I can. Stakes ain't high fer me 'cause I don't see no way out - I live here or I die here. Is what it is - but, fer th'record, I ain't never said I was dumb." There's the ghost of a wry smile there, now. "But, if yer bored hearin' me repeat myself, then do better talkin'. What's yer part in all this, anyways?" She doesn't answer his last question, either because she chooses not to, or perhaps simply doesn't know the answer.
Oran doesn't bother answering what his part in the galactic narrative is. He's a villain for Merek's story, duh. Instead, he repeats his question. "Do you believe it's possible that any among the Jedi would advocate for you to have a rescue and further training?"
"Honestly? I dunno. They were always nice t'me, didn't let me die when I coulda. But those were... Different places. Different /stakes/. They were tryin' t'teach me an'... Y'know, I really was tryin' t'learn, just wasn't stickin'. Ain't their fault." The amaran sighs. "Cost, benefit. I dunno - breakin' me outta here is probably too high a stake, even fer th'more sentimental ones in th'lot." Eyeing Oran, Angouri tilts her head. "Yer hopin' t'use me as bait, an' I can't tell ya for sure whether or not that'll work. But, if it were me makin' decisions, I wouldn't want t'risk it on potential alone."
"You're so faithless," Oran chides, "Rey has a demonstrably reliable attitude towards helping friends in danger, and they probably don't care about your opinion that it's too much risk any more than I care about /any/ of your opinions. As for bait..." He shrugs, "Perhaps. Not my call, nor the reason for my inquiries."
Another datapad note, and he continues. "You've mentioned you're connected to the group of Jedi, however uncertain you may be about your ultimate role or proficiency among them. Going on 'missions,' people who helped you. What are the names of the individuals in this group?"
"Then I think we cin both agree that I've reached th'ends of m'use t'you." The amaran gives a big, exaggerated shrug. "Don't know everyone's names, an' it wouldn't be names ya don't know already, anyhow. So. Y'know - kill me, keep me here, up t'you." She stands, stretching her arms over her head. "Maybe it'll be good fer me. I cin finally get th'whole 'meditation' thing down, start t'become a proper Jedi - yer right. I've been all doom an' gloom about this, but shittin' in a hole in th'ground of this teeny tiny room is gonna be th'best thing t'ever happen to me." She gives a savage, defiant grin. "I'll be sure t'credit you an' th'First Order fer turnin' me into a right proper Force user. Anythin' else you need ta know? I'm late fer m'regularly scheduled depression-nap."
Oran takes the sudden defiance - and interest in being a proper force user? - in stride, or at least he seems so far relatively unruffled by it. "The people who helped you. Those with whom you went on 'missions.' What are the names of the individuals in the group, Angouri?"
"I'm bein' honest, I don't know everyone's names. Don't see much of 'em." Angouri shrugs. "Only went out twice, an' wasn't with everyone. Lotta code names an' secrecy - come t'think of it, they probably knew I was gonna get got eventually. Sensed it on me or whatever."
"You know some names," Oran replies. "By your own admission, you know these people well enough to have had some level of discussions about your skill level or lack thereof, you have worked with them towards shared goals if not as frequently as everyone would like, you know them well enough to guess whether they or may or may not find it fitting to rescue you. All of that -- your own words. So I don't believe that you have /nothing/ to give me. You know Rey's name, and you know others. Tell me the names of individuals in the group, or I will proceed with hurting you until I receive them."
The amaran's ears flick back, her eyes narrowing. These are the people that gave her shelter, took her in. They tried to teach her, whisked her away and hid her when her own foolish actions got her in trouble. The people she disobeyed to land herself in this mess - if she does nothing else useful in her life, at least she can go down protecting them.
But the fear returns.
"Elrych." She blurts out, before she can stop herself. "Don't know a last name. An' another one what starts with... A Z? An S? One'a those." She is breathing heavily. "An' a lady named... Erin? Somethin' like that, only met once. S'all I know."
Oran makes another tidy note. "Very good," he responds. "Thank you." He does not 'proceed with hurting her,' though the threat seems to still hang heavy in the air, like a weight tied and ready to fall at any time. A pause, then, "Can you describe what this 'Erin' looks like, please? Human female, potentially an aristocrat of some sort, by any chance?"
"Human lady with a fancy way'a talkin', yeah. Doctor or somethin'." Angouri relents, her ears pressing flatter against her head with a scowl. "Choke me out all ya want, s'all I know." She still expects it, and that darkens her thoughts - because she's thrown her fellow Jedi under the bus without hesitation. She created her own foul situation, and is destined to bring the rest down with her. "We done here? I've got a wall t'stare at, lots of important appointments. Y'know how it goes."
"Innnteresting," Oran draws out the word, thoughtfully. "Well, It's not an uncommon name, nor is that an uncommon description. Could be anyone. I have met an 'Erin' or two before, though. Small galaxy." He moves along without further investigation, perhaps chalking some similarity up to coincidence rather than any positive ID. He moves along. "Again with the selling yourself so short," Oran tsks, shaking his head. "So far below your potential to be useful. Don't worry," the tone suggests she should probably worry, "I don't believe we've exhausted your usefulness. Not even close. We have so much more to discuss." He smiles, collects his datapad, and stands. "Until next time, Puppy. Enjoy your nap."
His boot-steps echo crisply down the corridor as he walks away without looking back, and in short order, the two emotionless troopers return to take up guard duty. Maybe their lack of personality is something of a relief, this time.
Angouri Dros slumps to the ground as soon as Oran leaves, her breath leaving her in a whoosh. How long had she been holding it? She sits in silence, staring at the force field for a long moment before she stands, moves to the slab in the wall, and hoists herself onto it. With a deep, shaky breath, she crosses her legs beneath her, rests her paws atop her knees, and struggles to clear her mind.
8/27
The cell hasn't changed in the time that Angouri has occupied it. The guards have done their shifts in stony, well-conditioned silence, and the amaran padawan has settled into a routine of reflecting it. But she doesn't lie in a ball on the floor anymore, at least not always, she's... Well, there isn't anything else to do - so she is meditating, or trying to. Ango sits cross legged on the crude bed, her tail occasionally flicking, her face shifting between a mask of relaxation and understanding, and one of utmost frustration, the brow knit.
"Hello, again, hello." Oran is back, and not only is he back, he seems to be in a cheerful mood! That can't be anything but bad. Maybe he got to burn some orphanages this morning, or perhaps tied a damsel or two to the railroad tracks. A brow raises as he observes Angouri on the way to his austere seat behind the desk on the other side of the field, and he comments, "I don't think that you're untalented, Puppy, but I do think that the Jedi are absolute balls at teaching any of you anything. This is not the first ineptitude I've witnessed."
"An' I was just startin' ta feel peaceful, too." Angouri sighs, cracking one eye open to glare at Oran. "Sure you've witnessed lots'a ineptitudes, friendo -" she continues, closing her eye again and shifting about to re-center her position. "- Figger you spend lots'a time starin' at yerself in th'mirror, after all."
"I do. I like what I see. Everyone should be so lucky," Oran replies, retrieving the datapad again. "I'm not perfect, but I'm close enough to make me happy, I'm obviously better than you, and your heavy-handed little jabs about ineptitudes are nowhere near clever enough to surmount the soaring heights of my narcissism. Better luck," he flicks on the datapad, "Next time." Then it's off to work, and he laces his fingers together. "What do they tell you about the Force, Puppy? Seems there's rather a lot of don't-touch in that philosophy."
Eyes still closed, Angouri shrugs. "Never said I was no wordsmith, but I didn't jus' want t'outright tell ya that I don't need no Force t'know when yer moldy ego entered th'room, 'cause th'smell of ya does th'trick." She wrinkles her nose. "Like an unwashed asshole in a cheap brothel - but I'd never be so childish t'say th'likes a that." Her eyes screw tighter shut in her attempt to focus herself on something - no, that wasn't it. Focus on nothing. No, that wasn't it either - shit, what is she supposed to focus on? She doesn't answer his question, empowered by her own small, defiant will to keep trying - because when she does try to focus herself on that nothing, there is always /something/ there. It feels important.
"Don't be precious, you're always happy to tell me these things 'outright' and it's silly to claim now that you wouldn't. You just didn't think of it a moment ago, and now you have," Oran replies to Angouri. "There's no shame in being slow. Take all the time you need." She goes along with telling him he smells like unwashed asshole in a cheap brothel, and he shrugs. "I've not had the pleasure, but as you apparently have, I will of course defer to your expertise. Are you going to talk to me about your understanding of the Force, or are we going to have a less civilized 'conversation', Angouri?"
"Hold up, m'slow brain can't follow all yer big, edumacated words." The teen huffs, finally opening her eyes to glare fully at Oran. "It ain't conversin', yer here t'interrogate me fer information ya already know - so, no. Ain't nothin' I have t'tell ya. Yer free t'go wax yer boss's mask and touch lightsabers or whatever it is you lot do fer fun when ya ain't pullin' th' wings off grutchins an' drownin' lothcats." She pushes herself to her knees, twists herself around, and returns to her cross-legged position, now facing the wall.
"Why do you imagine I already know?" Oran replies, conversationally. "I have access to texts and previous interactions with Syrus Volo that give me a measure of insight into your practices, but I'd hardly describe this as I /already know/. If I had what I wanted I wouldn't be asking you questions about it, obviously. If I /already knew/ then I could go along and do something with my day other than be clumsily insulted by a rude child. I can ask something else if you'd like, though. Do the Jedi have a system or homeworld they use as a base of operations and training facility, other than the Naboo system?"
The amaran is silent for his tirade, her back still to the Sith. The shifts in expression aren't visible, but she is hardly skilled enough to hide the exasperation, anger, and - beneath it all - fear that swirl and muddle beneath the surface. Her tail twitches, draping itself lazily over the side of the stone slab she sits upon, and after a long, pregnant pause, she finally shrugs. "Yeah, lately we been operatin' out of yer mom's place. Been real invitin'."
This is what you get for kidnapping a teenager.
"Let me explain what's about to happen," Oran replies, again, conversationally, as though they're planning a day to the lake. "I want to know what the Jedi have been teaching you about the Force, the sorts of tenets to which they make you adhere. I also want to know where their base of operations are. If you do not cooperate with this information, then I will bring in a friend for you. She did nothing wrong, I suppose, other than having bad luck and a foolish, smuggling family, but she's been 'altered' such that she will attack you without control over her ability to stop. You kill her or she kills you, or you tell me what I want to know and I make it stop. This is your last chance to consider how cooperative you'd like to be before I summon her."
"How is it that ya manage t'breed a narrative'a 'securin' the galaxy' an' defeatin' th'evil Jedi when ya pull shit like that, huh?" Angouri asks, visibly trembling in fear, her back still to him. "Don't go to th'Dark Side, don't get too attached t'nothin', breathe real good, an' use yer Force magics t'help th'galaxy. Balance an' all that. But y'wanna know where we operate outta?" She turns now, narrowing her eyes, and peeling her lips back in a snarl so that she can whisper, scathingly:
"Yer butt."
Oran makes a note on his datapad, unperturbed. "You're being lied to, Puppy," he replies. "There are no /sides/. Light, dark. Don't be stupid. Do you honestly imagine you can look at a galaxy of /infinite/ connection and complexity and reduce it to good and bad? Nothing else in life is binary, and you're being asked to imagine that the entire Force of everything somehow is?" He pauses a moment and raises a brow. "No. There isn't. There is power in peace, surely, but there is power in passion. There is power in every one of those attachments they tell you that you can't have. Every 'no' they tell you is another door to a tool that you could have made use of. Not by my moral compass -- I had that surgically removed six years ago and all -- and not by theirs. Yours. You could determine the facets for yourself. Or -- just believe in Light-And-Dark, Good-And-Bad, like some child's primary reader." He touches a comm button on the desk. "Bring the Cathar in, please."
It's obvious that his words ring true, because the amaran's gaze drops, her grip tightening on the edges of the slab. They're thoughts that she has had, worries that she's tried to voice, routes she's wondered about... But she thinks about where she is. Here. Now. "Yer talkin' t'the wrong Jedi." Angouri decides, straightening up. "I work in tech, remember? Far as I see it, pretty much everythin' comes down t'binary - an' you lot? Seem pretty damn evil." She crosses her arms, attempting to hide the anxiety that radiates from every inch of her little body. "Let's jus' get this over with, Porridge."
"I am, personally, yes," Oran replies about being Evil, while further down the corridor, there's the clang of a mechanical cell door opening... and someone screaming, terrible sounds, sounds that you know are from a sentient being that is... maybe not sentient at the moment. Animal sounds from someone who should be a person. "I will do whatever is required to achieve what I want to achieve: a stable, prosperous galaxy. Order, from chaos. Peace. What do you imagine it takes to get there, Puppy? Happy thoughts? It takes blood to get there, and if I have to kill every single one of your friends so that the next generation of people doesn't have to live with a galactic civil war overhead, then I will do exactly that. History is made of monsters. The only difference is that I know what I am, I don't pretend to be anything I'm not, and your lot doesn't." He shrugs. "But it's a choice. My point here is simply that there are more shapes to this power than /Light/ and /Dark/. It's a gem with many facets. Perhaps you ought to consider the dimensionality of it... and perhaps you would have better success if you found the facet that reflects your truth, instead of the one they tell you to have."
Angouri Dros continues to shrink, reflexively scrambling back along the bed slab at the screeching sounds from down the corridor. Pressing her back to the wall behind her doesn't help in making her any smaller, any less visible, and the panic rises like bile in the back of her throat - and she opens her mouth to shout after Oran, pleading and begging - the base, she'll tell him. The Dark Side? Yeah, it sounds great - but she feels something. Something else. It isn't courage, nor is it defiance, or anger, or acceptance - it's just... Something. It's there, and it's familiar.
And she doesn't sputter out the Jedi's secrets this time, what little of them that she knows. She lets out a whimper, and she steels herself, and she drops to the floor. "A fresh visitor'll be a nice change of pace!" She shouts after Oran, instead.
"You know I'm not wrong about the Force," Oran smiles. "You can hate me, and you should. You can hate everything I stand for, and you should. But down in the bottom of it, ugly and real, is the fact that I'm right, Angouri. Consider it the next time they tell you no, no, no no no. And for now, I really suggest you lean into that hate and use it to fuel some manner of defensive capacity, you're going to need it."
The trooper-guards tromp in, and with them -- a skinny Cathar girl, no older than Angouri, shrieking and flailing helplessly against her captors. "This used to be a person!" Oran notes over the noise. "Her name was Manako Pi'ai, and her family was caught smuggling Resistance intelligence through... I forget, Mon Calamari, or somewhere. She will hurt you, she can't presently help that. You probably have the capacity to hurt her far worse, if you can manage telekinesis or pyrokinesis at all. If you tell me the Jedi base of operations, you don't have to hurt this poor creature, /and/ I will restore her to health and let her go free. I will provide you confirmation of the same. If you'd like to remain silent on the location of the base, well, in she goes, you'll have a party. Make a choice, Angouri."
She was ready to fight - but... Seeing is different. She used to be a person; luckily, Angouri has never been great at empathy. "I don't know!" Angouri shouts back at him, more out of fear for her own life. "Was a passenger, didn't see nothin' or get a name!" She snarls. She doesn't want to just... Kill this girl - but, if any of the poison that Oran has spouted can be taken as a truth, then there isn't much of a sentient being left inside that deranged head.
But she could be fixed. If he's telling the truth.
If. By his own admission, he is a foul and evil creature - there is doubt within her, always, but now it's directed at her captor. "Been awhile since I been to a good party, I suppose." The amaran swallows, her ears pinned back against her skull.
"You don't /know/?" Oran laughs. He does not... does not have a nice laugh. Does he enjoy this? It's hard to say. He doesn't seem to be reveling over it-- he isn't happy, just sharp, hard. But maybe it doesn't matter if he enjoys it or not, because he's clearly willing to do it regardless. "Really?" The Cathar shrieks and tries to bite the troopers holding her, but she can't really get a purchase on their plasteel armor. Oran gestures at her. "Do you want Manako to live like this, die like this, when you have the power to stop it, set it right? Is that what they taught you to do over there in the land of compassion and rainbows? I am an evil man, Dros, but I'm an honest one. If I told you she'll be set right, she'll be set right. But you have to tell me the base, and I know that you know. You have the power to save her. You, if you choose to use it. Where. Is. The base?"
"I. Don't. Know!" Angouri continues to snarl, shrinking back. "Ain't no reason you'd have t'let her go anyway! Ain't no reason t'believe you cin set 'er right. Ain't no reason t'believe anythin' you've said!" And then she leaps at the barrier, at the man behind it, thrusting a hand forward as she moves. Her teeth are bared in the rage of a caged animal, not very different from the girl they've dragged in. She can feel the rage like a living, tangible thing - and she throws it outwards.
It's like an explosion throws her back, bouncing off the barrier. The amaran is thrown backwards and slams into the wall behind her with a muffled whimper.
"As you like it," Oran shrugs. He gestures to the troopers, and while one winks the field out briefly, the other chucks poor Hanako into the cell. She makes a noise that is half hiss and half scream, while Oran goes on. "I still don't believe you, so perhaps we'll see if this jogs your memory? You really ought to take the chance that you could save her, of course. Where did you leave from? What was the climate like? How long was the hyper trip? I'm sure you remember something. Remember something /useful/ and we can save your friend. She'd appreciate it."
Poor Manako can't appreciate much just now, and in a wild, animal panic, she lunges forward to bite Angouri with pointy little Cathar teeth!
The amaran yelps as the cathar's teeth dig into her arm. She tries to retaliate with that unseen force again, but her grasp on it has slipped away. She flails through a dark nothing and returns empty-handed, now simply kicking back at the maddened Manako. "Can't proper think straight with yer pet gnawin' on me!" She yelps out, teeth gritted in pain. "World is still seemin' pretty binary t'me!"
"Think on it," Oran shrugs, boredly, as Manako launches herself for another bite-n-claw. She misses this time, dodged or at least held back -- there are no tactics to this, just blind, rabid animal rage. Outside the cell, the dark-clad man consults his datapad. "If you don't like Manako 'pawing' at you, then you could do her the favor of remembering something about the Jedi base, and give her mind back to her. Why would you hold it away longer? Because you 'don't remember'? I know you lied. And because you lied, you have the power to help her. But you will not. Cruel of you. Do you know, she wanted to go to school and become an engineer? You might have been friends, in another life."
This is bigger than her; a concept that Angouri has struggled with before, perhaps, this exact moment. She never wanted to die for the Jedi or the Resistance - but that choice was taken away from her. All paths end the same for her.
And there is a strange sort of peace in that.
"Stop!" She pleads, either of Oran or Manako - it's not clear - but as she shouts, she throws both hands up. That power surges through again, the same force that threw her back against the wall just a moment ago, but this time she manages to direct it elsewhere. "Let 'er go, she ain't part'a this."
Manako isn't really all THAT much more robust than Angouri is, and the surge of telekinetic attack flings her ruthlessly into the cell wall opposite! Bam! It's hard, so much harder than maybe Angouri knew it could be, accompanied by the sick, wet sound of things breaking that shouldn't be broken. There's a red smear on the wall and she slides down into a little heap, motionless for a moment until she rises again with a choking, rasping gurgle, compelled /even still/ to continue her attack on Angouri. Can't stop won't stop. Not until the end... or until the man with the kill switch chooses to shut this down.
He doesn't, of course. Oran steeples his fingers and smiles. "Finish her," he invites. "Or, tell me the base."
"You don't want to do this." The amaran snarls at the charging cathar, still trying to push out, trying to use that influence that she's used so many times before. Maybe she can undo what's been done - maybe she can - Angouri leaps to the side as the cathar keeps coming. Whatever has been done to her, the fledgling force user cannot reach it, cannot fix it. She snarls, instead, and side-steps Manako in favor of approaching the barrier. "There were cliffs. Wasn't there long enough t'see much. I slept up in some nook in the rocks, then got back on a ship an' was left t'my own devices fer a bit. Met you on Nar, right after I'd managed t'get a respectable, normal job, an' had t'go into hiding because ya jumped me at th'bar. Let 'er go."
Oran tsks. "There were cliffs," he replies. "No, I'm sorry, that won't do. That isn't useful enough. I appreciate the effort, but... 'there were cliffs' won't save poor Manako now." She's not doing well, with a little dribble of blood out the corners of her mouth, but still trying to flail, scratch, claw her way through Angouri. A miss, a few times -- and one that connects, though it's a negligible scratch. "Honestly you might as well just kill her at this point, Puppy, it's all rather sad at the moment."
Angouri Dros let's out a growl as the scratch connects, leaving lines of blood down her cheek. She shoves at the cathar, just trying to stay out of her range, and turns that power back at the barrier again. At Oran. She either cannot penetrate the barrier, or cannot touch the superior force user - perhaps a combination of both. Maybe he can feel the whisper of animalistic rage, or maybe he just sees her struggling with forces far outside of her control. What she wouldn't give to feel in control again - there's a pause. "Guess we both die, then."
The amaran squeezes her eyes shut, and drops to a seat on the ground.
Oran laughs. /Now/ he seems pleased, and no doubt felt the attempt. Manako doesn't seem to have it in her to continue attacking Angouri and has just slumped to the floor, where she bleeds. "Feels just a /little/ bit good though, doesn't it?" Oran states, rising from his seat. "To throw your hate at that source of everything wrong?"
He gestures at the troopers and the force-field winks on, winks off just long enough for Oran to gesture and yank Manako's body out of there, an easy gesture like the careless throwing of a rag doll. "Take that away," he informs the troopers, and they do so.
His attention turns back to Angouri. "Look what you've done, Puppy. Really mangled the hell out of her, didn't you? I imagine she's got about... oh, couple of hours maybe, before she dies of her injuries, so if something occurs to you, let the guards know. Otherwise... meditate on that one, hmm? You wrecked some poor innocent woman with hostile intention, self defense, and you tried to do the same to me. Dark, dark, dark." He turns as though to go, and raises a brow. "Or I'm right. And there is no light, no dark. Only the people who use it. Both of you are probably going to die, yes -- her from what you've done, you, we're going to throw you in a lava pit to make sure you don't come back and get problematic. It's too late for you. But if you want her to live... just speak up, of course." Oran smiles. "Always a pleasure," he assures, then walks out, leaving her alone with her thoughts, and Manako's blood.
There is silence in the blood-stained cell. A long, heavy silence as Angouri stares at the force field, the corridor into which Manako and Oran disappeared. The silence remains as the amaran picks herself up from the floor and drags herself back to the slab that forms a bed - but there isn't any meditation, this time, and the silence is broken by soft, broken sobs.
Later that Day...
It's been a day. The first sign of this would be the streak of blood on one wall of prisoner Angouri Dros' cell - having that cleaned is a courtesy that the Jedi hasn't earned. The prisoner herself is seated upon the slab that juts from the cell wall, her legs crossed beneath her, looking about as decent as her cell: a series of fresh scratches graces one cheek, dried blood caked into the gray fur. Another wound decorates an arm, along with various other bruises, cuts, scrapes, and sore spots. Leftovers from Oran's gracious visit earlier that day.
It's been a day.
The prisoner's eyes are closed in her attempted meditation, her face relaxed. Relaxed as can be expected for her current predicament, at least.
The base is a busy place, and the sound of footsteps passing by the cell isn't uncommon, troopers patrol almost all parts of it around the clock. So when yet another set of steps approaches the cell, one might believe that they're simply going to move on by like so many others before, but not these. These slow to a stop outside of Angouri's cell. There's a brief exchange that happens, though it's too low to be properly heard from inside the cell. Then the door to the cell slides open, and in steps an ominous figure, armored head to toe and nearing six feet in height is Ravelyn. "You're a mess."
Angouri would never have the optimism to believe that this new set of ominous footsteps are stopping anywhere other than her own little slice of First Order hell. She doesn't open her eyes at the sounds of conversation, nor at the approach of new company; new company isn't an uplifting change, but it's better than the company she's had. "Yer powers of observation'r astoundin'. How cin I help ya?" She drawls, her eyes still shut though her meditation is obviously ruined.
The door hisses closed behind the knight, who stands there looking down at the smaller, abused Jedi in training. "Ouch, you cut me with all of that sharp wit," Ravelyn drawls back in a mimic of Angouri's cadence of speech. "I hear you've had a few other visitors. I hope you've been supplying them with all the juicy information that they require, though... by the looks of you, probably not."
Tired, amber eyes finally blink open, and Angouri sighs. "Jus' two, really. Can't say that I've felt very popular, but I suppose I should count m'self lucky t'have been graced with th'company of Kylo Ren 'imself. So." She eases back, uncrossing her legs and letting them dangle over the edge of the stone slab as she studies this new figure across from her. She recognizes them from her hand-off to the First Order, but no names stick out in her mind. "What's yer deal, then? Obviously ain't clever insults, but I suppose a razor wit cin still be hidin' in there." She pauses, her face screwing up. "Somehow doubt it."
"Must make you feel very special," Ravelyn replies while taking a further step into the cell. "Clever insults? No, I leave those to Oran. If I took that from him he'd have nothing else to live for, and I'd have to have that weighing on my head. My deal is my deal, you'll either figure that out or you won't, it's less fun if I do all the work for you. So..." The helmet cants to the side while the eyes hidden by the faceplate presumaby study Angouri. "Where is it that you're from then? I don't think I've seen one of you before." The words are carried through a vocoder, made sharper and less personal in the translation making it hard to say whether or not that was intended to be insulting or not.
"He does like t'hear 'imself talk, don't he?" There's the ghost of a smirk across that long muzzle, flashing sharp teeth. "Really, any other form'a torture is overkill once he really gets goin'. I'd give up my own ma if I thought it'd buy me two minutes reprieve from 'is monologue-in'." But at the following question, she sighs again, waving a paw as she answers. "Amarans'r travellin' folk, more often than not." Angouri replies. "I was born in orbit 'round Naboo, so I suppose that's as close to a homeworld as I got, but my people come from Amar. What about you, big thing?"
"That he does," agrees the armored figure, a chuckle following that's stripped of warmth, if there was any, by the vocoder. "We truly don't have a better method of torture than just letting that man go on, and on, and on..." One hand motions with each on, and then it drops again. "Naboo. Close to those resistance friends of yours, then. Did you grow up there, or continue to move on that ship?" When the question is turned back on Ravelyn, there's an inward gesture at the chestplate. "Me? I was once asked if I was a spirit in armor, so let's go with that."
"Traveled. Folks were merchant types; so was I, till I got pegged fer wizardry or whatever." The Jedi leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and squinting at this spirit in armor. "So what /is/ th'deal with th'First Order an' their masks? Are you tryin' ta look spooky or is it a... Confidence thing? You lot all jus' real ugly under there or what? Someone broke yer heart once an ya jus' never found it in ya t'love or show yer face again? Was it th'folks what called ya a spirit in armor?"
"Who was it that found you?" asks Ravelyn at the mention of wizardry, turning enough to move to the wall to the left of the stone slab, choosing a spot there to prop against. "Is it working?" when Anagori asks if it's to seem spooky. "Terribly ugly," when the question of looks comes up. A slightly crackly laugh trails this. "You would have to ask each person in a mask why they wear it, I can hardly speak for all of them. I can tell you that you wouldn't want to see what was beneath this helmet."
"Jedi first. Then Oran. Now m'here. A true tale'a heroism an' woe, let me tell ya." But she laughs, tilting her head at the armored figure. "Eh, not really. S'tryin' too hard, ya know? At a point ya get too saturated with spooky an' it's just tirin'. Can't imagine it smells terribly well under there, eh?" The amaran shifts on the slab again. "So, what is this then? Ya gonna throw me around 'r threaten' me family an' friends'n homeworld till I answer yer questions? It's gettin' tirin'. Like th'masks. Old, y'know? Never thought th'impisonment an' torture thing would be so borin'. But. Here we are."
"Which one?" asks Ravelyn at the answer. "Be specific. I like specific." The notes on the try-hard style of the Knights, or this particular knight, is met with a helpless gesture. What can ya do? Have to be do-gooder or spooky. "Why would I throw you around? Would throwing you around give me more answers than those you've already given after being thrown around?"
"An' here I was startin' t'think you lot lacked creativity." Despite her flippancy and usual teenage ire, it's obvious that the amaran's shoulders relax when it becomes, at least for the moment, apparent that she isn't about to be thrust into another round of combat. "But I disagree - I was doin' jus' fine bein' neither do-gooder nor a spook. Was jus' livin' like I lived; now m'pickin' sides an' waitin' t'die. That's what this leads to, right? I've outlived m'usefulness, I know that. I knew that'd be th'case since they caught me - ain't got nothin' more t'give. You at least gonna give me a straight answer so I cin make m'peace with that?"
"I'll give you a straight answer if you can give me something that you haven't given the others," Ravelyn replies, pushing off from the wall to stand at full height once again. "Tell me something about the Jedi bretheren, something useful." Precisely what is wanted is left open for now. "I get the sense that there is more, because you continue to insist that you're so useless. You're not that broken yet, I've seen what broken looks like, and you're not it."
"Then I ain't broken, and ain't got no reason t'betray any more secrets than I already have. Jedi ain't th'ones what attacked me fer no reason, threw a bounty on me, an' threw me in a cell t'do as they please. All cause'a some powers I didn't ask for? Nah, ain't right an' I don't got a mind t'help you anymore. This point, all I got is keepin' quiet, an' if that's how I'm gonna die, at least I did somethin' useful." It's more honest than she's been, and she is almost... Surprised by the admission. She was neutral in this for so long, and she wanted nothing more than to keep it that way - but this has changed that. She can't change that she's in the thick of it now, any control over her destiny was taken from her... But this? She can control this. If she dies screaming, she does so with what little ounce of control over herself that she has. It's not much. "So, we cin talk about somethin' else or you cin kill me, I guess?"
"That's good news for your friends, isn't it?" asks Ravelyn as the helmet turns so that it's facing straight at Angouri again, and there it remains. "All of your Jedi friends, the names of the people you don't want to say." There's an unseen scrutiny now, an intensity to the focus on the poor, trapped Jedi, as the Knight skims the surface of her mind. "That place where you go to study, keeping all of that held tight to your chest so that you don't betray them. I'm glad to see you still still have some fight left in you, if hadn't? If that were it?" There's an exhale that comes through the vocoder is sharper than it would be if it were heard merely passing through lips. "Given what I've heard of your Jedi friends, their lack of skills, I was beginning to believe this fight would be far too easy."
It's Elrych's face that Ravelyn will find, but it's not the only one. Rey, plucking her from the air after another one of Angouri's ill-fated decisions. Her brothers, her mother. A human girl on Naboo with a bright smile and the warmest laugh - the people she misses. Maybe they aren't all Jedi, but they are the ones that she is protecting. Trying to. There are cliffs, and the flash of blue and green. "My lot is plenty skilled, I wish I coulda learned better from 'em." There's a peace that passes over her, now, and her brow furrows. "It would be nice if I could see m'friends again." She suggests, pushing out with something more. Something deeper, and something that she - against all other logic - has grown closer to while trapped in this cell. "You should let me go. I ain't done nothin' wrong."
There's a wash of new information that floods Ravelyn's mind, faces, a few names, places not seen before. The effort of it splits the knight's focus, and when Angouri pushes back with the force there's a second where the armored figure peels away from the wall, then freezes. A bark of harsh laughter spills out as a gloved hand rises, and abruptly so does Angouri. The already battered figure is pushed back into the wall of the cell with enough force that it's painful, but she's spared from additional damage beyond bruising. "I would recommend you not try that again." The pressure holding the Amaran in place tightens, not just around her throat but all of her, squeezed in an invisible. "We have contingencies in place if you try to leave this cell before your time. None of them are pleasant for you. Now..." The hold on Angouri is released without warning. "Tell me more about this place you go with the Jedi. I know you don't know the name, but tell me what else you see?"
It's more than she's accomplished since coming here, and the brief moment of control is invigorating for the padawan, after so many attempts squandered. So many faltering conversations with the Force, so many times that it slipped through her fingers - she finally pushes forward with it, willingly and consciously, and feels something push back.
And then she is wrenched into the air.
The amaran flails against the grip, a whimper dying in her throat as her air and voice are stolen - perhaps it will end here. She can die quickly without betraying the Jedi further - but that, too, is taken from her. Angouri hits the ground, hard, and remains slumped there for a moment, coughing. "I s-see tha' all you lot got some anger issues." She answers them, her voice raspy after the pressure on her throat, and she pushes herself shakily to her feet. "What kinda armor y-you got anyway? Cool mods, 'r is it jus' a vocoder t'make ya sound spookier?"
If nothing else comes of this experience, Angouri will at least know that she /can/ push back, that she is capable of it, and with training... Well, who knows. No such luck on a quick death, the Knight is better trained and probably more afraid of Kylo than to give into that so easily. "How else should a spirit in a suit of armor sound?" asks Ravelyn. "If I don't sound spooky, what else have I got going for me?" There is still the general air of menace around the knight, but the voice definitely helps. "But you didn't answer my questions. So, answer."
She reaches out again, but this time... Well, it's for her own curiosity. It's been ages since she's been able to fiddle with good, hard tech - but her head is spinning, and pain thumps through her from this most recent telekinetic encounter. She tries to reach for the armor, and finds nothing. But she pauses, tilting her head. She's been here before - and the amaran takes a breath. Large ears twitch as she finds something more familiar with the Force - this being's armor. The modifications applied to it. The friendly thrum of electricity and simple binary.
She finds the vocoder. It's an easy update, and one that she does as easily with the Force as she has done by hand in the past: she changes its pitch to something much higher than was ever intended. "I'm sorry, didn' catch yer question. Was too busy gettin' tossed around - mind repeatin' yerself?"
This time the attempt isn't something that Ravelyn can resist, so those tiny changes are made without the knight noticing, or knowing. At least not until there's a sigh, and the pitch of the sigh is... off. "I said--" Oh no. This is wrong, this is very wrong. The voice that comes out is no longer deeper, edgy, ominous, now it's higher pitched and sounds like something you would hear coming out of a cartoon squirrel. This is the absolute worst, and the way Ravelyn's hands clench into fists might clue Angouri into the fact that it's caused some real annoyance. "Cute." It sounds cute as cute is said, and it's awful. "Tell me everything you see when going to that little jedi school of yours."
Angouri Dros : actual teenager and absolute worst, throws her head back in a bark of raucous laughter. "I - aheh - y-you, hoo boy. I didn' /quite/ catch tha' last bit, somethin' up with yer vocoder? Y'know, I'm a bit of a tech gal m'self, I'm happy t'fix it." It's the first time she's laughed, laughed /hard/ since her incarceration. "Ain't been t'no Jedi school. Ya sure y'don't want me t'fix that for ya?"
Teenagers are the worst. Ravelyn might not know that, being a haunted suit of armor and all, but if the Knight has little experience with teenagers, consider this an immersive lesson. "It's good to see you can find joy in dark places," the knight replies in a tone that's meant to be dry, but it comes out squeaky. "Don't lie to me." The words might not sound as ominous as they once did, but with a motion of the hand pain suddenly explodes in Angouri. Searing, ripping, agonizing pain. It only lasts a handful of seconds, but with pain like that, time slows down, and those few seconds feel like an eternity. "Answer my questions."
The laughter turns to screams as Angouri's world explodes into nothing but agony. Every cell is ripped apart, every ounce of her is set aflame, and when the grip of the pain is finally released, her body quakes. It takes her a long moment to regain her voice, and the amaran uncurls from where she had fallen on the ground, panting as she straightens up again. "I already told O-Oran where it's at." She grumbles, glaring up at the armored, squeaky-voiced figure. "Up." She pants. "Yer. Butt."
"You might be a pain in my ass," Ravelyn replies in that obnoxious squeaky version of a voice once Angouri has ceased screaming. "But I'm pretty certain that's not where your academy is located. So, again... where is it? Tell me what you know about it? Tell me what it looks like there on that world."
"It's on a planet. It's at yer mom's place, real invitin' - lovely person. Bakes th'best cookies, softest bed." The amaran bares her teeth. "I don't got anythin' more t'tell ya. Don't got no more information, you cin do all th'evil magics ya want to, don't make no difference in what I don't know." She reaches out again, but is unable to find that elusive grasp on the Force. As such Ravelyn is spared her further mischief - for now, at least. "Next question."
"That's a shame." There it is, that squeaky voice again, squeaking away as though this were a children's cartoon and not a dire situation. Another flick of Ravelyn's wrist, and that pain returns, as intense as it was before, but this time the pain lasts twice as long. More than an eternity, it just doesn't seem as though it will end. When it finally does, the squeaky-voiced Knight is gone, and the door is again closed, leaving the poor Jedi in training to try and recover in what peace can be found in these sterile, inhospitable walls.
