Her boots hit the pavement, driving the entire planet underneath her backward as she glides over its surface. Each crushing smack of her foot grinds away at the world's resolve, crushing it into submission. Jessika Pava looks at her reflection in a window as she walks by. She sees the world behind her and herself in a way that no common vantage point could provide; but this view is not to be trusted. It is flipped, twisted, the opposite of what the world should be. Jessika knows not to be misled by smoke and mirrors. Her experience in the military has taught her that knowing the truth is the only way to be safe- that an understanding of the world is the only solid bedrock on which one can build their life on, and to lack it is to build on sand. She supposes that is why she is here today, why among the infinite things that could happen, this is one of the finite things that will happen. And that it always was, and always will be. Given to chance, anything would have no chance of happening with this ratio. Though the universe is enormous, Jessika knows it is nothing compared to the endless void of the infinite. This is the only way she can kill her fellow human being on the battlefield, and how she will accept her death when it finally befalls her. She must always die, and kill. It will always happen, is always happening, and has always happened. She, and the men and women she has defeated in the skies, are victims only of this slow, relentless onslaught of time, not of blaster or torpedo. And thus, her legs keep pounding forward, slowly grinding planets to dust underneath as eons of people do the same. She has places to go, high places. Jessika tires of the rabble that often surrounds her. An experienced pilot, somebody doing something with her life, living in a world full of those only draining resources away from those who could do something useful with them. In the wild, Jessika thinks, I could bite the eyeballs out of any of these people and there wouldn't be a goddamned thing they could do about it. It is the schism between the natural right to life that the law protects and natural law to kill or be killed that tears at Jessika. On the battlefield, things are simpler. There are only strong and weak, predator and prey, eating and eaten. Here, Jessika is the strong, the predator, and the eating. But off the battlefield, she is expected to simply be another member of the herd, walking passively along the store filled avenues of Coruscant. She is being forced into sheep's clothing, and her body rages against it. Jessika pulls away from the crowd, walking into a thin building, and rising up an even thinner set of stains, winding up and up, high into the skyline. Here, the rooms rest only on more metropolis, which descends for miles beneath her and miles above her, leaving her buried under a mountain of air and glass and durasteel. She can feel the miles under her, the buildings that had risen high into the sky being pushed slowly down into the fiery core, the ancient ruins being roasted and burned. Her key slides into its lock, knocking tumblers into their spaces, and for a moment the world makes sense to Jessika. The key turns, as it should, and the lock releases, as it should, and all pieces work together and fit together, with nothing extra, nothing interfering. The abrupt click of a lock opening breaks her moment of zen, inviting Jessika back into the messy, confused world of her apartment. She makes a beeline for her fridge, seeking to replenish the nutrients her body has lost after a long day, to heal the muscles lost after a day of exercise. An egg cracks and is dropped into a pan. Listening to its sizzling, Jessica feels the weight of the action she has just done. Taking the unborn life of an animal, everything it would feel, hear, taste, smell, for her sustenance. Jessika licks her teeth, looking forward to tasting the lifetime's worth of sensation the egg would impart on her. Cooking made sense to her. She took the lives of her ingredients, and gained sustenance. There were no moral questions of whether she had the right to take it or not, no rules to follow, nothing but what she wanted and what her prey wanted, and what her prey wanted mattered only if it could escape. Jessika watched as the water evaporated away from the egg, leaving the proteins that would have given a new bird wings, feathers, and a beak to combine into a homogenous mess, a polypeptide chain capable only of tangling with itself over and over until it had formed a matrix capable of being a solid. She added a dash of salt, flavoring the bird, crushing unspeakably ancient salt crystals with the unspeakable diffusive pressure of water. She slid the now finished eggs onto her plate, reaching towards the fridge to find salsa. Jessika regarded a jar with suspicion, not knowing when it had been opened. Smelling it, she could smell death, the smell of a billion tiny organisms eating the corpses of their rivals. She threw it out, not risking sickness. Jessika pulled out her fork, using it to slice apart the matter that would have become the bird's body. Stuffing the cadaver into her mouth with relish. Licking her fork, she continued, imagining what part of the bird she was eating at that moment. Perhaps the wing, or the liver, or that tiny sliver of flesh where the soul resides in the material dimension. Jessika wonders if she is eating the bird's soul, if it had a soul, or if it would ever have had a soul. Maybe it flew away when she cracked the egg, flying away like a whisper into the wind. Jessika delighted at the prospects. She was Jessika with a K, a K for kiss, a K for kill.