Chapter I

The Lower City was always filled with sound and stench. It was endlessly lit up, no matter the hour, with buzzing broken lights or ones that had been stolen from Upper Levels. It was amusing to think of young kids running up and down level for centuries-burning light emitters. Dodging authorities, risking capture, to prove to some scum crime boss that they were swift enough to be a runner or carrier for them.

A group of mixed species children, all of them dirty and all of them criminals, went speeding down one of the many down-level streets. It was mostly foot-traffic, but there were some vehicles moving about storeys overhead. Muted sunlight filtered down to the re-structured Lower City. No one would ever call it rebuilt. The people here dealt with what they had been left. They made homes, villages, cities within the planet-city. There were shops and cantinas, even a few places to get run down speeders fixed up. It took a lot of skill to be able to work an engine down here, but apparently it was possible.

The smell of the engines was interesting. It still got to her every time. The feel of sunlight every day for the past standard week was brilliant. She held out her black-banded arms in hopes that she would soak up the grubby light. Somehow it was oily looking, nothing like she remembered from those rare, forbidden trips to the Upper City. Not that she was complaining. It was a novelty and still a thrill to be out here, standing amongst people, not having a mission or reason. She was merely another nobody, and that was also brilliant. Scanning the tattooed skin under the new black bands, she studied the marring sheen of scar tissue. The Force had helped her heal more rapidly, true, but she was no healer. She had done enough to avoid infection and healed sufficiently to hide her arms with a new, striking outfit. The outfit itself wasn't what she so liked; straight black tunic with utility pants and heavy boots she suspected came from the corpse of a Mandalorian. It was the circles of black synth-nerf hide that she really liked. From shoulder to wrist were eye-catching bands; then she had taped her fingers just the same. She had been delighted to find that her grip was improved.

She had just come back from the repair shop and was now resting against a wall, sitting on the filthy ground. The wall was black with blaster scorching, and had a peppering of projectile holes. Quite a few of the gang- and criminal-types had the older slugthrowers and generally used them successfully. This example on the wall had either been unsuccessful, for lack of blood, or a warning shot. She could feel a few holes under her back. Deftly she took out her new prizes, and slipped the pieces of beskar up her arms. Two hard grips held the piece of metal against her skin, on the outside of her forearm. She repeated with her right arm. She studied her arms for a moment and flexed a few times. It was tight, and she would have to adjust, but it looked perfect. The thin plating added a new dimension to her fighting technique and it would be interesting to learn how it changed her. Every addition to battle: be it a new Force technique or a new sabre, or even a new piece of armour, changed the depth and methodology of it.

Putting her new armour to the ultimate test, she grabbed an elastic from her black, light-armour woven utility pants and put her burnished blonde hair into a bun at the back of her head. Slinging her satisfactorily-armoured arms over her knees, she watched the denizens of the Lower City mull around and go about their business. She had no business, per se. There were things she wanted to do, a drive and passion in her that just wouldn't let her rest. But with no idea on where to start, she felt slightly overwhelmed. It would have been bitterly funny if it wasn't so hopelessly confusing. Never, in her life, had she not has purpose.

There had always been a Master, a Leader, a Lord, a Teacher. Her own Master had been there for as long as she remembered. The first thing she had learned was obedience. Obedience did not translate well into self-sufficiency. She could steal some food, and after the first day, had been desperate enough to do so. The people she stole from had nothing, either, so she felt pathetic. That had lead to musing over the stale bread she had taken. The musing had lead to the realisation that if the family had been rich, she wouldn't have felt guilty.

The five ransacked families, she was sure, felt differently about her actions than she did. However, with a pocket stuffed with credits, and a belly full of food from the conservators, she really didn't care. In fact, she felt righteous. It was a shivery, good feeling. It was akin to killing someone who really, truly deserved it.

Those credits had bought a short sword, which was more useful in a pinch than a lightsabre for her joyous romps. Dual red glowing sticks waving around usually were noticeable by even the most dimwitted human. If someone gave her trouble, she wanted it to be a robbery gone badly. The Upper City was a place for more caution. Down here, however, in the Lower City, she didn't mind the attention. In fact, sometimes, she wanted it. Fear was a useful tool, and it kept sentients well in check.

There had to be something other than musing and being-watching to occupy her days. On the other hand, that was the problem; there wasn't anything else to occupy her days. Thankfully the beings around here usually provided some sort of entertainment. Though she didn't find it as amusing as she once would have. A human female, far younger than she looked, stumbled by in a baggy tan outfit. It was dirty and she scratched at her left arm, looking furtively about. Neith scowled; there was nothing she hated seeing more than people scratching at themselves. They were either on spice, or were in desperate need of it. The Force in and around the human girl flickered faintly. She wasn't doing too well. Neith bowed her head and looked away, not quite knowing yet how to react. Most ignored, some sneered or were disgusted. How would those people feel, though, if they could know the suffering of others, and reject the self-righteous power it imbued? Would those people still look away, would they still spit at her?

Looking up from under her brows, she saw the girl go behind the mechanic's shop. There was a small, narrow alley back there. She had seen many a door back there. There was probably a spiceden; they seemed to be everywhere, catering to every need and want. Living a life devoid of such things, she couldn't understand. What made people do that? What made them so pathetic and weak?

Out of the alley came a tall human male, very light skinned with blindingly blonde hair. He was, for the area, well dressed if somewhat ostentatious. And he was leading the over-dressed dirty girl in tan under his arm. Chatting with her, flashing her all-too-kind massive smiles of the same brilliance as his hair.

Neith felt a surge of sudden anger. The girl kept scratching. She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, as if his words were rhythmic music. The two crossed a main street, still talking. Or, he seemed to do the talking, and she simply agreed with him. Neith's narrowed, suspicious eyes followed. At one point, the girl turned slightly, grabbing the man's arm. She looked desperate, pleading. Almost begging.

He took her hand off him and deftly set it aside. His face was a struggle; it was twisting in disgust, while trying hard to not look so horrified. After a heated talking to, and the girl cowering and backing off a bit, an agreement seemed to be come to. The two were talking again, their voices muted by the ambient noise of the streets. All that was noticeable was body language and moving lips. It seemed like a business deal to Neith; the posturing had ended, as had the measuring of each other. Now it was two beings trying to get the best of one another.

There was something in this scene that gave Neith a sinking, gnawing feeling in her belly. There wasn't much she knew about except killing and manipulation. The latter this man had by the dozens. She was imploring him for more spice, and he was obliging, at a huge cost to the girl. How would this make him strong? Obviously he couldn't enslave her if she wasn't addled; if that was the case, he was the weak one. Abusing someone weaker didn't make one strong; it made one pathetic.

Indignant and irritated, Neith stood and clutched the hilt of her short sword. It stuck up on her left hip, in perfect gripping range for either hand. These were the times she was immensely aware. The girl had brown, filthy hair. It was flyaway, escaping the tail she had clumsily twisted it into. Repulsors from speeders and transports rumbled and pulsed overhead. Sometimes she could feel the heat, or the breeze. There were people of varying species and sizes all around, going about their business. The tall woman in all-black with the weird arms and sunken eyes was definitely not a gawking point. Not if they generally knew what was good for them.

Generally they did; generally they were right.

This was the point in time, nearing her prey, that the sabres would come out. Within another few steps, they would ignite. Then, ever closer, they would dance intricately, before entering Juyo, the seventh and most frenetic sabre form. Her Master had trained her in a nearly psychotic blend of form four, Ataru, and seven, Juyo. She could use either, or both, at will. Depending on her mood, or the situation, she would switch through them. This sort of fight needed none of the touches of Ataru. Straight, nasty, heartless was the way of this fight.

That wasn't her way anymore. Struggling with herself, she clenched her jaw. Her palms ached for the slap of her sabres in them. Her arms begged to be released into their habitual forms, their normal movements. The entirety of her body felt chained, constricted, limited. The opposite of what she was trying to do.

It was all habit, she had to remind herself, not truly a reflection of herself, but muscle memory. Her face set in a grimace, she stepped to the male and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and she bristled, her eyes locking on his. To speak, she would, at some point, have to release the clench she had on her teeth and tongue. At the moment, staring at him, at the aloofness settling in on his face, at the superior, fake smile beginning to form, she just wanted to blast him with the Force. More satisfyingly, she could connect her fist with his face, and then with the air behind his head.

The girl took a step back, but wasn't willing to leave yet, her desperation for spice the only thing truly occupying her mind. But this figure who had come over had interrupted the deal. Sure, she had been kicked out of Carsums, but it didn't mean they wouldn't still sell to her. Poth didn't care who or what came in, he was always friendly and willing to give out what he had. At a price, but everything had a price, that didn't matter. And yeah, sure, he charged her more, because it had to be done in less secure areas, but hey, she got that too. Then this schutta had to step up and just ruin everything for her. Snarling, she reached out and gave the black-clad woman a shove. Her fingers met a patch of skin that had been covered in tattoo, and was now just shimmering scar tissue.

Neith recoiled instinctively, the blade unsheathing and pressing against the male's throat in one swift move, her attention and severe glower now meted at the female.

"Idiot," she barked, practically seething. She hadn't even been warned by the Force. That would have frightened her, if the press hadn't been so feeble, and if it had merited any measure of the word danger whatsoever. The girl was cowering now, and Neith tried to temper her voice. Holding out a hand, ignoring the guy who was utterly stunned, she tried to placate her. "Hey, look, I'm just trying to help. You're making yourself weak by doing this. It's stupid. I mean... why?" She honestly had no idea what to say, and her words sounded fake to even herself. Finally her true question and burning curiosity came out. Why did the girl do this? Why did she weaken herself and ruin her life to give this man control over her?

At a faint protest from Poth, she snarled at him and retracted her blade, re-sheathing it.

"Because," he said, trying to be smooth with too much panic to his voice, "she knows where to relax." He smoothed down his clothes unnecessarily, to try and gain some control over himself.

Neith glanced at the girl and furrowed her brow. "You two are kriffing morons, you know that?"

They stared at her. Then Poth's ire started to grow. She felt it flame softly warm in the Force. Basking in it a moment, she let a smile turn her nearly-healed lips. It was like returning home, soothing and sweet with all the familiar smells. Something one curled up in instinctively; went to when in pain. It grew and she mentally lapped at it, hungry for more. She would make him scream, make his true anger and pain come out, bask in his hatred and suffering. He would choke on his own blood and she would gorge on his boiling, billowing hatred.

She snapped to. Her eye twitched and the pair she accosted collectively moved away from her.

"Go," Neith choked out, clutching at her chest. They stared at her in shock. "Go before I kill you," she managed to say before becoming consumed. The idiots, the fools, the weak. They should all suffer. They deserved to suffer. A scream bubbled to her lips, the need to fall seizing her body until she was doubled over. She couldn't decide whether to howl and attack something, or fall to the ground sobbing. The agony, the need, it was all so eternally consuming.

She wanted them to suffer.

A hand touched black bands and tortured once ink covered flesh. The hand was cold, the rush of deep-seated emotion was just as frigid; but it soothed. Neith groaned and opened her eyes, lifting her head. She couldn't manage to lift the rest of her body quite yet.

The girl looked at her, eyes wide, afraid of having her head lopped off.

Neith watched her. The girl crouched there, afraid, but was there, touching her.

"I am weak," she whispered to Neith, her eyes filling with tears. "And I deserve to die."

Standing up straight, a part of her twinged, eagerly willing to indulge. Her fingers flexed and the Force rushed through her, begging to be released. They were the only two standing together; their third had apparently run off.

"Why?" Neith asked then, once more, the rest of her ignoring her most base urges.

The shabby girl shrugged and hugged herself. "Something to escape, y'know?"

Neith shook her head. "Escape what?"

Pausing, her voice cracking and trembling, the girl shook her head and spoke. "Everything."

Neith was alone, on the street, standing there as others passed her. People who had nothing still had enough to live on; it was obvious, because they gave up the last of it to the dens. The girl could have done something, but she hadn't. Or had she been preyed upon by weaker fools, who tricked her and cajoled her? Did that make her weaker too? Groaning, Neith yanked a small, multi-faceted mechanical object the size of her palm.

Or was the fact that she had to be made pathetic to be preyed upon mean that those who prey upon her are the weak ones? They cannot force their strength on anyone but those more vulnerable than themselves. They are the weak ones. By making others weak, they have a false impression of strength, making themselves stronger in their own eyes. In reality, they are bullies, unable to impose dominance except by stepping on worms.

No longer was it always necessary to actually watch or hear the recordings. Simply holding the holocron, feeling it, was often enough now. Clutching it and feeling it press into the bands on her fingers, she had to suppress a laugh. Walking off towards her shelter, she found amusement in herself. Once she would have relished the pain of the edges cutting into her skin. It would have stabilised her, strengthened her. Now she unwittingly denied herself even that. Removing the bands on her fingers would fix that problem; however, was that what she truly wanted? Was such an act necessary? Or should she take the lessons for what they were? Did she have to fall on old habits and old ways just to satisfy her own urges?

Or could she learn something from the girl instead? A girl who would probably die soon, who had a mind and body utterly dependant on spice. Perhaps the better question for Neith was; did she want to?

A/N: just waiting for chapter II to be beta'd. He has it, just has to go through it. If anyone sees anything, or has any suggestions or critiques (not flames, please; flames are pointless and the stuff of pathetic teenagers), they are more than welcome. Constructive critisism (and hey, if you desperately want to heap praise, well, I won't argue that either XD) is always a good thing.

Review? They are my lifesblood -- especially with too many fictions on the go.... please?

BL