Chapter Twenty
A new day.
Obscured was the passage of time. Outside the small bedroom's window, the unchanging skyline of Kaas City presented itself. The skies remained in their permanent state of chaos and shadowed clouds, ever masking the rising sun. If not for the ringing alarm of a clock on the bedside table, none would know of the morning's arrival.
Shifting beneath her sheets, the tall woman stirred from her slumber. Sitting up, the Sith moved a calm hand toward the alarm, silencing it with a single press. Lifting her large frame from the bed, the constrictive nature of the apartment was made all the more apparent. Raising her arms to stretch, Fay could not help but brush against the cold ceiling.
In silence, the tall woman trudged down dark and gray corridors, dipping her head as she passed through each open doorframe. Stepping into the nearby bathroom, she flicked a switch, basking in the rays of artificial light. The shift stung the Human's eyes, but elicited not even a flinch as she maintained her stoic countenance amidst the early hours.
Hair unbound by knots or braids, the stern visage was at odds with the almost chaotic appearance presented. The dark fibers fell upon sturdy shoulders, continuing down the woman's chest and back in an untamed waves. Paying no mind to the reflection in the mirror before her, she shed whatever nightclothes graced her body and stepped into the walk-in shower. Shutting the pane behind her, the tall woman's head peeked over the opaque barrier.
Hot water left the wall-mounted faucet, splashing against her chiseled frame. Closing her eyes, Fay basked in the warmth of the spray, and soon enough, the once-chilled air became far more welcoming. Upright, the water had no hope of reaching anywhere near the Human's face or scalp. Instead, she had to bend her legs if she wanted anything above her shoulders to not remain dry.
Bracing herself against the forward wall, Fay directed her head just below the faucet. As the waters cascaded down her form, it hugged every firm contour and ridge that graced her figure. One particular ridge, however, stood out from the rest, as it was not born from her efforts, but from another's.
A deep scar ran the length of the tall woman's back, a diagonal gash that stretched from shoulder to waist. The singular mark upon her otherwise pristine, unmarred body. And one readily kept from sight outside the confines of her domicile.
The routine continued much as it had on any other day. Despite the recent happenings in her life, some things had no intention of changing. No manner of new masters or purpose would interfere with starting the day with a warm shower.
The steady stream of the faucet turned into a mere trickle as the water ceased its advance. Amidst the steamy air, the door of the walk-in shower slightly parted and an arm emerged. Reaching for a nearby rack, the speckled limb found the towels just beyond its reach. Ceasing its frantic grasping, it instead opted for a series of smooth waves as its hand clutched at the air. Soon after, a towel lifted itself from the rack and began floating toward the slowly clenching fingers.
As soon as fiber met burnt flesh, the hand snatched the towel and pulled it behind the cracked barrier. The shower head releasing its last trickle, the faint sounds of rustling filled the bathroom as the figure dried off. Finally, the burned man emerged from behind the opaque screen, towel wrapped around his waist.
Stepping out, the Human's legs were rather unremarkable. Fair-skinned. Typically haired. A firm contrast to the man's upper body. Starting just above the waistline, Asher wore the aftermath of a lost bout with fire. The skin covering his lean, athletic frame was spotted and of varying tones across his head and torso. But the effects seemed superficial as the Sith continued his morning routine undeterred.
Maneuvering toward the nearby mirror, Asher's focus was not on his reflection, but the cabinet that stood before him. Kneeling down, the burned man opened the container, within which rest more than a dozen rolls of white material. Pulling a handful of the bandages out, the Sith set them on the countertop before finally looking up and down his body in the mirror.
Unraveling one of the rolls, Asher went to work doing what he had done countless times before. Pressing the end of the bandage against his abdomen, the burned man began slowly unrolling the material and wrapping his flesh. With each methodical second, the white material obscured more and more of the pink skin underneath. And so the Sith worked his way up, covering his abdomen and chest, until the roll had no more bandage to give. A new roll started, wrapping around his shoulder and continuing down his left arm. The same was done to the right.
Finally, wrapped below the neck, Asher locked eyes with his reflected self. The stare-down lasted for only a moment before both figures cracked a sharp grin. With his final prepared roll, the burned man went to work wrapping his head, maneuvering around each contour and pressing down the short bedraggled hair that graced his scalp. Soon, all was covered but the gaps left for his eyes, mouth, and ears.
Stepping away from the mirror, Asher made his way back toward the bedroom. As little flesh he exposed at that moment, bandages and a towel proved an insufficient alternative to clothes. Passing through dimly lit corridors of plain grays and smooth surfaces, the burned man eventually reached his destination.
Swinging open the doors of his closet, the Sith looked upon the numerous sets of baggy robes and clothes with which to further conceal his being.
There was an audible click as the scarred man buckled the fastener at his waist. Hands working in tandem, one of rough and calloused flesh, the other of smooth and polished metal, Graves had firmly secured the armorweave around his legs. Half of his outfit had been donned or, more appropriately, assembled. The plated boots and hardened leggings of his battle attire hugged his battered hide, the rest of it yet unburdened by the stiff material.
Reaching into the closet, the Human returned with a long-sleeved shirt. The black, form-fitting compression garb was merely a base, a buffer between the skin and the armored chest-piece that would surround it. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, the thin material hugged Graves' organic and inorganic parts. The black shirt soon masked the litany of scars that graced the man's sturdy musculature. But with his hands and face still exposed, there remained little hope for achieving anything resembling symmetry.
The scarred man hoisted his chestguard off of the ground, carefully lifting the bulky garb over his head. The armorweave had the maneuverability of hardened leather, but the inlayed plates and attached pauldrons made it a hassle to don even with the wearer's enhanced strength. His arms stretched high, Graves slipped his limbs through yet another set of sleeves as he lowered the chest-piece down upon himself, eventually popping his head through the armor's neck hole.
A few quick adjustments, and the pieces had shifted into place. Comfort wasn't something on the Sith's mind, but he knew each piece had its proper position, and he knew each piece belonged there. Bending his even bulkier mass over, the scarred man retrieved a pair of plated gloves and slipped them over his hands. No longer was there the distinction of flesh or prosthetic. The armored state took precedence. Fastening the gauntlets, Graves clenched and unclenched his fists before turning to the final piece of the ensemble.
For his last foray into the closet, the scarred man retrieved a utility belt, various boxy pouches and attachment points lining its length. Wrapping the piece around his waist, the clink of interlocking metal sounded out as its two ends met. Thus, the suit was complete.
Taking a few steps back, Graves sat on the edge of his bed. Holding his hands in front of him, he began staring at his open palms. Focusing on his left, he ran through the same sequence he did every morning, extending each finger one by one. After the five movements proved satisfactory, he urged his prosthetic into various arrangements to further to test its operation.
When his left hand finally ceased its motions, the scarred man did not rise. Instead, he directed his focus toward his right hand of flesh and bone. He began running the same sequence, extending and retracting each finger before moving into more varied arrangements. Spending just as much time with his right as his left, Graves showed no favor toward either hand when it came to capability.
Lowering his palms, the scarred man turned his attention to the left of his limbs. Poking and prodding his numb self, the Human moved with an ordered grace about his armored figure as he continued sitting at the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers up his left arm, giving a few subtle taps along the way. Then, the same with his right arm. Then, his right leg.
Sitting on the edge of a bed that looked practically makeshift, the horned alien sat in the dim lighting of his office turned domicile. Running his leathery hand over his right knee, Syrosk stopped to give it a series of quick taps, eliciting a muffled clank from beneath his black robes. With a raspy sigh, the Sith Lord raised himself from his cot, setting his sights on the adjacent table.
Though converted from its original state, much of room remained occupied by the tools of prior purpose. Armoires stood adjacent to data terminals. A once central desk had been shoved against the wall, losing whatever magnificence it may have possessed as it lay buried under a haphazardly tossed cloak. In the corner of the compact chamber stood a mannequin garbed in a suit of armor, black plates home to the scars of battle. Scratches and scorch marks graced every surface, wrought by both saber and blaster, by both Jedi and Sith. Of note was the piece missing from the lower-half of the right leg, and the hole bored through its abdomen.
Picking up a datapad from the nearby table, Syrosk had already begun the day in earnest, cold eyes scanning the various status updates and notices that presented themselves. Despite having slept through only one of the preceding seven nights, even the Sith's restlessness could not compare to that of the Empire's. The Executors could operate without his direct oversight. And given recent responsibilities placed upon the alien, they would likely have to.
Tapping away at his datapad, Syrosk quickly authorized a series of low-priority requests and operations that had accumulated whilst he slumbered. Finishing off the backlog, the elder Executor then sent a trio of notices to his subordinates, summoning them to the Citadel in a matter of hours.
With that, he set the tablet back down, never shedding the dull stoicism that dominated his visage. With a series of uneven steps, the horned alien approached the wall-bound desk, clutching the cowl of the black cloak within his rough hand.
Sharp claws gripped the black cloth for but a moment before giving it a mighty tug. In one swift motion, the scaled arm flung back the bedsheet, revealing the slumbering girl underneath. Shaken awake by the chaotic motions and sounds, the Human's eyes shot open to see a Trandoshan standing over her.
Immediately, she constricted, covering herself with her arms despite being garbed in her under-robes. Nesk offered only the narrowing of his beady eyes as he looked upon the shivering Human.
"Time to get up," said the Trandoshan. His words were blunt, and his tone sharp. But Nami was more interested in her surroundings. Turning her head side to side, she examined the unfamiliar room, compact and free of excess adornments. The black sheet that had apparently been covering her lay in a disheveled heap at her feet.
"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.
"Too long," Nesk snarled. "It must train."
Rubbing her eyes, the girl shivered, a distinct lack of heat gracing the bedroom. "I don't… remember getting here."
There was a worry in her voice. One only she could understand. The Trandoshan remained adamant, not budging from his bedside stance.
"Dragged it back after yesterday's training," Nesk explained. "It's had enough time to rest." Bending over, the Trandoshan reached down, just below the girl's sight with the edge of the bed. She couldn't get a clear picture as he stood back up amidst the darkness. Instead, she found a pile of clothes tossed at her face. "Must continue training."
Nami examined the disheveled attire in her lap. Gray, form-fitting robes. Robes of an acolyte. Robes of a Sith. The ends were frayed, and nothing at first glance seemed to be quite the right size, but she knew better than to offer protest.
"Thanks," Nami finally spoke after a moment of hesitation.
"Thanks not necessary. Robes necessary. Should fit small thing."
The girl released a low sigh. "Can we stop with the 'soft thing' thing? Heard enough of that yesterday…"
"Said 'small thing', not 'soft thing'." The Trandoshan crossed his arms. "Is improvement."
"Hmph," Nami offered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll take your word for it."
"It should," Nesk plainly stated, bending slightly to better meet his eyes with those of the Human. "Is change. Sith is change. If it can change, it is Sith."
"Inspiring as always," the girl muttered, toeing the line between deadpan snark and morning grogginess. "So, are we going to spend the day fighting out in the middle of nowhere again?"
"No," Nesk bluntly answered, turning toward the bedroom's exit.
"No?"
Pausing, the Trandoshan shot a quick look over his shoulder, eyes piercing through the darkness. "Today, it belongs to Vurt."