| abstract | - The durasteel hall is eerily silent, the holding cells mostly empty - not many living prisoners. The flicker of flourescent lights highlights the small viewing slits on the cell doors. In one such cell is prisoner Number 8525852, once the Imperium's newly-elected Lady Admiral. The walls of her cell appear to have been crudely decorated during her stay with an assortment of scratches, some depicting various swoops and ships, others, crude charachatures of Republic leaders and Jedi, all rather offensive. The prisoner herself sits on her stiff cot, in a corner of the cell, shaved head leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. Even the hollow eye socket, lacking an eye patch to hide it. And, apparently napping. The guards on the prison detail are generally selected for a number of qualities: loyalty, a distinct lack of a sense of humor, and usually a small-minded cruel streak. At any given time there will be an officer on duty and at least four guards. Occasionally one of the guards walks along the corridor, hammering on the cell doors with the butt of his rifle. And occasionally some other detachment arrives with paperwork from some higher officer with a prisoner transfer. It is fortunate for the Republic's prisoners that one cell is more or less like another. It is generally considered rare to see a high-ranking officer deign to visit the prisons, and Rem Dolor's docket only lists her as Number 8525852. So it is, perhaps, entirely unusual to see Wilhuff Tarkin, recently elected as Chairman of the Command Council, arrive, flanked by a a pair of the men who have come to be known as the Elysian Guard. One of these men is carrying a weapon so large it is only just possible to be wielded by a sentient--but wielded it can be. The Elysian guard is rumoured for its ruthless efficiency and loyalty to the death. They are a rare breed of men - just except that one of them is a woman. Shined boots click against the steel floor as a red-haired woman strides along by Tarkin's side. Let not the short, wavy locks be a distraction from her face. It is carved in stone, and little mercy can be found in her gray eyes. The large gun is carried by her male counterpart, her own gauntletted hands swing freely by her side. A very business-like, sleek blaster hangs from her belt. Conveniently, prisoner Number 8525852 doesn't really appear to be someone of much importance, just a rather malnourished, scarred cripple of hardly-determinable gender. One can only wonder why such a wretched thing is in captivity. Certain, however, is her developed ability to tune out noise as the hall rings with the sound of more booted feet than is common to this part. As the Chairman approaches, the guards at the cell door snap to attention, performing expertly-timed salutes. "You may leave us," directs Tarkin to the cell guards. "See to it that we are not disturbed. My guards will see to the security of the cell block." The lieutenant on duty nods, eyeing the cannon carried by the male Elysian. In a universe where the lieutenant was responsible for naming Tarkin's instruments of death, no doubt he would have given it a name like Pacifier. He barks, "You heard the man," to his men, and the cell guards depart. The cell door for prisoner #8525852 is opened, and Wilhuff Tarkin steps inside, smiling cordially, nodding at his guards to accompany him. "Prisoner #8525852," he greets, producing a datapad and looking it over carefully. "You've quite the interesting dossier. You know, of course, that for your crimes against the Republic, you will die?" The red-haired woman's stone-cold eyes follow the lieutenant on duty as he leaves, boring into his back. But her attention soon returns to the cell. She steps inside and takes up a position just inside the door; straightbacked, alert, and looking directly at Rem. At Tarkin's latter words her lips does, perhaps, faintly press together. Satisfaction or anger? It is hard to say. The Elysian's face is as hard to read as that of a fish. For a while, prisoner #8525852 is unresponsive, blissfully napping through the sounds of footsteps and doors opening. Addressed, however, her head rolls forward and she blinks lazily. A pink tongue flicks out to lick her cracked lips before she greets in a rough, parched voice. "Ahh, Moff Tarkin. What a pleasant surprise." Her good eye quickly darts from the man to his entourage, briefly studying the large weapon, and Rem replies, mustering as much sarcasm as possible, "So, today, or whenever I starve to death?" She shifts her bald head to slightly cover a crude pictograph, labeled as the Moff himself. "That depends a good deal on how cooperative you are," responds Tarkin. "Of course, I have no illusions about you fearing for your life, #8525852." He takes a step away. "I have been watching some of the Gand warriors in our company eating the remains of your clones on Merr Sonn. And as I was reviewing our fleet records, I came to understand understand you were at that battle! Perhaps you could share your experience with us?" The Elysian's hard eyes remain on Rem. They only lift, instinctively, to take in the drawing that the bald woman tries to cover with her head. Then she looks back to the prisoner. She does not look amused. Rem's eyes--eye narrows at mention of the clones, her lip briefly quivers in a suppressed snarl. "It was lovely, and very colorful. Turbolaser bombardment is quite a sight, up close. Highly recommended." she deadpans softly. "But, I could be more cooperative.. if you bring me a part of Petrus.. who you so lovingly had cut to pieces and stored? Do you remember?" She blinks again, and a small, sad smile cracks her lips further. "A head or hand will do." "I'm afraid that will simply not be possible," says Tarkin, voice veritably oozing with regret. "I foresaw your question, of course, but our geneticists were utterly unwilling to part with any of the samples. I have the utmost respect for our medical professionals, and in any case it is past time a Black accomplished something useful for the Republic." He takes a step closer to Rem. His voice becomes very quiet. "And need I remind you, you are in no position to make demands?" The female Elysian guard takes a step forward, following Tarkin closer to the prisoner. Still keeping her distance to Rem Dolor, however, she nevertheless turns a keen eye between the two. Her gloved hand moves to lightly rest on the blaster that hangs in her belt. "Then, you have nothing to offer me, save for my life, which is, ahh-- right, already forfeit." Rem sighs sadly, drawing her knees up onto the cot, close to her scarred chest. "Tell me, are you even going to bother with a joke of a trial, or..." Her lips curl into a knowing smirk, "is it much easier for you if I died, here, in silence, a faceless prisoner?" Of war. The cramped cell walls loom darkly overhead. The bony woman tenses at the encroach on her personal space. "A war tribunal has already been conducted. It is possible, if you are cooperative, your case will be brought before the Supreme Justice, however, but--" Tarkin smiles thinly and runs a finger along Rem's cheek. "I confess I am disappointed. I was expecting a fighting spirit. You are so resigned, so pathetic--so fitting for your Black Empire. An entire nation in which the fight has died." He turns away again. The red-haired woman's leather glove creaks when her finges tighten around the blaster handle. A warning, perhaps, for Rem to remain calm as Tarkin turns away. In the narrow, dim confines of the cell, Rem shifts on her cot. ".. Go frag yourself." she hisses angrily, face contorting in rage. Beneath the oversized overalls, her muscles tighten. In a a quick motion, she leaps at the Moff, remaining arm out, skeletal fingers curled like claws... COMBAT: You lash out at Tarkin with your fists! COMBAT: Tarkin tries to dodge, but Rem hits and moderately wounds him. ... and her nails rake across Tarkin's face from behind. Rem stumbles back, panting for breath and grinning in satisfaction. Tarkin's hand rises to his fresh wound and pulls away again, a few spots of blood across his face. He nods at his male guard, who takes this time to level the Mini-Deathstar on Rem's position. Then he shakes his head sadly and takes a further step away. His expression, after the momentary disgust, is more or less unreadable. If Tarkin's expression is unreadable then the woman's lips curl into a sneer. She tenses - even if the damage is already done - and pulls the blaster from her holster. She points it at Rem and fires, the ray aiming directly at the prisoner. COMBAT: Karin tries to stun Rem with her Special K! COMBAT: Rem dodges and Karin's stun beam misses. Rem slips under the blast, turning her attentions away from Moff to the guard and the blaster in her hand. After a brief, no doubt thoughtful, moment, she maneuvers a kick at the woman's hand, in a desperate motion to disarm her... COMBAT: You lash out at Karin with your fists! COMBAT: Karin tries to dodge, but Rem hits and mildly wounds her. The red-haired woman emits a curse, and with a sickening thud the kick connects with her hand. The blaster drops from between her fingers. The male guard makes an interesting sort of maneuver and fires a blast from the mighty weapon at Rem--in an expert sort of way that should minimize collateral damage. Either way, the room gets rather hot for a moment. COMBAT: Tarkin fires his Mini-Deathstar at Rem! COMBAT: Rem tries to dodge, but Tarkin's blaster bolt hits and lightly wounds her. Briefly stumbling at a graze from the second guard's massive cannon, Rem presses her advantage, aiming another kick at the guard and swooping low to retrieve the fallen blaster. COMBAT: You lash out at Karin with your fists! COMBAT: Karin tries to block, but Rem hits and mildly wounds her.. The red-haired guard tries to block, but folds up when Rem's kick connects with her mid-section. The male guard fires another shot. He looks appropriately incredulous that Rem survived a hit from the thing. Tarkin, meanwhile, mutters something which contains the word 'backup' into his comlink. Most of the rest of it is lost in the roar of another blast from the Mini-Deathstar. COMBAT: Tarkin fires his Mini-Deathstar at Rem! COMBAT: Rem dodges Tarkin's blaster bolt. Blood seeps from Rem's wound, thick, and slightly golden. Blaster in hand, Rem hops to the side as another powerful beam blows through the cell... into the wall behind. Unlike the cripple, the wall groans and cracks, exposing the vast bulk of the ship, and ruining Rem's elegant, insulting artwork. Rem points her blaster at Tarkin, and fires at his exposed head... COMBAT: You fire a stun bolt at Tarkin from your Special K! COMBAT: Tarkin tries to dodge, but Rem's stun beam hits and disorients him. The guardswoman, or so she is called, sweeps out her legs from her position on the floor; attempting to kick Rem's feet away. COMBAT: Karin lashes out at Rem with her fists! COMBAT: Rem dodges Karin's attack. ...Rem leaps over the guard's legs, and onto the cot, breathing heavily, eye wide and wild. The female Elysian climbs to her feet and swings a fist at the prisoner, making a grab for her weapon. COMBAT: Karin lashes out at Rem with her fists! COMBAT: Rem dodges Karin's attack. Rem slips out of the way again, ignoring the guardswoman completely to jump over her and make a run for the door, aiming a stunning blast at the guardsman with the huge cannon as she goes... COMBAT: You fire a stun bolt at Tarkin from your Special K! COMBAT: Tarkin tries to dodge, but Rem's stun beam hits and disorients him. The large cannon slips out of the stunned man's fingers, and Rem quickly abandons the small stunner for the far larger weapon. One-armed, it's near impossible to hold, so the prisoner does a terrible balancing jig to hold it on her hip just long enough for her to fire.. over the head of the guardswoman, to the beaten wall behind. The blast shakes the cell and the hallway. Lights flicker, and Rem promptly drops the cannon to race for the hole created by the explosion. At this moment, the Elysian Guard storms into the detention block, charging in, repeaters blazing after the retreating figure of Rem. COMBAT: Elysian Guard fire their Merr Sonn TM7 Repeaters at Rem! COMBAT: Rem tries to dodge, but Elysian Guard's blaster bolt hits and lightly wounds her. Rem squeezes herself through the cracks, even at her size, it's a struggle. She takes another blaster shot and groans. Then.. she's gone, into the inner workings of a ship she's only recently familiarized herself with, leaving a smear of faintly golden blood on the beaten, burned durasteel. The back wall of a certain cell of a certain detention deck bear the scars of hot blaster fire and glisten with a faint bloody sheen, for as the blaster fire and smoke clears, its occupant is gone. The bowels of the ship are a tight squeeze, messy, a maze of wires and piping, but the bony, determined Rem slips along, trying to put as much distance between herself and her pursuers, but inadvertently leaving a golden trail of blood, the blaster wounds slow to heal. Clang! Clang! The sound of Elysian guards working the durasteel just enough to allow them access. Right behind! A squadron of the smaller Elysians make their way into the open bowels of the ship--the officer barked an order for the scouts to go after her. The first man in, a dark-haired man with a weather-worn expression, is armed with a glow rod as well as his repeater. Having only one arm, and hardly a whole meal in over two weeks, however, takes its toll. While somewhat familiar with a Victory than your average prisoner, Rem is soon baffled by the maze she's having to work in the dark. Any ground she may have gained in her initial rush is quickly fading, much like her strength... The scout apparently spots the trail of blood and begins after it. Some of his compatriots fan out and continue the search, but he appears to be sticking to the trail of gold--only there won't be any leprechauns or pots of gold at the end of the trail. No, at the end of that trail is... a barely-conscious Black Imperium Lady Admiral, or what's left of her, anyway, looking very much like a kragget rat in a corner, clinging precariously to some large piping over a rather long drop down. Rem's eye goes wide with terror as the light illuminates not only her impending fate, but the scout, as well. The scout, lacking pity, a sense of humor, or knowledge of the word "overkill," sticks his repeater in Rem's face. "By order of the Chairman, you are under arrest," he says. "Any attempts to resist and you will be terminated immediately." He does not suggest that complying will spare her life. Between a blaster and a hard place (probably, somewhere /very/ far down), Rem swallows nervously and nods. Heck, blaster death could, at least, be avoided. Maybe... Hesitantly, she lowers her head and very meekly clambers to a safe location, before the scout. The scout does not, it should be noted, press the repeater into Rem's back. He speaks into his comlink. "Subject acquired. She is currently unresisting." He emphasizes the word 'currently' in a way which seems to have a subtle threat underscoring it, as if he could make it permanent with a slight muscle spasm. Rem's shoulders slump in sheer exhaustion and defeat, a mixture of emotions plays across her face in the shadows. But, she trudges on, following the way back by much the same way the scout found her, the otherwise quiet trip only punctuated by an occasional stumble. The prison wardens might have taken advantage of any given stumble, pushing her forward, generally taking advantage and asserting dominance--the Elysian simply waits. Eventually they reach the prison corridor again. A detail of guards has assumed a formation outside of the hole; all of their weapons level on Rem as she emerges. "My, you know how to greet a girl..." Rem's poor attempt at comedy is met with stiff faces and undeterred blaster sights. Tough crowd. She takes a slow step out of the hole and attempts to hop down onto the floor, some foot below. But, the earlier spry movements had too big a drain, the prisoner's legs buckle as they touch down and she faceplants unceremoniously into durasteel. Master of fashionable entrances. The apparent officer in charge takes a step aside, allowing Tarkin access. "Ah, #8525852. So good of you to join us." He takes a step next to her. "I am going to be making some special modifications, since evidently you are not satisfied that you are entirely comfortable in my custody." He smiles thinly. "But I assure you, you will not die. No, I am not nearly finished with you yet." Rem struggles to push herself up with her remaining arm, settles for leaning up on her elbow to glare up at Tarkin venomously. "So eager for a rematch?" she hisses. There's a rather satisfied twinkle in her eye as it rests on the thin, red lines decorating the Moff's face. "I had to awaken your fighting spirit, before I crushed it." Tarkin smiles thinly. "So close to your big promotion. I hope you weren't planning to lead any fleets to victory." "Afraid of losing so much that you'd rather keep your opponents starved in captivity?" Rem dares to boldly provoke further, fingers, all skin and bones, curling up against the cold, metal floor. "If you want to destroy me, do it on the battlefield." "My dear 8525852," says Tarkin, smiling. "You say that as if you have earned some form of respect or recognition. You are murderers and treasonists, not warriors. I do not release murderers or treasonists in the hopes that they will face me in combat. They languish in prison. You are a prisoner and an enemy of the Republic. Your property, goods, chattels, and person are forfeit as traitors to the peace and security of the Galaxy. You have no rights, #8525852." He turns his back. "You do have a chance to slightly redeem yourself--so that perhaps you will not be -completely- forgotten, another anonymous prisoner lost in the shuffle of bureaucracy." "Nerf Herder. I told you, before, go frag yourself." she spits, and quite literally too. Thick phlem, lacking moisture, splats quite a distance away from its intended target, the Moff's shoes. "I was a fool," Rem hangs her head, directing her glare to the floor, "Too kind to the Republic soldiers who became my prisoners. A fool, to trust Jedi." "But, I won't be fooled by whatever promises you make." She looks up again, with a frown of determination, rather comical, with a gaping hole of a left eye. "I'd rather rot in your prisons." "Oh, you will rot one way or the other," says Tarkin. "I am not offering you freedom. Merely the chance to have some noteworthy accomplishment attached to your name. In the future, when one of our intelligence analysts reads through our archives, he will read your name, attached to the information you have provided us." He smiles. "But not to worry. I don't expect you to talk yet. No, I will have to break you of these childish notions you have of the nobility of your laughable little cause." Rem snorts indignantly. "Of course, you wouldn't know much of noble causes." With a tired groan, she pushes herself up into an awkward sitting position. Blasters click dangerously, in warning. "I'm not afraid of you, your prisons, your Republic. You'll kill me before you get anything out of me." "I like confidence in a prisoner," says Tarkin. "As the saying goes: the taller they are, the farther they fall." He shakes his head. "But tell me one thing. Why Alderaan? Always you talk of liberation, as though the worlds you attack were under oppression--but Alderaan? Alderaan was nothing if not a bastion of freedom. Or Kashyyyk? The Wookiees were perfectly content to rule themselves peacefully. In fact, the more I think about it the less the lies of your people make sense. Perhaps you should demonstrate a concern for what the denizens of a world desire before you orchestrate a strike and overthrow their traditions and culture?" He turns away. "I will leave you to think on that. Commander, I want her locked in solitary confinement. Soundproof the room, bind her hand to her feet behind the back, and be sure no light gets in. I will leave a copy of these orders with the warden." "The wookiees weren't being peacefully ruled, the Republic used them as slaves! And Alderaan is nothing more than a den of debauchery and wealth, the Nar Shaddaa for nobles." Rem lurches onto her feet, but, makes hardly a step in the Moff's direction before a SNAP! of rifle butt to the back of the head floors her into blissful silence...
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