With lazy steps that showed he was in no rush, he entered the Weaver’s vessel. The sterile, spartan vessel held a special comfort to the Watcher. His body and clothing reeked of another lover, of sex, violence and passions. But he did not care if he dragged the scent of it with him. He slipped in silence to her quarters, the Zabrak already asleep in her bed. He undressed and let his clothes adorn the floor in haphazard piles. The tattooed flesh held scratches and marks of love from his previous engagement but he slipped into the bed. He went close to her, kissing her cheek with care before nuzzling into her and falling into sleep.
He thought the dreams wouldn’t come, he had hoped that a black dreamless void would take him. But the spice laid latent in his cerebrum and it activated within him. He was thrust deep into memory, a vivid side-effect of his special blend of psychoactive chemicals. He found a young boy, sixteen, standing over an orange-haired child. The looming figure’s knuckles were bloody and bruised. The fetal positioned child cried and shuddered with his breaths.
“No Mikko. Please. Please stop it hurts Mikko..”
Voices echoed from the back, a gang of boys about the age of the aggressor. But whimpers came from the middle of them. But he couldn’t see.. Who was that crying there too? The boys shouted, encouraged him, telling him what would happen if the boy left. How the trouble would find him. The lean boy bent back down, the dull cracking of bones and the slaps of flesh continued. His brow was wet, his chest heaved as he continued the frenzied beating. Hit after hit, when his hands were bent and broken he stood up and brought his heel down. Stomping and kicking. The orange-haired boy was quiet now. He didn’t move…
A scream and the eruption of covers ripped him from his own nightmare. He sat up and looked about n a daze, his lover thrashing in pan. He attempted to take her int his arms and lull her back to peace.
Neither would find further rest.
A blue light the quarters of the Watcher, a holo emitter playing the news from the Imperial sources. The owner of the cabin sat upright in bed, a ciggara in hand and eyes vacantly watching all the news he had already heard. But it was palatable, he was not alone, his hand not emitting smoke rested lightly on is lover, a red Zabrak who slept soundly close to him. His lover, his confidante, his Vizier. He smiled at all the breach of protocols at all the rules they broke to be close to one another. His nose leaked smoke lazily while e rubbed her injured shoulder lightly. Their mutual agreement was one that still confused him— they were both lonesome, terribly alone but they found solace in one another’s arms and touches. In their talks and their shared time. But they were not… Exclusive, they were not companions in the regular sense… No, more like two predators that share the same cave for warmth before they split ways to hunt.
But even she did not know the depth of him. The Weaver who seemingly knew him so well did not yet comprehend the darkness and pain that ran through his veins. For at least that he was thankful. He cleared his head, stubbing out the stick of tobbacc to listen to her breathing, an erythematic comforting sound. He would leave within the next day, it was not often he remained stationary on one vessel or another. It made him itch.
He slithered out of bed silently, a skill gained after slipping out on many sleeping lovers. He walked to the Zabrak’s side of the bed and stooped down to look at her peaceful face. Dromund Kaas first, reports to give, catching up on the intelligence of is sectors and assisting any assets he had. Then from there? Voss? Nar Shaddaa? It mattered little, he just needed to stretch his legs. Time to figure out how he had so suddenly fallen into the impossible maze of emotions and empathy. It was like introducing an alien species to a new planet. He sighed quietly and rose exiting the room. The ship was dark and quiet, but he circumnavigated his way to the medbay, his fingers soon wrapping around a bottle and pouring capsules into is open hand.
It got harder and harder to sleep, he had found, his teeth cracked down on the white pills, a swig of purified water and he moved back to his lover.
He slipped into bed and moved close to her, wrapping his inked arms around her to pull her close to his chest. He slept.
Fear is the mind killer. A crippling poison that enters and refuses to leave. The only vaccination was to not let it in. The Watcher wouldn’t, he had no fear, it only stopped his progress. He sat naked to the waist, his new scar across his chest still pink in healing, his hands remained dexterous and swift as he assembled his long-barreled rifle on is work bench. They needed him, he realized, whether they admitted it or not, these.. Faceless needed his skill, it was leverage, he would not forget that. Another rung on the ladder, another stone in the creek. Means to an end. A sick end that would never come, because he didn’t even know what it was. This thought made his skin hot, his eyes fog in anger. He was adrift in some inky ocean, only swimming forward, never to the surface, never to the bottom. The Watcher placed his elbows on the desk and put his face in his hands.
They were good to him. Gifts, loyalty, kindness… And he began to empathize, slowly emotion leaked into his work. It disgusted him but he couldn’t stop it. The Weaver, she was a beautiful and ferocious creature.. No, push it from your mind. No reciprocation. You are an Agent. Only that; an object. His hand went to his chest where the tattoo once read “Forgotten Tool.” The saber censoring the end. Only Forgotten remained. He slammed a fist down on the workbench, causing components to levitate with his anger before they crashed back down. Unless he could somehow gain Force-Sensitivity, he was nothing to these beasts.
The Twi’lek.. Freja, she spoke to him, albeit drunken and emotional, about her feelings. Her wants and wishes and he advised her on it… Him the Watcher. Was it some sort of affection from him? Lust? She was a stunning creature but made it more than clear his advances were not welcome. His long fingered hands went back to rub at his eyes tiredly, the gold rimmed orbs opening to examine the refitted and calibrated sniper, he stared at it in thought, a hand supporting his tall forehead. He wanted to leave them, gone from the firing line, he respected only a few and felt no need to aid them. But something compelled him to stay, an invisible tether attached to his mind. Or maybe it was his heart. Nesmara, Weaver, maybe even the Priestess.. He couldn’t tell. A state of emotional vertigo. Before he knew it he was standing and walking to his quarters.
Smoke in his lungs, and hypodermic needles in his fist.
At least Spice wasn’t confusing.
With golden rimmed eyes locked on his hands, the inked wretch sat hunched over the workstation in his med bay converted laboratory. With nothing special, not fit for such chemists and Doctors, it was a scattering of instruments and bottles, haphazardly strewn through, it was a good enough system for the Watcher. A piece of what seemed to flimsiplast, though thinner and more fragile in appearance. It was held by a pair of forceps, the black marked arm opposite raised a bit higher, and the pale hand holding a dropper. Two gentle squeezes and clear liquid was passed out, the paper sat damp but not dripping. With a steady hand he placed it in line with others just alike. His spine pressed back into his chair and he sighed, wiping his damp forehead with a towel. With the Viperian in such a.. peculiar spot, it was harder to sneak off. These would easily be of use in the terminal. He gave one a try, placing it sublingually and pressing down with his pink tongue, the flimsi began to dissolve.
With a moan of accomplishment and a shake of his orange hair, the Agent slithered out of the medbay and into a cushioned couch, flinging himself into a position of comfort, sprawling like an oversize feline. Those hallucinations… Or were they dreams? Something so deep in your psyche that it is completely and utterly… Lucid. It was nothing like the trips and hallucinations of his Spice, something on another realm of the mind. So horrid, terrible in every aspect. But if it could turn to perfection. Beauty, ecstasy and joy.. If only such a thing could be harnessed. The supine Watcher sighed in whimsy, only being able to wish for such a thing. Maybe he would create it… That was a thought.
But that idea was shrugged away and stashed in his vault of mind. More had transpired. The Sith were the same as anywhere, it sill dug at his skin. But the others were something of a different cloth. The Chiss girl… His in to the Faceless, she already proved her value to him. Of course the thoughts of her empathy still confused the Agent it was an entirely other situation. The other blue-skin, Harith, he seemed to have his head about him. An admirable enough sort, one he could deal with.
Somewhere in his musings his mouth had become occupied by a ciggara and his body now upright, the ignored extension of ash falling straight to his lap. His tongue clicked in disappointment but he did not move. The Vizier, the helmeted leader. Truly Faceless. He chortled to his quite punny thought. Inside that helmet, she had a head about her. A quick witted and smart thing. She would be quite he ally. Not often did his superiors understand his… Behavior.
He ashed the ciggara in a nearby tray and settled in flipping on the holo and watching the news that would play.
Tomorrow would be another day in his belt. Small blessings.
Taken in once more. Perfect. It seemed so… Easy as of late to simply insert yourself into a group. You used to have to work for it. Build report, grovel, beg and kill. But now? Sweet words, a few promises of your skill and you were inducted with open arms. How beautiful. But this group, it was different. They had goals, admirable ones. Of course the Watcher still had his slivers of patriotism. As long as it served him and stayed on course. So many different kinds of filth were scattered about these Faceless. Powerful, merciless, cunning, he would fit like a peg amongst them. And all the women…
The orange haired agent smirked as he paced shirtless in the bridge of the Silver Bitch, observing the docking bay of the Viperian. His briefing had gone as perfect as could, a much needed proof of wit after that sultry little Priestess had exposed his digging. But even then, he pulled information. It was all about a constant forward momentum. Never becoming complacent, never stopping your mind. His never did.
He flung himself into the smoke stained pilots seat, lighting up another and tapping the filter against the bald side of his head in thought. He had been so busy with his various operations and analyzation that his spice use had been nearly cut in half. He felt sick and weary constantly; he could not fight the urges long before another capsule to take the edge off was chewed. He needed the Spice, it gave him the edge. At least that is what he had talked himself into. He suddenly sat up in the chair and flung the lit ciggara into the bridge view port. It exploded in small fires and rolled to the floor. His mood swinging as violently as a ship caught in an asteroid field.
They doubted him. They did not trust him. And the Sith, they made his skin itch, all of them. Showing their dominance and prancing so proudly about in their robes and finery. They wanted respect, and recieved it simply because they could make a plate float. When he… He had to prove himself, put his body and mind on the block to find Intelligence. He had to constantly show his worth. At least in the Intelligence people knew his relative skill, and the Marines even better. But here… Under the claw of the Sith..
He made an audible growl and slammed his fist down on the arm rest of the plush chair. Fools. Even that Priestess… She taunted him so. She knew what she was up to, so did he. But no, his mask would remain. Play the insolent skirt-chaser. The disrespectful smoker, the tattooed fiend. But show your worth. Already he had his own command over an operation. Not even a week into their ranks. Who else could boast a feat of such? Yet he only received a pat on the back from the hacking Patriarch and a few “Well done… I look forward to working with you.”.
He drew in a breath and hacked into his hand, racking his slim body as he regained the air his lungs so desperately desired.
They would see. The number 13 will be a number not to be forgotten.
The hiss of blasters and the smell of scorched earth, the only constant was the slab of stone that their backs were pressed into. The orange haired warrior laid his long barreled rifle across his lap and stared off into the Balmorran blue sky. His ears were ringing, his eyes hurt, he was scared. The commlink in his ear erupted in static and shouts for help, support; “It’s your over-watch,” they claimed, he was responsible. A dirty finger yanked the piece from his ear, allowing the dying soldiers to scream into his vest. Another salvo of blasters hit the stone he was behind, he sniffed and smelled the air. Death and fire, that’s all it was. It wasn’t the first time he scented it.
He remembered he was not alone, eyes that were still brown looked to his left. A scrawny, handsome little wretch stared at him, waiting for orders. To his right, an ugly scarred woman did the same. Their vacant eyes unsettled him, they were silent. Like corpses, they were no better than corpses, at least they could rest. The slave collars on heir necks blinked, they needed new drug injectors. That’s what made these creatures so unsettling. They are what he would be in a few years. Maybe he knew that then… The Agent sniffed and exhaled, peeking over the barricade to see a swarm of Republic soldiers, firing and running at the three. Their armor was still so white, they were an avalanche of fury and hatred. An unstoppable tide.
But his mind was not as idle as his blaster was. He thought… He plotted, he was smart. He looked at the drug addled things and dug into his vest pouch. Two capsules for their collars. “Run, away from here and to here.” he dialed up a holomap on his wrist console, showing them a place. They moved away as soon as it was embedded in their ugly little heads.
Now he was alone, he could hear the shouts of the massive Republic beasts, the cycling of their blasters. A failure, but only to the Empire. He turned and rose, drawing his long barreled blaster to his shoulder, the shouts and desperate demands for support echoing from his ear piece. How many were dead? It wouldn’t matter. His finger depressed the trigger and…
He woke up. On the Silver Bitch. All a dream, an ugly cliched dream of some noble veteran of war. No doubt they all had these dreams. They would wake in a horrific sweat, their woman would cling to their side and whisper sweet lies into their scarred ears. Tell them how it was over, and no one would hurt them again. How they did what they could. He would kiss his woman and lay her to bed.
The now Watcher blinked and looked about, he had some how managed to fall asleep sitting upright in his bed. His neck was stiff from how long he had been out. He didn’t remember what day it was, whether it was night or light in the Shuttle Bay. His room was dark. Though he was reminded of another presence in the room, a grey, pierced, tattooed Rattataki woman. Attractive; if you could stomach aliens. She was naked and sleeping with a half smoked ciggara in her fingers. He stole it from her and lit it, sucking hard and deep on it until the filter was burning. He could taste the whore’s makeup on it.
She stirred with a sensual moan, she was a good one, always playing up her body and voice. She knew the longer she stayed the more creds she would find.
She sat up and caressed the bare chest of the orange haired man. Complimented his tattoo’s and told him how amazing his skills of love were. She bit his ear lobe and asked if he wished anything. He did not smile. He only asked for his box. She swaggered and took her time to show off her charcoal flesh to him as she went to get the capsule of addiction. He was not amused. He threw the nearest ash tray at her, missing her by inches and making a scream as it missed her by an inch. Particles of old ciggara snowing on her naked shoulders and the slave collar about her neck. He whispered for her to hurry up.
Now his head was pounding, he ground his glimmering teeth and closed his eyes. The alien sat next to him, gone were her sweet words and honeyed fingers. Now they were busy adding in his death. They readied the poisons as instructed and shot them straight into his jugular. He relaxed soon, as much as he could. He turned to her and touched her cheek with some mock affection, though she seemed to believe his anger subsided. He kissed her neck and bit it before laying her to bed and moving between her long, slate colored legs.
This would cost him a few thousand more credits, no doubt. But the companionship was worth it. Besides, he was fond of the color grey.
Fingers were splayed wide on the floor of the cargo bay. The inked and marked body pressing up and down, up and down. Bedecked in nothing but tight fitting undershorts and a mask that fed nothing but humidified oxygen and other chemical to his petrified lungs. The long skinny arms were surprisingly toned as the feline like muscles pushed him up and down in repetition. The sweat coated him and dripped from his neck and line of the fiery orange hair atop his white scalp. Poised under his gold eyes was a datapad where he read religiously. Holding himself up on one arm long enough to swipe the next page off then back to the pushup. Basic data and intelligence anyone could find on the Dartanii Corporation. But it was info none the less, and his ‘canned’ intel would be coming in any time now.
He smirked behind the sucking mask. Noisy reverberations echoing from it as he inhaled and exhaled laboriously. But he did not top, the calisthenics continuing unyielding. He was ankle deep in the Corp. now, getting closer to Seb’eya Keto, soon he would be to his knees, then way over his head. But that is where he wanted it. He would bury himself deep in it then rip it open from inside. A virus; he was a parasite, leeching to sate his addictions. Then he would leave for some other unsuspecting host.
They thought him desperate, needing, a cornered man. He was all of these things, but none of them. It was hard to be in a corner while you free-fall. He rolled over to his back after finishing the last page. The mask making loud sounds as his scarred and smoke stained organs pumped the chemicals they needed to even function. He pulled it off with a hiss of gas and found the perpetrator, picking up his silver ciggara case and extruding a white stick. Still supine, he put it in his mouth and lit, sucking deep to his paining lungs. He embraced the hurt, feeling the cool metal of the mask hanging about his neck as it laid across the Aurebesh font that circled from one clavicle to the other.
It was time to do more… He needed to imbed himself somewhere else. Maybe that little Chissling and her merry band of patriots would welcome him. He smiled at that thought and exhaled a lungful to the ceiling. One cataclysmic event at a time. It was much too masochistic to try and kill himself with work. He rolled over to his flat, inked belly and groped forward, finding a small box. He picked it up and opened it to show two blue capsules. He popped them in his mouth and chewed, chasing it with a cloud of death from the tobbacc.
It was much more enjoyable to kill yourself with depressants. He felt his hard black heart relax, felt it slow to a lazy pump. Felt it thump, thump… Thump him to a sleep on the unforgiving deck of the Silver Bitch.
The Silver Bitch was no longer a silent shell anymore. The addict was shut away in his coffin of smoke stains and plush cushion. He laid sprawled and naked on his bed and took solace in the minute sounds of another sentient creature on his ship. His new pilot and guard, Ostmurk, busied himself getting to know the quirks and secrets of the Bitch. He was a keen pilot, the Watcher would admit as much. He picked up the vessel with ease, and steered the liner without a hitch. He did not hesitate even when he pushed the drive into hyperspace. No hesitation. Never had the mercenary shown any. Not even when he executed his prey on the cargo bay door. The only thing that stopped him was credits and the Watcher had that in surplus.
Things progressed now, slowly but he moved toward where he needed to be. Where he had to be. He rolled over the dancing alien on his flank to grab up his datapad. He keyed up the briefing sent to him about the Miraluka he had been requested to hunt. He read it for the hundredth time, memorizing ever space and every letter. He committed it all to memory again.
“Forgetting is failing.” he intoned in his head. His mantra and religion. His memory was what separated him away from the slavering masses at Intelligence and the pseudo-intelligent gathering of Sith. More strokes of the keys and he pulled up the compiled data he would bring to the mission. Pages and pages of biological, cultural, and personal information Miraluka. He busied his mind with editing and revising the pages as he rode out the current high from his mixture of spice. He was up well past the witching hours, no doubt his pilot was asleep but he kept going. Flexing his long feminine fingers as they began to cramp, he popped a few muscle relaxers into his maw and plugged on.
When he was finished he had condensed two hundred pages into one hundred. No small task while adding what he could pull from his personal databanks and the few he could access in Intelligence without tipping them off that he would be involved in some action. He was assigned to other tasks and the Intelligence kept him on short leash these days. He smirked to himself at the thought, “They think they still own me.”
But they did. He was just trying to make the illusion of free will.
He blacked out as the spice crash fell over him. A void of sleep. He would not wake until they orbited Nar Shaddaa.
Wreathed in smoke and concentration, the Watcher sat with datapad on his lap, his constant companion hanging from his lips as he sucked down the smoke. It was only blown out when he set his reading away, insight gained, his addiction to intelligence sated for now. That Agent, that little Chiss… She seemed to… Trust him. How easy it was to win that trust with kind words and empty hands. He pondered this for a long time, his sharp mind drilling away at the question. Would she be one to become a friend? No… It couldn’t happen, not yet at least. He would keep showing her the face she wanted to see, hopefully it was just a mask.
He was startled from the train of though a he realized he had smoked his tobbac down to the filter, he tossed it away and rose. He padded through his ship, staring through the glass and down to Tatooine where he orbited peacefully. He had received a new contract, it was vague, questions on pricing, though it was signed by a Darth. Strange, the Sith usually dealt with things themselves. That was a worrisome thing. Was it so dangerous he would contract out? OR was he just exceptionally lazy? Only time would tell again… Time.
He spat to the floor of his ship and watched as a mouse droid sucked up the spittle and buzzed off. The Agent grew more agitated and prickly by the day. Maybe it was time to increase the dosages of spice and stims. He was walking a thin razor of a line now, it would not be hard to fade ff now. But he fancied himself a balanced man.
He moved through the empty shell of steel and plastics to his quarters. Smelling of smoke and the Twi’lek that was there a few hours ago. He smelled the pillow that she had laid her lekku on and wrinkled his nose, tossing it in the waste bin to be incinerated with the waste. He looked at his face in the mirror, handsome, but that was only his opinion. He flashed his white smile to himself before turning away.
He at in a plush and stained chair, finding his supplies and holding them like a pilgrim would handle sacred artifacts. Needles and spice, capsules and stims. He went about his ritual in slow, efficient steps. Preparing the concoctions and the cocktails was half the addiction.
It was not so bad being alone. At least this way he didn’t have to share.
Planted upon a precipice, the naked, tattooed thing stared on, golden eyes looking over the flat landscape that plunged outward at the bottom of the cliff he now boldly was throned upon. The colors were brown, the dirt was brown, the rocks a little less so, his pale flesh was dirty where it was not covered with black or ink. But he stared on, as if waiting for a shuttle or waiting for nothing at all. His orange hair was stroked and moved by a brown breeze, but he was not alone now. A similar image was next to him. Pale, unmarked, orange hair flowing freely about his head, touching the brows above inquisitive, peaceful eyes. Doppelganger and original made eye contact, they watched one another as if separated by glass, or unsure if the other was there. The voyeurs gazed on, the unmarked looking over the art of the others body. He smiled, the duplicate smiled… Or was it the original? He lifted a hand and made the contact, his soft fingers touching the chin of the soiled, “You did this.” it said softly, then smiled a white toothed smile and fell off the edge. He fell, as if falling upon a bed, at peace, relaxed. The other orange haired beast cried in anguish and ran, ran far from the precipice.
He was brought from sleep slowly, he had fallen into the dream in his chair still, the butt of a ciggara still between two dexterous fingers, he rubbed his eyes and shivered. He felt sick, tired, and so incredibly… Apathetic. He dropped the half smoked stick to the tile, letting his droids clean it up. Head down he shuffled to the med bay, nothing more than a station of abuse and medication now, to find a few capsules. He tossed them on his pink tongue and chewed, the crunching sound all that was heard in the ship.
He sniffed as he pulled off his long shirt and leatheris chest guard, sitting upon his bed and staring at the only scuff on the wall. A small dent caused by an ashtray. Maybe he would not be alone longer, the Hunter had pulled through and brought the young man to his ship. The droids were still cleaning the stain. He offered position of pilot and bodyguard. It amused the Watcher to imagine himself with some armored thug aside him, it would be like he was on Courscant all over again. But he needed the help, his others, the ones he saved, were gone for now. But they would return and then things would set in motion. But for now he waited, sat on his hands and used his eyes and ears.
But his fingers would not be idle long.
He lit another ciggara and nearly sucked it all down on one lungful. He sprayed it out at the wall and smiled his white teeth at the the mark on his ship.
“You did this.” he said aloud before digging into his box for salvation.