You're a powerful political figure for the planet of Baleine and a strong ally of the First Order. Your relationship with Kylo Ren has formed into a martial alliance out of mutual respect and the demand of Supreme Leader Snoke.
Your affiliation with...
Your hands grip the levies of dashboard aboard the Ichor, the durasteel clouding at your touch. Your hands were damp with sweat, body temperature rising to an unnatural degree. You feel something pulsing in your chest; they weren't tears and it wasn't anxiety. It was something more. Something wicked.
Even the cool air of the command shuttle hadn't feigned off the fever rising through your skin. A pressure builds behind your eye-sockets, subjecting your limbs with a kind of weakness you hadn't recognized. So far, you'd managed to keep your composure, though it seemed almost impossible. You'd disassociated the moment you exited the interrogation room while leaving the sullen woman with seeping wounds behind.
Her last few words rang in your head until it trickled its way into the atmosphere.
"Calvin."
She had said it with such glee – such snark. At first, you hadn't believed her. The idea was impossible and she must have been lying in order to stall her execution. But before you laughed in her face, a sharp ringing struck you deaf in one ear and you understood then.
The Force is like a fingerprint – different for everyone. Tactics are never the same. You can be instructed by a master who had been apprenticed from a legend centuries old and, even still, the product would remain somewhat of a unique method.
The ringing in your ear and the pressure behind your eyelids was very familiar to you - the craftsmanship of a foe was not to be mistaken.
"Like a god damn sinus infection," you groan into the silence.
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An hour before
"Who sent you to kill me?"
The question was simple enough, though Sabyr remained stubborn and maybe a little doubtful of your skillset. If she were so informed of your talents, did she not fear death? You were obviously capable and, considering the scalpel was just inches from her wound, she must take into consideration the degree of your seriousness.
She must have because she turned her glare away from yours, chin raising in defiance before she finally answers, "A council..." in somewhat of a grumble.
"A council?" you sneer. "There's thousands of councils in this solar system. Be a bit more clear, your majesty."
At the mention of her title used in vain, she raises a bloodied lip in vex. "Bite me."
You roll your eyes. This would take much longer than you'd like, apparently. With a waggle of your finger, a shadow from the corner of the room steps into the light. The required uniform of a First Order surgeon comes into view, a person somewhere in its apparatus. A long, black coat sweeps against the floor and a mask with an elongated snout hides the visage of the medic beneath.
