Trist Aren
Mar 6th, 2001, 09:10:12 PM
"I don't want to kill you, Siph. But I can't let you walk all over me a second time."
Trist Aren, Dark Jedi, the spurned brainchild of genocide, was standing above the hanging body of Sypher Phriilet, Imperial Special Ops commando. His toes levitated just above her grasping fingers, yearning to crush those pale white knuckles. Behind him, crushed, was the woman's rifle, breaks in the surface bringing light to the dangling wires and their dancing sparks.
Just in front of Trist, and a dozen miles down lay the bottom of the well. Water below the bottom was straining at it's lid, pushing up to reach the surface. The sheer temperature of the water, provided by the planet's outer mantle, was enough to melt calcite or limestone in an instant. The granite could hold it's own... for the time being.
Sypher knew this. So did Trist.
Oh, how he had once admired her windblown and ravaged face! It would have never come to this, never. She blew it. He knew it, he lived by it. It was her fault. And deep down inside, he actually beleived it. "She did it, the bitch! She pushed me into a corner like a rat, and she forced me to do things I'd never do! Then she persecuted me!" And he didn't realize he'd even said it aloud. He went on, to speak directly to her. "You did this. You did this ALL. And I'll kill you for it."
And the bottom disolved.
A blast of scalding water shot from the artesian, and Trist closed his eyes.
When they opened, shortly thereafter, her body lay at his feet. Her skin was broken by the bubles serious burns leave in their wake, and hung from her corpse, thin and loose. And on her face was an unbroken grimace, which was only augmented by the milky white of her eyes.
He pulled his saber from his belt, flicked it on. The blade was as bright as ever, though dull in Trist's preditorial eyes. He raised it above his head, the fingers of his right hand sprawled across the hilt, and he swung down. A spray of blood shot up, but not enough to quench his thirst. He reared it, swung it in another arc. More blood. Another. More blood. Another! Another! More blood! The blood was now a mist around him, constantly reinforced by each sweep of the blade. The stuff was running in torrents off the sides of his face. A bit of her entrails hit his body and slid down.
Purée.
Personal Log, third rotation of the second third-revolution, Vjun time.
I wish I could turn back the clock, if only a dozen hours back.
I wish it was possible to undo the done.
I wish a lot of things.
I don't regret doing what I did, I regret how I did it.
I don't regret killing the mutt.
The carnage preceeding her death was not enough to compensate for my method. Implementing havoc without getting your own two hands into it is never adequate. Too bad she was above those ethics.
~Trist Genol Aren
<font color=red>Scanning qued files...
Scan complete.</font>
Personal Log, Month four, day 15, Two years After Endor, Coruscant time.
She did the unthinkable today. I've been reported to the Imperial Crime Depot, and my perfect crimes couldn't possibly be unraveled by that rabble.
The reward in itself was of great enough prospect that she would forfiet all of our future takings for it. I called her. "Arson, murder, armed robbery! I did it all, all for you! You led me on! You set me up, and you dropped me like-" I'd said. There was more, but I won't bore you. Fact is, I'm doomed. I've got, at best, and hour to arrange some escape.
~Triss Genel Artur
Personal Log, date unspecified, Coruscant Time
I've been in this rathole for four years now. Every day, I get up at the crack of dawn, or what I beleive to be dawn. I don't get an ounce of light. I excersized daily at the start, but I learned quickly that the small amounts of nutrition in the mush the feed me is so absolutely minute that I can barely live on it, let alone trust it to nourish an active body.
I used to write my entries on the wall with all the blood I could spare, but the food has been so malnutritious that my body is to busy producing essential nutrients that hemoglobin is a luxury.
Life's not too bad, factoring out the sessions. Every day, after I've been fed, they talk to me. I'm losing my memory, and I'm not sure what's happening. I've been his with pangs of agony all over, and I'm begining to become suspicious of the parralel behavior of my aches and genocide, holocaust, and war.
I've stolen this computer, and I don't have long before they check me and find it. I've carved a small niche in which to hide the disk, at most. The computer, I'll throw into a neighbor's cell.
~Azure Level four, second spire, Designate Two-Four-Six-Oh-One
Personal Log, Ninth Month, First day, Twelve years After Endor, Coruscant time
Freedom is wonderful, and dont let anyone ever tell you otherwise. I've checked the files, and found everything. I was in there for a decade, or so the records say... And I found my actual name. Triss Genel Artur.
Obviously, this name won't function anymore. I've deleted the prison file, and my personal record... But I can't delete the memories of all the people I interacted with.
I've taken up the name Trist Genol Aren.
The files said other things. Things I won't strive to ponder.
I'm immensly out of shape. It will be hard to reach what was the zenith of my physique. I recovered the Disk, and I've burned it's contents back onto this datapad.
I'm going on a quest. I want to master these skills: the Force, they call it. There's a planet: Vjun. I'll begin there.
~Trist Genol Aren
Trist Aren, Dark Jedi, the spurned brainchild of genocide, was standing above the hanging body of Sypher Phriilet, Imperial Special Ops commando. His toes levitated just above her grasping fingers, yearning to crush those pale white knuckles. Behind him, crushed, was the woman's rifle, breaks in the surface bringing light to the dangling wires and their dancing sparks.
Just in front of Trist, and a dozen miles down lay the bottom of the well. Water below the bottom was straining at it's lid, pushing up to reach the surface. The sheer temperature of the water, provided by the planet's outer mantle, was enough to melt calcite or limestone in an instant. The granite could hold it's own... for the time being.
Sypher knew this. So did Trist.
Oh, how he had once admired her windblown and ravaged face! It would have never come to this, never. She blew it. He knew it, he lived by it. It was her fault. And deep down inside, he actually beleived it. "She did it, the bitch! She pushed me into a corner like a rat, and she forced me to do things I'd never do! Then she persecuted me!" And he didn't realize he'd even said it aloud. He went on, to speak directly to her. "You did this. You did this ALL. And I'll kill you for it."
And the bottom disolved.
A blast of scalding water shot from the artesian, and Trist closed his eyes.
When they opened, shortly thereafter, her body lay at his feet. Her skin was broken by the bubles serious burns leave in their wake, and hung from her corpse, thin and loose. And on her face was an unbroken grimace, which was only augmented by the milky white of her eyes.
He pulled his saber from his belt, flicked it on. The blade was as bright as ever, though dull in Trist's preditorial eyes. He raised it above his head, the fingers of his right hand sprawled across the hilt, and he swung down. A spray of blood shot up, but not enough to quench his thirst. He reared it, swung it in another arc. More blood. Another. More blood. Another! Another! More blood! The blood was now a mist around him, constantly reinforced by each sweep of the blade. The stuff was running in torrents off the sides of his face. A bit of her entrails hit his body and slid down.
Purée.
Personal Log, third rotation of the second third-revolution, Vjun time.
I wish I could turn back the clock, if only a dozen hours back.
I wish it was possible to undo the done.
I wish a lot of things.
I don't regret doing what I did, I regret how I did it.
I don't regret killing the mutt.
The carnage preceeding her death was not enough to compensate for my method. Implementing havoc without getting your own two hands into it is never adequate. Too bad she was above those ethics.
~Trist Genol Aren
<font color=red>Scanning qued files...
Scan complete.</font>
Personal Log, Month four, day 15, Two years After Endor, Coruscant time.
She did the unthinkable today. I've been reported to the Imperial Crime Depot, and my perfect crimes couldn't possibly be unraveled by that rabble.
The reward in itself was of great enough prospect that she would forfiet all of our future takings for it. I called her. "Arson, murder, armed robbery! I did it all, all for you! You led me on! You set me up, and you dropped me like-" I'd said. There was more, but I won't bore you. Fact is, I'm doomed. I've got, at best, and hour to arrange some escape.
~Triss Genel Artur
Personal Log, date unspecified, Coruscant Time
I've been in this rathole for four years now. Every day, I get up at the crack of dawn, or what I beleive to be dawn. I don't get an ounce of light. I excersized daily at the start, but I learned quickly that the small amounts of nutrition in the mush the feed me is so absolutely minute that I can barely live on it, let alone trust it to nourish an active body.
I used to write my entries on the wall with all the blood I could spare, but the food has been so malnutritious that my body is to busy producing essential nutrients that hemoglobin is a luxury.
Life's not too bad, factoring out the sessions. Every day, after I've been fed, they talk to me. I'm losing my memory, and I'm not sure what's happening. I've been his with pangs of agony all over, and I'm begining to become suspicious of the parralel behavior of my aches and genocide, holocaust, and war.
I've stolen this computer, and I don't have long before they check me and find it. I've carved a small niche in which to hide the disk, at most. The computer, I'll throw into a neighbor's cell.
~Azure Level four, second spire, Designate Two-Four-Six-Oh-One
Personal Log, Ninth Month, First day, Twelve years After Endor, Coruscant time
Freedom is wonderful, and dont let anyone ever tell you otherwise. I've checked the files, and found everything. I was in there for a decade, or so the records say... And I found my actual name. Triss Genel Artur.
Obviously, this name won't function anymore. I've deleted the prison file, and my personal record... But I can't delete the memories of all the people I interacted with.
I've taken up the name Trist Genol Aren.
The files said other things. Things I won't strive to ponder.
I'm immensly out of shape. It will be hard to reach what was the zenith of my physique. I recovered the Disk, and I've burned it's contents back onto this datapad.
I'm going on a quest. I want to master these skills: the Force, they call it. There's a planet: Vjun. I'll begin there.
~Trist Genol Aren