Amaranth — Roleplayer Guild

Octavia let the man snatch the Lho-stick from her. It seemed to be natural to distrust even your fellow man in a place like this. It was much different from the Guard, where you had to trust the man or woman next to you with your life. This prison doctor seemed impartial to the chaos of all the inmates volunteering. In fact, when Octavia looked over at him with a furtive glance he seemed more interested in her scars. The whole scarred mass of tissue itched as he looked it over. She didn't much like people staring at the right side of her face, but naturally that's the one they did stare at on account of her eye and scars. She missed the full face gas mask of the Steel Legion. Maybe they would issue her one in the penal legion, if they did she'd practically sleep with it on. 

"Nasty bit of scarring, that." The Doctor observed, "You do that yourself or your cellmate?" 

How dare he! The things that did this to her face would make mulch out of anyone here! Octavia clenched her fist briefly before realising it was pointless. No one here had faced what she had faced and she couldn't explain it now, there was no point on taking it out on the ignorant. She relaxed her fist and pointed to the scar on her throat and made a hissing noise. With her pointer finger she spelled out 'xenos' in Low Gothic in the air. However she doubted that the man could read or write so it was probably a futile affair but maybe on the off-chance he could read... 

He reached his hand out and felt one of her scars. Octavia slapped his hand away, annoyed. Well at least he has balls, or no sense of personal space. Next person to touch her face was going to lose a finger, though.   

Eventually the call was made to shuffle into the shower wing for whatever reason. Octavia stood up and began to make her way with the mob of prisoners (probably more aptly conscripts at this point) down the slate grey corridor. A few prisoners resisted being moved and were 'urged' along with strikes or just pushed by the prisoners behind them. Eventually the rowdy queue was properly forced into single file. "Strip your jumpsuits off!" shouted a guard. Well, at least she knew why they were going to the shower wing now. Octavia stripped off her uniform reluctantly and left it on the ground with the rest of the discarded uniforms. Her body had its fair share of burns and scars and other marks but it was not nearly as scarred as her face. She rubbed her hands through her hair as she made her way through the gauntlet of freezing water. It had been sometime since she had shaved her head and so her hair was starting to become long enough to be considered pixie cut. It annoyed her but she had better wash it while she had the chance. 

Soaking wet and doing her best to stop shivering, she stepped into the next hallway, which was wider and filled with tables where guards were issuing equipment to the still-naked conscripts. Before she could begin collecting  her equipment however, a servitor asked her in a robotic voice, "Name and Crime." Obviously this was going to be a struggle. The Mute pointed to her throat scar but the servitor just stared blankly. Second, she opened her mouth and made a hissing noise, but still the servitor just stared and repeated the question. Finally a guard recognised her as a mute and found her in the database before waving her through. Lucky break.

First up was the clothing; Octavia took the helmet and stuck it on her head while she frantically tried to get the new jumpsuit on one-handedly. Unfortunately she was shoved along before she could get her arms through the sleeves so they hung limply at her side while she gathered her gas mask and inhaler. Thankfully next up was the rucksack. She quickly shoved all but the helmet (which was still on her head) and the flak vest (which wouldn't fit) into the rucksack. For the next few items she did her best to puzzle everything into place in her rucksack, after all this wasn't new to her, she had done this countless times before. Finally she made it to the end of the miscellaneous equipment gathering section, at which point she quickly stuck her arms through the sleeves of her jumpsuit, yet before she could zip it up she was shoved from behind into the next table. 

Apparently they didn't trust the conscripts enough to just hand them a weapon- and for good reason, about ten or fifteen people in front of Octavia the screech of a lasgun cut through the din of the crowd followed by a dull thump of the explosive detonating. One less disloyal traitor. Eventually it came Octavia's turn and she reluctantly let the guard put the collar on her. It was not uncomfortably heavy, but it would take some time getting used to. The Mute Conscript swung the rucksack over her shoulder again and moved on to the weapons table. She eagerly took the lascarbine and slapped a charge pack in before stuffing the rest into the rucksack. It had been too long since she used one of these, her sharpshooting skills were probably quite rusty. Forgetting all about zipping her jumpsuit past her bellybutton, Octavia cradled her new knives and lascarbine as she marched into the hangar. 

As soon as she was away from the crowd she set her rucksack and flak vest down and did a thorough inspection of her weapon, stopping just short of disassembling it and reassembling it with sacred oils. She did, however repeat a prayer (in her mind of course) of mending just for good measure. As a final step she tied her helmet to the outer pocket of the rucksack and then put the flak vest against her back to straighten out the uneven contents of the bag. Just as she finished her final preparations she heard her name called by a white-clad Arbite standing on one of the pads. Octavia made her way over to the assembly area on the pad at a brisk pace and saluted the man.

The taller twi'lek only seemed to take Shai's disinterest in petty insults as a sign of her agreement to play some childish game. Though her body language said "trained warrior," her outward appearance said "teenage girl." The Exile closed her eyes and tried to concentrate; to focus. It had been some time since she had tried to meditate and clear her mind. Quieting a troubled mind was something of a challenge, even to someone who was gifted in the Force, such as Shai. She tried to focus on repetitive actions like the noise of the Wookiee grinding away with the mortar and pestle. Unfortunately she kept getting distracted by the chatter from the Dug and the other twi'lek. They were busy talking away about fancy gadgets. 

Shai pulled up her hood to try and give her some shelter from the activities around her. She shut her eyes again and tried to concentrate. Was she trying to meditate or brood? She never thought that she'd become like those Sith Lords who spent seemingly endless amounts of time brooding by themselves. Yet here she was, sitting in a corner with her hood up like a petulant child. There it was again. Self-doubt. 

Deep breaths, Shai. Not brooding, meditating. 

For a few moments it worked. She could feel the Force within and without and she felt at peace. Nothing lasts forever though and she soon lost her concentration. Shai felt like an acolyte again, struggling to lift a training droid with the Force. Damn this! Shai wondered if Jedi ever struggled like she was. She knew some Sith could channel their anger into pure Force power, but that would never work for her. Her power came from her strength, her drive, her will. But without that, she had nothing. She reached a hand into her pocket and pulled out the bottom half of her lightsaber hilt. It was cut clean in two, the black metal melted around where the blade had bifurcated it. Why did she hold on to it? She didn't think anyone would be able to fix it and it certainly didn't serve any practical use, so why hang on to it? Nostalgia? A reminder? Shai didn't know. She did know she couldn't bring herself to get rid of it, even if someone might pay a few credits for it. 

Maybe she'd find a use for it.

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