Beyond - Legends Life and Limmie: Senator Tales (OC)

Part 23

TAGS to jcgoble3 Tim Battershell and Trieste

Gark looked at the old IronWorks building. It was a complete shack, like the brewery that he had recently had a hand in bringing down. No wonder Kinshry was hiding in a place like this. He was the mysterious villain who the Bothan figured liked to hide out of plain sight, instead of being a power-hungry wretch like Mornd who lived in a condo in a highrise. This place looked creepy from the outside, and likely was just as grimy and nasty on the inside. Old buildings like this were never cleaned, and that made for perfect Holo lairs. Except this was all too real. He remembered the status of the cell. It had been horrendous condition-wise.

He took a deep breath. His mind told him to run in there, guns blazing, trying to kill as many thugs as he could before they knew he was on them. But his conscience told him otherwise. It would be safer to play things by ear and to move silently. Nat was the covert expert on the team, so she likely would know how to start this mission out. Then they could turn it over to him, who could put quite a whooping down on any thugs they encountered. Tark could clean up the mess after both of them were done, so it was an effective outfit he had to work with.

Still, something lingered in the back of his mind. He didn’t like the situation here. Why had Kinshry come to talk to them face-to-face? Why hadn’t he just called over the comlink? He wanted to get up close and personal for some reason, and that had “trap” written all over it. But did he really have a choice at this point?

“What is the plan?” Tark asked. He was holding his helmet in one hand and cleaning it with a cloth using the other.

“We need to get in without being noticed, obviously,” Nat replied. “And then we may have to split up. I’m sure Kinshry has that place locked down tight, so we need to put as much pressure on the edges and push our way into the center. It’s like taking out a building. Take out the supports, and the rest of the thing gives way.”

“Kinshry will likely know we’re there before we can execute our plan,” Gark said. “That’s why I think splitting up is a bad idea. We don’t want to get caught in a corner and then forced to wait on the others for help when they’re half a building away.”

“The furred man makes sense,” Tark commented. “Perhaps splitting up is not such a good idea.”

“Fine, then. We’ll see what is going on in there and make it up as we go along,” Nat said, rolling her eyes.

“Then we need to proceed. I fear that the longer we wait, the more time Kinshry has to prepare his defenses,” Gark said. “We’ve put him on his back foot, and now like anyone will try to repel us when we try to press the advantage. Just like a good defensive Limmie play . . .”

“You and your game analogies,” Nat said as she moved forwards.

“Well excuse me for being a coach in my spare time,” Gark said bluntly as he followed in her stead. Tark then fell into line, and the three of them approached the old building. As they walked forward, the place began to loom even larger. It wasn’t huge, but it was not exactly tiny, either.

“This place could take forever to search, especially if there are hidden tunnels,” Nat said.

The three of them finally got to the side of the building. Nat put her ear to the building’s exterior, but the sounds from the city around them drowned out anything coming from inside. “Can’t hear a thing,” she muttered. “Then we’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.” She went over to a doorway, which was boarded-up in wood. The wood looked old, but on the touch still felt solid. Nat tapped the wood several times before taking a step back.

“What are you doing?” Gark inquired.

“Breaking . . .” Nat said. She unleashed a kick straight onto the wood. There was a loud splitting sound, and the wood fell through enough to open up a sizeable hole. Obviously she had hit the sweet spot. “ . . . and entering. So let’s go.” She entered the hole and then was gone from sight. Gark followed behind her, and Tark behind him.

It took several seconds for Gark to regain his bearings inside. The darkness of the room was only mitigated by the dying rays of sunlight coming in from the hole and from other boarded-up windows up above them.

“Where are we?” Gark finally asked.

“You tell me,” Nat said. “I’m night-blind, remember?”

“What?” Gark asked. What did she mean?

“We Hapans have a terrible genetic trait of being unable to see in the dark,” Nat said.

“That’s a new one,” Gark said.

“Just keep moving. If I can’t see, little good I am to the mission,” Nat said in a frustrated tone.

“I would offer to turn on my helmet lamp, but . . .” Tark began, but Nat shushed him.

“You hear that?” she whispered.

As a matter of fact, Gark had heard it too. It sounded like footsteps, and judging by the echoing in the room, it was getting closer. The Bothan drew the blaster off his belt, and then waited a few seconds. A dark shape emerged at the other end of the room, and then a voice rang out.

“Who’s there?” it asked in a gruff tone.

“Patrol. Can’t you tell?” Gark threw back, trying to sound legitimate.

“I am the patrol,” the gruff voice said. “Then you must not be with us.” The dark figure charged forward, now brandishing a blaster pistol. Nat couldn’t see in the dark, but she could hear the footsteps coming. She got down low and tripped the figure up. He landed on his face on the dusty old ground. Gark stood over the figure, blaster in hand, and then kicked the man’s weapon away. The pistol went clattering across the floor.

“Good work,” he commented to Nat.

“I think I can see a little better now,” the Hapan replied as she joined the other two. “Now, what do we do with him?”

“We need to kill him,” Tark said simply. “Cannot have him sound the alarm on us.”

“But he might be of some use to us,” Gark said quickly. “And he’s no good to us dead.” He reached down and flipped the man’s body over, still pointing the blaster at him. “Now, it’d be nice if you cooperate with us.”

“Over my dead body,” the thug said. He tried to spit into Gark’s face, but the spittle missed the Bothan and instead drilled Tark in the facemask. He wanted to kill the man for insulting him like this, but Gark held him fast.

“Well, since there are three of us, and one of you, you’re going to talk,” Gark said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well . . . Patricia . . . would you do the honors?” Gark asked. He used Nat’s fake name so that he didn’t give them away, just in case this thug was on a comlink with someone else without their knowledge. He had no idea what Kinshry was up to, and perhaps running a fake here could give them some extra breathing room?

“With pleasure,” the Hapan said. She moved forwards and then leaned down to the thug. Out from her suit came a small vial. “Truth serum,” she said. “Bavo Six, to be exact.”

“Where’d you get that?” the thug asked.

“I know a being who knows a being,” Nat said. She pulled out a small needle. Tark turned on his headlamp so that there was an eerie shadow on the needle in the midst of darkness. “Now, are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

“There’s nothing here,” the thug said quickly. The sound of his breathing was getting more rapid. “Just keep moving on.”

“I don’t think I can believe that,” Nat said. The needle came ever closer to the thug, and he finally blurted something out.

“Fine, fine, you win. If you want the boss, he’s not here, alright?”

“What do you mean ‘not here’?” Nat asked. “Of course he’s here.”

“What I mean is, the Iron Works is a front. There’s really nothing here. Now, if you look down on the lower levels . . .”

“Lower levels?” Gark asked.

“That’s what I said, smartass,” the thug replied. “There are plenty of lower levels to this place. But I can’t tell you how to find them . . .” Then he saw the needle get even closer, and he changed his mind. “OK, there’s a trap door near the furnace. Number 2, I think. It should say “2” on the side, you can’t miss it. Right next to it is a small trap door. If you open that up, it takes you to the lower levels. The old iron workers had that as an escape route in case things went bad.”

“What will we find down there?” Gark demanded.

“Nothing you want to know about,” the thug said. “The boss is going to kill me now that I’ve divulged the situation to you.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t need to know,” Tark said. He pulled out his blaster, and the thug wanted to wriggle away.

“Where are the prisoners?” Gark asked in a serious tone. He wanted to stall Tark for one more moment to see if he could pump this little bit of additional information from the prisoner.

“I . . . I don’t know. The boss only lets a few guards look after them. I didn’t even know we had any until yesterday . . . please don’t, I don’t know anything about them. Honest.”

“And you’re expecting us to believe you?” Nat asked snidely.

“Yes! I don’t know a damn thing about prisoners and where they are located! You will have to find them yourselves,” the thug said.

“Great, just what I didn’t need to hear,” Gark said. “Tark, you may do the honors.”

Then a blaster bolt rang out in the darkness, and everyone froze. More footsteps could be heard, but it sounded like more than one pair of feet.

“Look what you did,” the thug taunted. “Now you’re out of time.”

“I don’t think so,” Gark said. He raised his blaster and fired off into the darkness. He could hear a thud as a body presumably hit the floor. Several blaster shots flew out from another blaster out there in the darkness, but none of them came close to the four near the bashed-in doorway.

“Sorry saps couldn’t hit anything if they tried,” Nat said. Tark took quick aim and fired off in the direction of the blaster bolts. But there was a lack of a body hitting the ground this time, so he had likely missed his target.

Gark squeezed off another shot, but this one missed as well. Now the new figure was coming into sight, and took another shot. The bolt whizzed by Nat’s head and embedded itself in the wall. There was a creaking sound, and a piece of wall fell out of place. Now another spot of sun opened up in the dark. This gave Tark enough view to shoot the new thug dead on the spot, the body hitting the floor softly.

“Looks like your little rescue attempt failed,” Gark said.

“Not quite,” the thug said with a huge grin. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Over there!” came a gruff voice, and now more footsteps were heard. But it was more than two this time. It sounded like half a dozen easily.

“We need to move,” Tark said. “I’ll cover you.” Nat and Gark took off running in the opposite direction, and then the Mando looked down at this prisoner. “Sorry little wretch,” he said before killing the thug with a blaster shot to the head. Then he took off after his two fellows, trying to keep their backs covered as they ran through the darkness.

It was difficult to see where they were going, but Gark wasn’t willing to stop and have to duke it out with more of Kinshry’s thugs. Then he felt the ground give way underneath him, and he tumbled out into the darkness. He landed on several hard spots before coming to rest once again.

“You OK?” Nat’s voice came.

“No, of course not,” Gark said bitterly as he got up and dusted himself off. He then looked into the darkness to see a set of stairs. Obviously he had fallen quite a ways when he had no idea where he was going. Nat sounded like she had missed the stairs and was still at the top.

“Doesn’t matter. Are you still up here?” Nat asked.

“No, there are stairs. Look out!” Gark yelled.

Nat was still struggling to see in the darkness. This night-blindness was really detracting her, and she cursed at it for holding her back. She had forgotten how bad it could be, especially on a dangerous mission like this. Reaching out a hand, she felt the metallic presence of a guard rail. She quickly went down the flight of stairs, joining up once again with Gark. Tark ran down the stairs, each time he hit giving out a loud clanking sound. The thugs weren’t too far behind, so the three vigilantes tried to scatter.

Then the lights were turned on, and the whole room was bathed in bright light. Gark had to squint to see, but Nat was now comfortable in the presence of light, and Tark turned on a filter in order to be able to see clearly through his helmet. The two of them started forward, leaving Gark in the dust as he struggled to adjust.

Off in the distance, more thugs were visible. They were running around large furnaces and vats, weapons in hand. One of them let off a series of bolts using a reciprocating blaster cannon of some vintage, but Nat was able to dodge them by hiding behind an empty furnace. Judging by the amount of dust on its exterior, the furnace had not been used in some time. Tark went to join her, and Gark decided to stay low as he regained his eyesight.

“What now?” Nat asked.

“We blast our way out,” the Mando said. He gripped his blaster pistol tight. “On the count of three. One, two, THREE!” He then spun around the side of the furnace and began to blast away. The first bolt missed wide left, but the second found its target. The reciprocating blaster cannon blew up in the face of its operator, killing him. Nat grabbed her blaster and then dove out into the void, blasting away as she flew through the air in what felt like slow-motion. Two blasters hit home and killed thugs, who thought that they could hide away and take potshots from a distance.

Gark was now able to see what was going on, and he stayed low as the sounds of blaster fire filled his ears. Nat finished her dive and then scooted over to join him. Tark, meanwhile, kept standing up and firing.

“He certainly has courage,” Nat said.

“Yeah, but it’s probably going to get him killed,” Gark replied. Then he looked back to see the first of the thugs from up above come down the stairs that he had fallen down. “Six baddies behind us!” he said.

Nat whipped around to see the newcomers. A bolt angrily shot out of her blaster and shot the leader dead on the spot. Gark mowed down two more, but then a blaster bolt whizzed by his head, and he fell back into the small metal object he had been leaning against. This took him out of the equation momentarily, but Nat kept firing. Another thug went down with a shot to the leg, leaving two more.

Tark, meanwhile, had his hands full. More thugs seemed to pop up from out of the woodwork to fire their weapons at him. A grenade landed nearby, and he had to jump to safety in order to not be caught in its blast radius. The weapon detonated, and pieces of shrapnel went everywhere. Gark found that a small sliver of metal landed in the vessel behind him, but since nothing was stored in in anymore, there was nothing that came down on top of him.

“We need to leave this party soon,” Nat commented as she fired and missed another thug.

“Where does he get all these thugs?” Gark wondered as he propped himself back up.

“Work now, ask questions later,” Nat reprimanded him as she took another shot. This one went home and killed the thug. Now there was just one left. Gark took a shot and finished off the last one. Then he took a sigh of relief, even if just for a moment.

“I have a feeling that this is just the beginning,” he said.

“I hate it when you say that,” Nat replied.

“That makes two of us,” the Bothan quipped.

---

Binn Kinshry was not in a good mood. First off, his assassination attempt two days earlier had been foiled, and then he had found out that one of his criminal associates in the lower levels of government was no longer interested in working for him. He would have to deal with this upstart later, but for now he had a job to get done. Superbothan and his cohorts were likely planning a full-scale assault on him, so he had to be ready for that.

He went down the stairs to the prisoner’s lair. Perhaps he could get the guards to whip the prisoners once more for his personal enjoyment, hear their screams of terror and anguish as he stood nearby, witnessing the spectacle. There was something about pain that fascinated him. How the brain could process that feeling and make it so uniquely harmful, yet captivating, all in one thought, one feeling. He loved to dish out pain to his enemies, and this would be no different.

However, as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his mood didn’t get any better. There were no guards standing outside the door, like he had ordered them to days before. Why didn’t anyone ever listen to his commands anymore, he pondered as he went swiftly to the door. Perhaps they were inside doing some of their trademark torment of the prisoners? He had heard of exploits of these guards, and almost found it completely amusing. Young thugs interested in wanton sexual desires . . . what a mere trifle. He didn’t let that foolish pursuit dog him. No, he had other things planned.

As soon as he opened the door, a foul stench was introduced to his nostrils. It reeked of death, a smell he had become accustomed to over the years. There was likely a body in here; someone had died. Perhaps the prisoners had finally expired, and were now truly rotting away in the cell. He entered the room expecting to see this, but instead was met with a completely different view. The two guards who were supposed to be on duty were lying on the ground, motionless. A quick smell check identified that they were dead.

But how could that be, Kinshry wondered. Had they killed themselves? Surely the prisoners couldn’t have done this? He looked over to the cell. From here, he could see the bony body of Me’lin S’rily still moving up and down with her breathing motions. How was this possible? Could the prisoner, who was barely alive as she lay against the wall, have possibly done all this damage by herself?

A wave of rage consumed Kinshry. He wanted to kill the woman and her wretched little child right here on the spot. What had bothered him through this whole process was not experiencing an urge to kill them lest S’rily get even more enraged and come after him with a renewed sense of vigor. Killing them now seemed like a good idea, because then he would be right about their deaths after all. He had to finish them off. They had done the impossible, killing two of his guards, and now they were going to pay the price.

He lifted a knife off the belt of one of the thugs, and was ready to go across the room and strike. The Twi’lek wouldn’t see it coming, and would be dead before she knew it. The little Bothan boy would soon join his mother in death.

Then his communicator rang. He cursed his luck and then answered it.

“Uh, boss, we’ve got a situation,” said the thug on the other end of the line.

“What kind of situation?” Kinshry asked.

“We’ve got the masked man in here with a buckethead and a mysterious woman. They’re killing our security forces right and left. Permission to proceed with the next step of the defense plan?”

“Permission granted,” Kinshry said. “I will be up there to lead the charge myself.”

“Very good, sir.”

Kinshry scowled and threw the knife down on the floor. He didn’t have time to kill the prisoners now. That would have to wait until Superbothan and his friends were dead. Right now, the prisoners were of little concern, because they weren’t exactly going anywhere. Now was his chance to finish off the meddlesome Bothan once and for all.

 

And here goes the heroic rescue. But what is this "next step of the defense plan"?

 

Part 24

TAGS to the usual suspects, Tim Battershell and jcgoble3

Gark dodged a shot as he ran towards the large furnace with a ‘2’ on the side. The thug upstairs had said that this was the place he wanted to go in order to find this trap door. He had no idea if the man was telling the truth or not, but he was likely dead now anyways, so there was no going back and asking him. That was the annoying thing about this line of work. If your informant got killed, you were screwed unless you could find another sap to pump information from.

When he got to the furnace, he plastered his back to the metal as he tried to catch up on breathing. His eyes looked around frantically for the trap door. If might be hidden, he reasoned as he looked. But there it was, in plain sight on the floor with a metal handle on top of it. The only problem was that its location was in sight of the shooters, wherever they were. The Bothan hadn’t stuck around long enough to see where the thugs were.

Nat finally joined him behind the furnace, and another blaster bolt embedded itself into the metal behind them. “Wouldn’t be a Superbothan mission without a little bit of action,” the Hapan remarked.

“The trap door is right there,” Gark said, pointing. Nat followed his finger to the spot. “Only problem is that we need to get to it without being hit by the crossfire.”

“Then I’ll have to cover you long enough to get the door open, and then I can slip inside to join you,” Nat replied. “We only have one shot at this.”

Gark took a deep breath. For this to work out, he would need to have nerves of steel. This was a battle situation, and being weak-nerved could mean his undoing. Swallowing hard, he placed his blaster on his utility belt and made a run for it. Nat stepped out from behind the furnace and started to blast away with the two weapons she had. The thugs noticed that their targets were on the move and continued to focus their fire on that spot. A shot whizzed by Nat’s hair, causing a slight singe smell to reach her nostrils.

“Hurry up!” she barked.

Gark ran to the trap door and pulled up on the handle. The handle didn’t want to be pulled up, but with enough strength finally opened itself. Using the trap door as a makeshift shield, Gark took a quick breath and then dove feet-first into the pit below.

He landed on what felt like a ladder, only a few feet down. He could still see the ceiling of the factory up above from the trap door’s opened lid, the blaster bolts flying everywhere.

“Nat, come on!” he urged.

Nat, realizing that her furry compatriot had gotten in safely, made a beeline for the door. The thugs were coming in hot on her position, and she needed to get out of here quickly.

Gark felt a tug on his leg. He looked down to see a thug attached to his leg, trying to pull him off the ladder. The Bothan sent out a mighty kick that pushed the thug out of sight into the darkness, with a thump! audible a few feet below. At least it wasn’t a deep drop, Gark thought to himself.

But the hand he had on the door slipped, and the door itself closed on him. Now he couldn’t see anything through the dull metal door. “Nat! It closed!”

“Dammit!” Nat swore when she saw the door get closed. She ran over to the handle and began to tug on it, but a blaster bolt flew by and nailed the handle’s edge. Nat withdrew her hand as she felt some of the energy pulsing through her body, which was momentarily disorienting. When she recovered, she saw that the handle and the door had been fused. It was impossible to open it using the handle now.

Now the thugs were getting even closer. Nat banged on the door, but Gark couldn’t open it from below. The door just wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck!” he yelled out.

Nat knew she had no time. She raised back up and ran for cover. Somehow she made it back to the furnace, but now she was trapped. “Um, Tark, a little help here?” she asked nervously.

“On my way,” the Mando said. He rocketed out of the air and began to blast away at the thugs. This crossfire was enough to clear the way. He then joined the Hapan behind the furnace. “What is the plan?” he asked.

“Not to get killed,” Nat replied. “But the door is fused, we can’t get in without help from down below.”

“We could blow it,” Tark offered.

“We might take half of this equipment with us if we do that,” Nat reprimanded him. “Besides, if a stray bolt hits where it’s not supposed to, then we could explode right here into tiny pieces.”

“Point taken,” Tark said.

“The door is locked. I can’t get it open,” Gark said over the communicator.

“Hold on. We’re working on it,” Nat said. She reached out to fire off a bolt at a thug, but missed wide.

“Not a good shot,” Tark commented.

“Not the time for that,” Nat said angrily. “But how do we get down there?”

“Worry about that later,” Tark said. He pointed to the number of thus approaching their position. “We first need to take care of them.”

“Go on without us,” Nat said to Gark over the comm. “We’ll catch up when possible.”

“All right,” Gark said. He was disappointed, but knew that he had to act now. The longer he was standing her waiting, the more time Kinshry would have to come up with a plan. He had to act, and he had to act now. Going down the remaining steps on the ladder, he finally hit the bottom and could feel the body of the thug that he had just taken out. It was pitch dark down here, so he would have to tread carefully.

It seemed like he was walking for several minutes, his footsteps echoing around the walls that he could not see. There may have been water dripping into a small pool somewhere, but there was no telling where that might have been occurring. All Gark could hear was his own breathing. It was like in those horror Holos, where you knew that someone was going to get it when they were stuck out in a dark place with no sounds around them. Knowing Kinshry, he had likely studied those to great effect. Why did villains have to be so psychotic?

Then a light flicked on. It wasn’t more than a lighter flame, but Gark followed the light up to Kinshry’s face.

“Hello,” the bald man said in his typical tone.

“Kinshry, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” Gark said, gritting his teeth.

“I don’t think I understand that notion,” Kinshry retorted. “In fact, it is patently untrue. Because, Mr. S’rily, it is you who is going to pay for what you have done. You escaped my trap for the Senator, you messed up my second attack on his life, you blew up my spice factory . . . and now you’re attempting to do the same to my headquarters. I cannot allow you to succeed again.”

“Just watch me,” Gark said.

“And what are you going to be watching, exactly?” Kinshry asked. In the silent darkness, Gark could hear a slight whooshing sound. It was as if . . . it couldn’t be, could it? “Perhaps you are going to be watching more of me than you intend to.”

Finally Gark realized that gas was seeping into the space. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t smell it, and couldn’t taste it. But his head began to swim, and his eyes strained to try and focus. Something was happening; he was losing control. When his eyes came back to normal, Kinshry’s figure outlined by the lighter’s flame had now popped up in another part of his vision. Now he could see two Binn Kinshry’s in his line of sight, not one. What in the hell was going on?

“You are probably seeing what this gas does?” both Kinshry’s said in unison. “It disorients its target, to see double, triple, or even more iterations of what they normally would view. It’s a remarkable invention, I must admit.”

Now Gark could see four Kinshry’s in his vision. He tried to close his eyes, tried to clear his head. But when his eyes flicked open once again, all he could see were those same four bald heads staring straight at him with that malevolent grin. What was going on? This gas was something like he had never experienced before, a complete mental vacation as his eyes raced and tried to process this ludicrous sight.

And now a sense of terror was creeping into his mind. This wasn’t normal. Kinshry hadn’t moved, but the sheer number of his images was wearing on the Bothan’s mind. What was Kinshry going to do now that he had the upper hand, and who knew what more this gas could do? He developed a cold sweat, his body growing antsier by the second. His breathing sped up, and it felt like he was losing all control of his body.

“You look pathetic,” Kinshry said. “But I expected nothing less than the ‘hero’ you claim to be. You may have defeated many enemies in your time, but none of them knew how to really defeat you. They tried to kill you first, but that is an obvious mistake. In order to defeat a great opponent, one must make a perfect first move. Instill fear in their mind that they are going to lose before they make their first move. Once they doubt themselves, they begin to make mistakes. When they make mistakes . . . I move in for the kill.

Gark spun around in the darkness, trying to get Kinshry’s voice to stop echoing in his head. But all he could see were more Kinshry figures behind him. His eyes flitted back and forth, trying to get those images out of his sight. But they could not leave him alone. They continued to bombard him with their cruel smiles, their booming voices, and the terror he had in his mind.

Kinshry just smiled again. This plan was working even better than he had originally thought. He had the Bothanman disoriented beyond belief now, and that was exactly what he needed in order to strike. Pulling a knife from his belt, he moved forwards into the darkness towards Gark. The Bothan didn’t offer any resistance; he didn’t know what was going on.

“Time for you to die, Mr. S’rily,” Kinshry said, that same wicked smile on his face.

Gark heard these words, but he didn’t know what to do about it. All of the Kinshry’s were talking to him at once, the cacophony of their voices battering his mental forces. His head was beginning to swim again, and he couldn’t tell anything straight. What could he do? There was nowhere to go, because he didn’t know which figure was the real one, and which were fakes. A move towards any of them could prove to be fatal, because he had no idea what Kinshry was planning next.

“One false move by an opponent is all that is necessary. Such a pity that you never got to take yours,” Kinshry said.

Gark turned around, his eyes completely glazed by this point. He could vaguely tell that one Kinshry was in front of the others, but he couldn’t move. It felt like he was rooted in place, unable to move, unable to scream for help, and unable to know anything except that he was going to die.

Then he felt his body forced into a back wall, the force of the impact enough to rattle his addled brain. Kinshry now stood in front of him, knife at the ready. But Gark didn’t have the fortitude to do anything. All he could do was lash out with his head, which was still swimming in the ocean of disorientation. It was his head falling forwards as he tried to keep it upright.

His head connected with Kinshry’s, and the bald man yelped out in pain. Suddenly Gark’s mind cleared; either the gas was dissipating, or that hit had cleared his senses. He had survived that threat. Now the Kinshry clones were disappearing from his eyesight. Only one Binn KInshry stood in front of him, and he was smarting from that hit. He had to act now.

Gark sent out a punch towards where he figured Kinshry was, but missed it as the bald man easily ducked.

“You fight like an old woman,” Kinshry mocked him.

“Come here and fight me like a man, then, coward,” Gark challenged.

“But my dear boy, that is not my strong suit. I cannot match your strength or agility. So I must once again bend the rules,” Kinshry said. He took two steps backwards to get out of Gark’s effective punching or kicking range and then pressed another button.

The sound of gas seeping in filled the room once more. “Another dose should do it,” he said.

Gark knew he didn’t have enough time to spare. He didn’t know what kind of gas this was, but it likely wasn’t harmless. The last one had nearly gotten him killed, so this one would probably be more of the same. But what to do? Kinshry was out of reach, and he was still a little woozy from the last gas cloud.

“Say good night,” Kinshry said.

Gark lunged forward, but fell onto the hard ground in front of him. Kinshry just laughed again. “That is all you can come up with? It’s a wonder anyone thinks you’re worth it.”

Gark was incensed. He wasn’t going to put up with any more of Kinshry’s taunts. He lunged out again, this time clipping the bald man’s leg as he passed. Kinshry hit the ground hard, the lighter that he had been holding up also nailing the ground and going out with a wisp of smoke. Now the darkness was prevalent in the room once more, just the sound of the gas keeping it from being silent. Gark placed part of his suit over his mouth nose, which proved to be difficult because of his snout. The time it didn’t pay to be a Bothan, he thought as he did so. Now one hand would have to be up on the suit the whole time, which would further complicate matters. And that’s if he survived this next wave of gas.

In the dark Kinshry could not see. His eyes were unable to adapt to the light, and he knew that the gas could easily overcome him as well. He hadn’t foreseen that the Bothan would escape the first gas wave, and now he would be fighting the gas as well as the hero. That would complicate things. But he still had the upper hand. If nothing else, he could run away. He knew the tunnel networks better than anyone alive. He could bide his time and then kill the Bothan when it was most convenient. Even if he somehow managed to stumble upon his family, there was little he could do. Kinshry was going to hunt him down and kill him soon enough. The only question was when that moment would be.

Gark stood up, the suit still masking his face as he drew in ragged breaths. He had to try and fight off this gas, whatever it took. He was on a mission, and could not be distracted. His success here was paramount. There was no room for error, just perfection. Somewhere sat Kinshry, downed in the darkness. Gark tried to reach out and find his opponent, but only grabbed empty air.

Kinshry got up and fled to the back of the room, where he knew that he had the advantage of a safety door. He slammed the door behind him, trapping the Bothan inside with the gas. “Not so powerful now, are you?” he asked.

Gark could barely hear these words over the sound of the gas. It was intensifying now, and his mind began to swim again. He needed a plan, and soon.

---

“We don’t have a choice. Can’t let him wander alone down there for too long,” Nat said. She squeezed off a shot that killed a thug.

“Hold them off for a few seconds,” Tark said. Nat did so, and the Mando rolled a grenade towards the fused door. One of the thugs realized what the small metal ball was and fired at it, but that just made the situation worse for him. The detonator exploded prematurely, but it wasn’t a controlled explosion. Instead, it was a detonation, and all sorts of energy was unleashed. The trap door was blown off its hinges, and part of the floor was razed, the old tiles melting into nothingness. A thug was caught in the blast zone and was instantly incinerated. Nat and Tark barely made it out safely, and Nat knew that it had been too close for comfort. One of the large furnaces, now missing some of its floor supports, groaned under the pressure and fell through the weakened floor to the tunnels below.


“Now’s our chance. Go!” Nat yelled. The two of them dove towards where the trap door had been, and before the thugs knew it, the two vigilantes had disappeared into the catacombs below.

 

Kinshry has a rather unique style. He knows he can't win in a straight fight, so he uses other tricks instead. Gark needs to figure out a plan fast; he's not used to this.

 

Part 25

TAGS to Tim Battershell, jcgoble3 and Trieste (if you haven't read Part 24, you should read that now )



Gark couldn’t breathe. Whatever the gas was, it was beginning to choke him. Kinshry must have sealed off the chamber’s exit, he thought, but how could he break through and keep up the pursuit? He felt weaker with every passing moment, the air in his lungs diminishing with each breath. It wouldn’t be long until he passed out, and then soon after he would die of oxygen starvation. What a horrible way to go out, he thought.

Then he could hear a muffled blast, and the entire room shook. He couldn’t see the walls in the dark, but he could hear them creaking and groaning. All of a sudden, there was a loud crashing sound, and something broke through the ceiling and hit the floor, spread dirt and dust around everywhere. Gark spluttered and hacked as he tried to get away from the object, whatever it was. The gas wasn’t the only thing he had to deal with now.

Gark finally reached the chamber wall and pounded on it three times. He knew that no one could hear him, but it was worth a try, wasn’t it? He was slipping away, barely able to stand. The gas was taking its toll on him, and exacting a heavy price. So this was how it was going to end, was it? Calo Mornd couldn’t do it. Mane hadn’t done it. Binn KInshry hadn’t defeated him with some ingenious plot, just poisonous gas. It was likely his body would never be recovered. No one would know his final resting place down here. It was high crime at its finest, never leaving a body to study.

“Over here!” came a voice. Gark listened out in the darkness. That voice sounded familiar . . .

Then he could feel his body give way, and he tumbled down to the ground. His air was basically gone now, and his breathing had slowed down to barely above minimum levels during deep sleep. He could feel his body slipping into unconsciousness.

Then something metal was slapped on his mouth, and the air that he needed suddenly whooshed back into his body. His vital organs began to churn again, and he weakly opened his eyes. Crouching above him were Nat and Tark, Nat touching the metal device on his face. “You’re just lucky we found you,” she said. “Tark thinks there’s gas in here.”

“I . . . know. I almost . . . died of it,” Gark said slowly, trying to get his breath back.

“Then we don’t have much time,” Nat said. She didn’t have a breathing mask for herself. She had given Gark hers, and was now defenseless against the gas. “I only have that one mask. One of us has to go without.”

“But you’ll die,” Tark said.

“Then let’s blow this thing open in a minute or two so I don’t have to,” the Hapan snapped. “Now, what are we dealing with?”

“Looks like . . . standard duracrete chamber. Should be flexible,” Tark commented as he surveyed the walls with his light.

“Then we rig the thing to blow,” Nat commented.

“Could be . . . unstable,” Gark said. Now his life was coming back, and he sat up.

“The furred man has a point,” Tark replied. “If we blow this whole wall, it may come down on us.”

“What about the door, then?” Nat asked. She reached out and tried to find the door using her hands. “What if we blow a hole in that and escape?”

“The door . . . don’t know where it is,” Gark said.

“Over there,” Tark said, pointing. The other two could vaguely see his gloved hand as it pointed to a spot on the wall. Nat reached that spot and felt around in the darkness. She could tell that there was a door here . . . but there was no latch.

“There’s no latch. It’s solid,” she reported.

“Hm, then we need to blow the whole thing,” Tark said. “Stand back.” Nat did so, and the armored man drew a charge from his belt. “Activate it, and then run,” he said. Nat caught the charge, which was a miracle in the dark, and then activated it. She was starting to feel the effects of the gas and the dust that were present in the room, but her mind pushed those out as she worked. This was a very important step. If she didn’t succeed, then she was dead. She placed the charge and then ran for cover.

Seconds later, the charge exploded. The door was blasted off its hinges, flying into the alcove behind it and smashing on the wall. The walls of the chamber shuddered once again, and the three vigilantes knew that it might not be stable. “Get moving, before the walls fall!” Tark ordered. Gark, now able to breathe easier, jumped to his feet and ran out the door, closely followed by Tark. Nat dusted herself off and followed the other two. They had escaped the gas.

Now they were standing in a small hallway, a grimy old light the only thing other than Tark’s head lamp to show them the way. Before them was a door, dirty and dusty as could be. Next to it was a smaller hatch, but it looked like they could fit through it if necessary.

“It’s time we end this,” Gark said. He took off the breathing device and handed it to Nat. “I’m going in there. If things go well, I’ll signal you and we can proceed. However, if things go poorly, I want you two to follow me in there. If Kinshry is lurking, I want to make sure we surprise him.”

“I doubt we can surprise him,” Nat said. “

“Don’t be so sure,” Gark said. “Just follow me in there, OK? Watch my back.” He opened up the door and disappeared.

“I just hope he knows what he’s doing,” Tark commented.

“Knowing him, he probably doesn’t,” Nat said with a snort.

Gark closed the door behind him and looked out at the desolate room. He recognized this place. It was the same room he had been in when Kinshry and his thugs had captured him. He had found Nat to be a traitor in this room. How things had come full-circle since he was here, he thought. Then he noticed something on the floor, covered in a blanket or jacket, he couldn’t quite tell. His curiosity peaked, and he went over to check on the item. It could be a body, he noted, and if it was Kinshry, then he could exact some damage.

As soon as he reached the jacket, he heard a whirring sound, and looked up. He had just walked into a trap; how typical. Crimson-red ray-shields appeared around him, blocking him from going anywhere. He reached out with a hand, but the crackling of the shields shocked him slightly, and he pulled his hand back. Yep, this was going to be a tough nut to crack.

Binn Kinshry appeared in the corner, with six thugs arrayed around the room with weapons drawn. “Ah, so glad to see that you fell for my little trap,” he said. When Gark could see him fully, the Bothan noticed that Kinshry had the same explosives-laden jacket on that he had been using to keep he and the other two at bay after the second Kluun assassination attempt. Why he liked that thing, Gark had no idea. Seemed rather stupid.

“You’re just lucky I fell for it, and didn’t slit your throat,” Gark said with a sneer.

“My dear boy, I don’t think you understand what game you are playing,” Kinshry shot back. “For an example, just look underneath the jacket.”

Gark warily reached down and moved the jacket off the floor. To his horror, he found a detonator underneath it, with a red clock that was counting down. He had three minutes to live before it would blow him into a million pieces.

“You have now seen my little game,” Kinshry said smoothly. “And it’s time for you to play it. Do you try to deactivate the thing? You could, but snip the wrong wire and it won’t matter how much time you have left on the clock. Do you call for help? You’re ray-shielded, so there’s nothing that can get in or out. If you think your friends can help you, think again. Because I have the trigger for the detonator right here in my hand,” he said, holding out a thumb trigger switch. “One press of the button, and you are all but a memory.”

“You are a cruel man, Kinshry,” Gark said, gritting his teeth. Where were Nat and Tark when he needed them?

“How I love it when my victims say that,” Kinshry said with that same evil smile he seemed to adore. He waved his hands, and the thugs moved in closer to the ray-shielded spot. “Now let’s see how you like torture on top of your imminent death . . .”

One of the thugs deactivated the ray-shields, bringing an eerie quiet to the room. Then the thugs charged forwards, one of them hitting Gark with a stun baton. The Bothan yelped out in pain as he hit the ground, shivering from the force of the weapon. The thugs were surrounding him, ready to kill.

Then he could see a flash of red pop into view. Nat jumped into action and attacked Kinshry where he stood. The bald man looked mildly surprised when the Hapan jumped him, but easily fended her off as she tried to rip the explosives jacket off his person. She could easily beat him in a straight-up fight, but this was a foolproof plan. Besides, she was struggling to take the jacket off, which let him beat her around. Finally he punched her in the face, and she went down to the ground, where two thugs picked her up and hit her to keep her down.

“So you really thought you come back and defeat me, Ms. Patrovish,” Kinshry said. “How adorable. I bet you and Mr. S’rily had a wonderful, torrid affair under the terms of our bargain. But all for naught. He didn’t give in, and you, the wonderfully charming, but oh-so naïve, little girl came running after him. And now you will die with him.”

“We’ll see about that,” Nat said, spitting on the ground. Kinshry moved his hand, and the thugs dragged Nat over to where Gark was, and then the ray-shields were activated to trap them. Two minutes left, Gark could see when he had enough time to get his bearings back.

“We only have two minutes to live,” Gark said. Nat didn’t reply, looking down at something shiny in her hand. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it had come from Kinshry’s suit. It looked . . . strangely familiar . . .

“Two minutes and counting,” Kinshry taunted.

“What do you want from us, anyways?” Gark asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? I want to kill you,” Kinshry replied. “You know too much. And I can’t have that.”

“Wait, we may not be finished yet,” Nat whispered.

“What?” Gark asked.

“Passing secrets? I just love watching this,” Kinshry said twistedly.

Something made a thumping sound, but no one could tell what it was. The eerie silence returned immediately thereafter. “Nothing,” a thug said to his companion.

“Now tell me. Where is the buckethead?” Kinshry asked.

“What buckethead?” Nat asked.

“The one you have been toting around like a prize,” Kinshry said, now frowning. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nat said. She hoped Tark was making his move.

“I’m sure you do. And you’re going to tell me right now. Release the shields!” Kinshry yelled.

But the next sound wasn’t of the shields disappearing. A blast rocked the wall, and Sony Tark emerged from a back room, a small joystick in his hand. “Looking for me?” he asked. A thug charged him, but the Mando popped him in the head, and the thug hit the ground, his weapon skittering on the floor.

“There you are,” Kinshry said. “I was especially hoping to beat you down like your friends.”

“That won’t be happening,” Tark challenged.

Gark checked the detonator. 1 minute until he and Nat were blown into bits.

“I guess we shall find out,” Kinshry taunted. The thugs started to move into position to attack Tark, but he stood his ground admirably.

“Now, what would that be in your hand?” Kinshry asked. “It’s not a bomb, I hope? Because you must realize that if you detonate something in here, all of us will die, you included. And I don’t think you want that.”

“You are correct, it is not a bomb,” Tark said.

“I know what this is,” Nat whispered to Gark as she held up the small metal item she had been studying. “Now we need to see if Tark figures out what he needs to do.”

“He needs to hurry up, because we don’t have much time left,” Gark replied.

“Then what is it?” Kinshry asked.

“You seem to have forgotten that your ray-shields are only good when they are activated,” Tark said. He thumbed the button, and the shields disappeared. Kinshry realized that the armored man had taken his ray-shield device from one of the thugs. That explained everything. Now the prisoners were loose, and could take out his thugs. He had not seen this coming, so he stood there for a second, dumbfounded. This plan had been foolproof! He reached down to take off his explosives jacket and throw it at the prisoners whilst activating them, but then he noticed that his detonator was gone.

“Oi, Kinshry!” Nat yelled as she sprang free from the spot where she and Gark had just been trapped. “You forgetting your detonator device?” She held up the small metallic object that she had torn off Kinshry’s jacket.

Kinshry realized that he had no choice here. He had to get the detonator back, whatever the cost. If the Hapan thumbed the trigger, he would explode. So he launched himself forwards, trying to catch the Hapan off-guard. The other thugs started to fight, and Gark found himself hit with another stun baton. He crumpled to one knee on the force of impact, but then rammed the thug’s legs and caused him to flip over. Nat dropped the detonator next to the charge, which now read fifteen seconds on its timer. Kinshry could have the device, because she would be long gone by the time it went off.

Tark elbowed a thug in the face, and the man hit the ground. He now knew what he had to do; it was all spelled-out for him.

Kinshry lunged out and grabbed the detonator. Now he was safe from being blown to bits. But when he moved his head, he saw the charge. He had been played. His jaw dropped; the master of innovation had somehow been bested. Tark thumbed the trigger switch, and the ray-shields popped up again just in time. Kinshry was trapped.

Then the timer hit zero.

A tremendous explosion rocked the whole room, and Nat was knocked off her feet by its force. But nothing happened to the room because the shields took the brunt of the hit and didn’t allow anything through. Kinshry had been exact in their strength, the Hapan thought as she looked at the spot where KInshry had been moments before. Now there was nothing but a hole in the floor where the charge had been; Kinshry had been blown to smithereens, along with his suicide jacket and detonator.

The thugs were stunned. Their boss was dead? They started to scramble for the exit, but the three vigilantes had other ideas. Tark punched one thug in the face, Gark bullrushed another one and dumped him over, and Nat smacked another in the groin before finishing him off with a haymaker to the head. All of the thugs were now on the ground unconscious or dazed.

“Slick move you pulled there, Tark,” Nat commented. “I never would’ve come up with that solution.”

“It is a good thing for both of you that I am resourceful,” Tark said smugly.

But Gark didn’t listen to their banter. He breathed in deeply twice to clear his head. The fight was over. They had won. Now, if he could only find the remains of his family . . . only then could he truly be done with this battle. He moved over to a door on the far side, and opened it carefully. No thugs popped out, and he soldiered on. Tark and Nat were close on his heels, not sure what he was looking for but covering his back anyway.

Now Gark was in the room he had been tortured in. He could almost feel the pain he had then course through his veins. Hopefully those thugs had been killed in this fight, and would never be able to repeat their deeds to anyone. Beyond this room was a small staircase. Gark descended it, and it led to a small landing and another door, this one large.

“We need to go in,” he said.

“Fine. I will go first,” Tark said. He held his blaster up and then bashed the lock with his armored glove. The lock fell off, and he pushed the door open. He entered the room, ready to shoot at anyone and anything that moved. His sensors were telling him that there was a stench here, and he toggled his filters on to keep the air clean.

Nat charged in after him, and held her posture to keep Tark covered. She found two dead guards on the ground; from the smell their corpses gave off, they had been dead for several days, if not weeks.

“It’s all safe in here,” she said.

Gark came third into the room. The stench of the bodies entered his nostrils, and he was revolted by it. Two dead guards lay on the floor. This room seemed . . . familiar.

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Over there,” Nat said, pointing.

Gark whipped around. He could see a cage, with two bodies inside. They looked lean, but he knew those bodies anywhere. It was his family. He rushed over to the cage and, using his blaster, smashed the lock. The cell door swung open, and Gark got inside. The first thing he did was peel Me’lin’s limp body away from the wall. She was still breathing, Gark could tell as he tried to take an analysis of the situation. “Lin . . . can you hear me?” he asked.

“Hm . . .?” the Twi’lek asked weakly. She looked up at the person who had just spoken . . . she was weak . . . wait, was that? It couldn’t be!

“Gark . . .?” she finally asked.

“Yes, it’s me,” Gark said.

Now Me’lin could tell that it was Gark who was talking to her. She could now see him, the cloudiness in her eyes having dissipated. He was wearing his supersuit, and despite being grimy, looked fine. The Twi’lek leaned forward, and Gark embraced her in a huge hug.

“I thought . . . I thought you were dead,” Gark said. He was relieved to see his wife alive.

“I thought the same about you,” Me’lin said. “Kinshry . . . wanted to kill you.”

“He’s dead now. The nightmare is over,” Gark said. Me’lin just rested her head on Gark’s chest as he crouched next to her. She wanted to cry, but her body was so dry that it hurt to do that. But she did anyways; it hurt every step of the way, but things were going to be alright.

“Galin . . .” Gark said. He looked up to see his son not too far away from Me’lin’s side. The young boy looked up.

“Daddy!” he said excitedly. He looked weak, but seeing his father gave him an untapped source of energy.

“Come here,” Gark said. Galin moved over and Gark made sure to ruffle the boy’s fur. “You don’t look so bad,” the elder S’rily said.

“Bad men?” Galin asked.

“They’re gone,” Gark said. “You can go home now.”

“Home!” Galin said, a smile appearing on his face. “I’m going home! I’m going home!”

---

The rest of the day and the next one were a blur for all three S’rilys. Gark got his family home for the first time in months, and both of them were in terrible shape. So he painstakingly helped both of them bathe, Me’lin first. It was difficult to help clean her off, because she was still weak from the ordeal, but he did so anyways. When she was clean, he helped her to bed, and then made sure that she was comfortable before starting in with Galin. The boy had more energy, and was easier to clean. Gark put his son to bed as well, and then stood in the kitchen. It was like he was living a dream; his family was weakened, but not out of it. He quickly prepared some soup and then fed Galin. The young boy smiled when he finished his food.

“Hey, champ. Get some rest, OK?” Gark asked. Galin didn’t need a second request, as he fell asleep immediately, pulling the covers up to his chin. Gark quietly cleaned up the dish and then closed his son’s bedroom door. He had a second bowl of soup for Me’lin, so he grabbed this and went into their bedroom. The Twi’lek looked up weakly as he entered.

“I know you weren’t fed very well, so this may not go down so well the first day,” Gark said as he prepared a spoon with soup on it. “But bear with me, please. I’ll get you back to tip-top shape.”

“Thanks,” Me’lin said. The next five minutes saw Gark feeding her a spoonful at a time. It wasn’t much food, but Gark didn’t want to feed his family too much too fast. Terrible things could happen to a digestion system if there was no pattern to a diet over time.

When the soup was gone, Gark placed the empty bowl and spoon on the bedside table and then just looked at Me’lin, who shared the gaze. “How’re you feeling?” he asked calmly.

“I’ve felt better,” Me’lin said.

“Things are going to be alright. Don’t worry about it,” the Bothan replied.

“It’s . . . not entirely . . . alright,” Me’lin said, darkness enveloping her expression.

“Of course it is. What kind of talk is that?” Gark inquired.

“Gark . . . it was awful. I . . . don’t want . . . to talk about . . . it . . . but . . . you need . . . need . . . to know . . .”

“Need to know what?” Gark asked.

“The guards on the floor . . . I killed them . . .”

Gark wasn’t too worried about that. Kinshry’s thugs deserved that fate.

“Don’t worry about that,” Gark said. “They deserved it.”

“They . . . they raped me,” Me’lin said. A single hot, painful tear rolled down her cheek as she said this. “Right in front of Galin. Multiple times.”

Gark was horrified. His wife had been raped by those thugs? A sense of anger washed over him. Both of them deserved to burn in any sort of afterlife purgatory that there might or might not be. Whatever there was, hopefully they would end up in the worst possible situation. Death was almost too good for them.

“Gark . . . I don’t know if I can ever be the . . . same . . . again . . . after that,” Me’lin said.

“I understand,” Gark said. He didn’t really know what she had gone through, but he knew enough that she was traumatized by this experience.

“I had . . . a dream . . . you hated me . . . shoved me away . . . said it was my fault I was taken . . . advantage of . . . it wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Gark said. “What kind of talk is that?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Me’lin said.

“I know. But you need to rest up now,” Gark said. “When you’re stronger, I’m going to do whatever I can to get you back to normal? OK? I’ll get you an appointment with a therapist, and try to get you over this ordeal and back to normal. Whatever it takes, whatever I need to do.”

“Really?” Me’lin asked. Gark nodded.

“I have a few things that I need to forget about too,” he said.

Me’lin weakly reached out a hand and stroked Gark’s cheek as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Thank you,” she said.

“You would do the same for me. And you did,” the Bothan replied.

“Thank you,” the Twi’lek repeated. She let her hand drop back to the bed.

“Now get some sleep,” Gark said. He pulled up the covers and brought over an extra pillow so that his wife would be comfortable. “I’ll be back in a while to feed you again.”

“I love you,” Me’lin said.

“Love you too,” Gark said. The Twi’lek drifted off to sleep, and Gark quietly left the room. When he was done washing out the bowls, he sat down on the couch. However, he was still tired from the whole issue, and collapsed onto the couch. He quickly drifted off into dreamland, having completed his mission. His family was safe and sound, and they were together once more. He couldn’t have asked for more.

 

Happy ending! I'm surprised Nat lived. I thought she might make a heroic sacrifice in the gas chamber.

Also Kinshry sure had lots of traps in that place, didn't he?

 

Yay! I love it when the bad guy gets caught in his own trap. He outsmarted himself!

Now you have to be nice to Me'lin and Galin for a while, okay?

 

Part 26

TAGS to Tim Battershell jcgoble3 and Trieste

Gark took the bowls that had just been used to feed his family from the table he had temporarily placed them on and took them to the kitchen. It had been several days since he had finished off Binn Kinshry, and yet the work was still just beginning. If Galin was scarred by those events, he didn’t know, but what concerned him most was Me’lin’s recovery from her traumatic experiences. Even when she was physically healthy, was her mind going to be as sharp as it used to be? Could he help get her over the hump and back to normal?

As he walked, something caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see what it was, only to be confronted with the sight of the Superbothan suit. It lay there on the sofa limply, not having any form to sit itself up on. For a moment he thought of nothing. It was just there, a reminder of who he was, and what he stood for.

But that mood quickly changed. Angry thoughts flashed into his mind as he stared down the suit like an enemy. That suit had only brought him pain, had only made his life difficult. It wasn’t like his life had been easy before the Superbothan project, but ever since he had put on that suit, taken on that persona, things had gone from bad to worse. All Superbothan had ever done for him was hurt those closest to him. It hadn’t made him any better off mentally or physically. He had nearly been killed so many times he had lost count, had skirted along the edges of death itself every time he donned the suit and went after what he thought was right. Was justice, was righteousness, worth all that danger? Could he continue to live like this, masquerading as a hero even when it meant putting his own family in danger?

These thoughts continued to plague him when he reached the kitchen. He barely even gave his job here a second thought, filling the bowls with water but not really thinking about what he was doing. All he could think about was the suit. It sat there, silently tormenting him as he slaved away to bring his family back to health. When he was done with the washing, he knew exactly what he had to do.

The next thing he did was pick up the suit off the sofa. He inspected it for several seconds, looking at each hole, each small mark that had come from an explosion or fistfight. He didn’t remember where each one came from, but this suit had seen a lot of action. And that was action he no longer wanted to be a part of. The suit only served to be a strict reminder of what could go wrong if you stuck your nose into too many places.

Gark carried the suit outside, where the sun shone its brilliant rays on the grass. He had only one thing to do out here. When he reached the curb, he looked down at his suit once more, and took a deep breath. Then, he tossed the suit into the trash bin, part of it still out in the open. The suit would soon be no more. Superbothan was no more.

Now relieved of the burden, Gark walked back inside his house, not bothering to look back. He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to remember. For him, it was best to look forward, and not back.

---

The Next Day

Gark sat on the sofa, watching a program on the HoloNet. He was staying home these days to take care of Me’lin, who was taking a considerable amount of time to recover. She and Galin had literally wasted away in their cell, and were more skin and bones than healthy individuals. Galin seemed to be bouncing back more than the Twi’lek, and he had even gotten up out of bed the prior day and walked without help. The young boy had a youthful energy that his mother couldn’t tap into, and thus he felt fine when she was still recovering. So here Gark was, trying to get her back to normal.

Then he heard feet pattering behind him, and Galin came into view. He was carrying something in both hands, but Gark didn’t know what they were. Finally, the young Bothan handed him something. Gark moved his eyes from the screen to see the Superbothan suit in the boy’s hand.

“Daddy’s suit,” Galin said.

“Galin, put that back where you found it,” Gark said. He didn’t want to see the suit ever again, especially not in his son’s hands. He didn’t fully comprehend what that suit had done to him, instead just showing the typical attitude of a three-year old.

“Why?” Galin asked.

“Because I don’t want it. Put it back.”

“Superbothan,” Galin said.

“No longer,” Gark said. “I quit, Galin, so just leave it alone. Put that suit back.”

But Galin shook his head. He then reached out his other hand, which had a publication in it. Gark got a little closer to see what it was. “The Continuing Adventures of Superbothan” was its’ heading, and on the front cover was his likeness, in the suit, giving a thumbs-up sign to the reader. The text bubble next to the cartoon Gark said “Bad guys got you down? Just give the Bothanman a call, and I’ll be there in a flash.” Below him was a portrait landscape of Coruscant, his home.

“What is that?” Gark asked. He had never seen this before.

“Superbothan . . .” Galin replied. Then he pointed at Gark with his stubby finger.

“I’ll take a look at that,” Gark said. He took the comic from Galin and started to flip through the pages. It was a whole story about him kicking some enemy’s ass, and generally being a superhero in every sense of the word. How had he never heard of the comics based on his exploits? Flipping to the back cover, he saw a list of every issue of the comic. There had to be at least 100 different issues, Gark noted as he looked down the list. Villains? Sting . . . sounded like an odd name for a villain . . . The Tigress . . . again, sounded odd . . . Avenger M . . . what was with the M? . . . Rex Kethor . . . again, just another name.

“Where did you get this?” Gark asked.

“Mommy got it for me,” Galin said. “I read them a lot.”

What he meant was that Me’lin likely read them for him, Gark deduced. He flipped the book over and handed it back to Galin. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want the suit anymore, so just put it back.”

“Daddy,” Galin said, pointing to his father. Then he lifted up the suit a little bit and pointed to it. “Superbothan. Daddy is Superbothan.” Now he lifted the comic. “He’s my hero. The best ever.”

Gark finally understood what the child meant. Galin knew that his father was a superhero, whether in a comic or in real life. So he wanted his hero to take his suit back. How thoughtful.

“You . . . want me to keep my suit?” Gark asked.

Galin nodded. “A hero needs his sup . . . supe-r . . . suit. Daddy needs his super suit, because he is a hero. Daddy’s a hero . . . my hero.”

Gark reached down and picked up the suit from Galin’s grasp. The boy was being rather demanding of him, but also childish and opportunistic at the same time. He looked at the suit that the day before he had wanted to do away with forever. He didn’t want to look at it, but at the same time, it meant more to him now than it had in a long time. Galin had it 100% correct; Gark was Superbothan, no matter what he did to try and deny it.

Angry thoughts flashed into his head. He should tear this suit up right now before it kept acting like a boomerang and coming back to haunt him. But then another wave of thought came to his mind. Superbothan, despite all the ills that had befallen him, had also done wonders for his life. Without Superbothan . . . he wouldn’t have married Me’lin. She would have just been a secretary for the team, but the Superbothan Project had brought them together. And without Superbothan . . . he wouldn’t have Galin standing here with a comic of the hero in his hand. Against all ills that the hero likeness had brought him, maybe Superbothan wasn’t so bad after all.

“Come here,” Gark said. Galin got up on the sofa, and Gark placed the suit aside. The two of them then read the comic together, Gark pointing out various things and Galin just soaking it all in.

When the story was done, Galin looked tired, so Gark got his son to bed before he decided to sleep on the floor. Galin fell asleep with the comic in his hand, and Gark left the room. He had a few questions to ask, so he went into his bedroom. Me’lin stirred when her husband approached. “Hi,” she said.

“Did you know anything about the Superbothan comics?” Gark asked.

“Of course,” his wife replied. “I think I’ve bought almost every single one for Galin. They keep coming out with new issues, but he loves to see his Daddy in print, beating up the bad guys, so I keep getting them for him.”

“I didn’t know they had those,” Gark said. “I never signed over any likeness rights.”

“Yes you did. A long time ago. You signed a form, and I looked at it with a questioning eye at first. But I figured it was harmless, so I let it go,” the Twi’lek said.

“So . . . have I . . . I mean . . . has Superbothan become a commercial phenomenon?” Gark asked.

Me’lin nodded weakly. “I should have told you earlier . . . but we made four million credits on royalties last year alone from the Superbothan likeness.”

“Four million?” Gark asked, his jaw dropping. In his business, that was almost chump change . . . but four million on royalties in one year? Four million credits just to use his likeness as Superbothan? And then he had another thought. “And you never told me?”

“I figured that it wasn’t that important. As long as I made sure the money didn’t disappear, we were fine,” Me’lin said.

“You withheld that from me?” Gark asked.

“I’m sorry,” Me’lin said. “But I thought you knew about it all along.”

“Apparently I didn’t,” Gark said.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Me’lin replied. “Look at Galin. He’s happy to see his father in comics. If there’s anything that can help him forget what just happened, that would be it.”

“I wanted to get rid of the suit,” Gark said, changing the subject.

“Why?” Me’lin asked.

“Because all it has done to us is serve to drive us apart,” Gark said. “So I got rid of it. But Galin . . . he brought it back to me, and guilt-tripped me into keeping it.”

“Gark, there’s something you need to know about Galin,” Me’lin said. “He’s read all the comics, and seen the other things they use the Superbothan logo and likeness on. He idolizes you. So if he sees the suit that his Daddy wore when he came in to save the day, he’s going to keep it. It likely reminds him of how a superhero saved him from peril.”

“He doesn’t know the whole story,” Gark said, but Me’lin cut him off.

“Gark, I think you’ll find that . . . as much as you want to try, you don’t need to be the galaxy’s greatest dad. It’s a noble goal to strive towards, I understand. But as long as Galin thinks you’re the greatest Dad in the galaxy, that’s what really counts. And if he thinks that greatest Dad is a superhero . . . he just wants you to be there for him when he needs you. So you need to be there for him, and if that’s as Superbothan, so be it.”

“You want me to keep the suit?” Gark asked. His wife nodded.

“Galin will never forgive you if you don’t,” she said. “Like I said, he idolizes you. And he idolizes Superbothan. Getting rid of your hero image, like it or not, will alienate our son from you. And I don’t want that to happen. So please, just keep the suit. Galin’s happier that way.”

“Fine,” Gark said. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired,” Me’lin said. “But I’ll manage. I feel stronger every day, but still just don’t have that bounce I want in my step.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you back to normal as soon as I can,” Gark said.

“Good.”

“You feel up to watching the Holo this week?” Gark finally asked. “The team’s got the Bakura game this week.”

“We’ll see,” Me’lin replied. “I may still be too tired to do anything but rest.”

“Got it. Any dinner requests?”

“You know what I like,” Me’lin said, a faint smile on her face.

“The usual sandwich?” Gark asked. His wife nodded the affirmative.

“I suggest that you also read Galin more of his comics while I’m out of commission for story-time,” the Twi’lek said. “He would appreciate that.”

“I know he would,” Gark said. “You want me to go away for a while?”

“Yes. I could use some more rest.”

“OK. I’ll bring you your sandwich later.”


“Thanks,” Me’lin said. Her head sagged on the pillow, and she drifted off to sleep. Gark quietly closed the door behind him. All, despite his misgivings, seemed to be going well.

 

Gark has been idolized in comic books. That is freaking awesome.

 

It's so hilariously, awesomely meta.

 

I know it's not a Superbothan post, but it's still related.

TAGS to jcgoble3 Tim Battershell Trieste

“The doctor will see you now,” said the Etti receptionist. She motioned towards the door on the left side of the room.

Three weeks had passed since the rescue of his family from Binn Kinshry, and Gark knew that now was the time to act. Me’lin had finally bulked up once more to her normal weight, and she was in good spirits. Or, at least in good spirits minus the mental pain she had suffered at the hands of Kinshry’s thugs. That was going to take some major time to heal, if ever.

“This is your big moment,” Gark said as he stayed in the waiting room seat. “Do try to learn something.”

“What if I can’t?” Me’lin asked. This was the first time she had left the house since she had returned on the brink of utter collapse, and as such was wary of her surroundings.

“You’ll do fine,” Gark said.

The door on the left opened, and a Pantoran female stepped out into the waiting room. “Come on in,” she said with a pleasant, yet still professional, smile on her face. Me’lin walked into the room, and the Pantoran closed it behind. Me’lin found that the room was small, yet cozy. There was a nice long couch that the Pantoran urged her to sit on, and her supposed therapy instructor sat on a plush-looking chair that more closely resembled a lounge chair than one that would be found in an office.

“Mrs. S’rily, I presume?” the Pantoran asked. Me’lin nodded. “I’m Doctor Philli. I have a doctorate in family counseling, with my master’s with double degrees in conflict resolution and counseling. Oddly enough, my undergrad was molecular biology, but I found that counseling was more my speed. I never would have worked in a lab. I actually hate being in white lab coats shut off from the rest of the galaxy. But enough about me. Tell me a few things about yourself. I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

So Me’lin filled the doctor in about her life, and where she was going with things. When the Twi’lek was done, the Pantoran shifted in her seat and changed gears. “All right, now as to why you’re here. According to what I have on file, you need therapy sessions for mental trauma brought on by . . . let’s see, it says domestic abuse on here . . .”

“No,” Me’lin blurted out. “That’s not true.”

“If so, then it must be a category. The computer system hands out broad categories on these forms so I know what to look for. But if you’re quite sure it’s not domestic abuse . . .”

“It’s not,” Me’lin said quickly.

“Then tell me what brings you here.”

“I was . . . raped by a man, several times. I had no consent to the action, but . . . it happened anyways. I was powerless,” Me’lin said.

“I see,” Philli replied. She put the forms down. “Sexual abuse is not something I take lightly. I have a plan that can get you back on track, but it will take extreme devotion to following the program I give you. You see, Mrs. S’rily, physical pains can be mended one way or another. But mental pains can last a lifetime. And from what you have told me, you have a lot to live for, and be happy about. So what I need you to do is trust me on this. First, I would like to bring your husband in and talk to him for a moment. In order for you to be successful in my therapy program, I need to ask a few things of him so that you have as comfortable atmosphere as possible to heal in.” She tapped a small beeper on her lapel. “Jinet, please bring in Mr. S’rily for a moment.”

Moments later, Gark walked into the room, and he sat down on the sofa next to his wife. “Mr. S’rily, the first thing I can say to you is that I have a program that your wife can use to heal from her traumatic experiences.”

“That’s great,” Gark said.

“But it’s going to take some work on your end as well as on hers,” Philli replied. “Can I speak to you alone for a moment?” Gark nodded, and the two of them walked out of the room. Shutting the door behind her, Philli leaned in to speak. “From what I have heard so far, she is claiming to have been raped multiple times by a stranger. Consent was nonexistent. Is this correct?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Gark said, nodding.

“All right. The plan I will be putting her on for the next several months is going to be a step-by-step approach to getting her back to normal, or as normal as possible. I am going to need you to create a positive atmosphere that will nurture her along as she progresses. Be gentle with her, be respectful, and in general, be as positive as you can. Rape is not an easy thing to come back from. I have dealt with my fair share of clients coming in with a similar story, and it’s a slippery slope. So be understanding. That is all I can ask of you.”

“I can do that,” Gark said. He knew that it wouldn’t be a problem to follow these criteria.

“You can return to your seat,” Philli said. “Your wife’s session will end in about twenty minutes.” Gark returned to his seat in the small waiting room, and Philli went back into her office.

“Sorry about that, but I had to set down a few things with your husband,” Philli said. “Now, as for the first step of the program. I need you to tell me what kinds of thoughts come into your head when you think of being assaulted. Don’t be shy. I need to know. How do you feel?”

Me’lin didn’t need to think twice when the thoughts flooded into her mind. “It makes me . . . sad,” she said. “So very sad.”

“How so?”

“I was taken advantage of. How am I supposed to feel?” Me’lin asked.

“Do you feel angry? Depressed? Guilty?” Philli asked.

“Yes,” Me’lin said. “I feel . . . depressed. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Keep talking. What symptoms do you have?” Philli asked. The next twenty minutes were spent talking about Me’lin’s aggravations, and setting the table for how the memories made her feel.

“We only have a few minutes left in our session, so I am going to switch gears and give you the program,” Philli finally said. “It sounds difficult, but I need you to think in a positive manner until our next session.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” Me’lin admitted.

“That’s fine. I just want to see how you do on your own. My program requires the utmost dedication to the process. If you can devote yourself to the healing process, I have a feeling that in a few months, your therapy will be successful, and you will be able to go on with your life as it was before the incidents. In a few days, I will give you the steps of the program in your patient packet. Today was just an informational session, to help me get to know you a little better, and vice versa. Our next session is when we shall start. I can help you only so much, though. Everything else is up to you.”

When Me’lin left the office, Gark was there waiting for her. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“Fine. Didn’t say much,” the Twi’lek replied.

“It’s a start,” Gark offered. “Everything starts somewhere. Will this work for you, this therapy option?”

“I think so,” Me’lin said.

“If it helps you feel any better, how about we go to lunch?” Gark inquired. “Dex’s, perhaps? I think they’d love to see you back there after all this time.”


“That works,” Me’lin said. She had a long ways to go, but hopefully Dr. Philli would get her back to normal in the coming months. She was tired of being reminded by the assaults, tired of feeling like she was alone in the galaxy. It was time to power through those dark moments and return to a better state of mind, a better state of well-being. And it all started now.


NOTE: No, Philli isn't a fake doctor like some guy we know.

 

Nice to see the healing process begin.

 

If Philli was a fake doctor, the program would consist entirely of, "Yuv got to pull yurself outta it."

 

TAGS to Trieste and jcgoble3

Gark sat on the floor and tossed another small ball at the plastic goalpost that had been set up. The ball clanked off the upright, but the force of the impact was enough to knock the goalpost toy over.

“Daddy, don’t knock it over,” Galin said as he frowned. The boy then leaned over to grab the goalpost toy and placed it back up.

“Sorry,” Gark replied. He and Galin were playing a game of “tabletop Limmie”, where players would try to throw a small ball between tiny goalposts on the other end. It was supposed to be played on a table, but the S’rily boys were playing on the floor. It had been two months since Gark had rescued his family from the clutches of Binn Kinshry, and every day that he had with them, he cherished. Prior to their abduction, he had sometimes taken his life for granted. Nothing too serious, but when they were gone, he had felt like something major was missing in his life. Me’lin was out at one of her therapy sessions; progress was slow, but at least she was getting somewhere. The Twi’lek still was unsure of sleeping in the same bed as Gark because it would remind her of the cage and how being tucked up with another body near her brought back bad memories. So Gark slept on the couch; it wasn’t the most comfortable, but at least it was a surface. Galin seemed fine, but who knew if his mind was all there after being treated so poorly.

Galin tossed the ball at Gark’s goal, and the ball sailed through without any issue. “Goal!” Galin said, and he raised his hands in the air.

“I’ll rally,” Gark said. But that was a lie. He was losing 9-3 right now, with each goal worth a point. He could easily beat the three-year old, but he didn’t want to. Part of being a father was willingly losing to your child at games like this. Besides, Gark didn’t really care. This game was nothing compared to everything he had on his plate. The Limmie side of things had been quiet for the past few weeks as he tried to temporarily distance himself from the organization. He needed time to devote to his family life, but also to the Andromeda Corporation. He was trying to get back in the swing of things there, and with help from Londy Whiste, was making up for lost time. Things were almost back in order. Now he needed to contact Nat and inform her that the inspector job was hers.

Gark made a goal on his next shot, and Galin tried to come back with one of his own. However, his bouncing shot went underneath the bar, so there was no point scored. The young child frowned, and Gark took several moments to take his shot. He missed it on purpose, the ball sailing wide left.

Then the doorbell rang. Gark figured that it wasn’t Me’lin, because she probably would use her house key to get back in. She would never ring the doorbell unless she forgot the key . . . had she forgotten? Gark got up and tended to the door, expecting to see the Twi’lek outside. However, he opened it up to see Nat’alia Patrovish outside. The red-haired Hapan, who was shorter than Gark by a couple of inches, looked at the Bothan with a strange expression.

“Ah, Nat. Good timing,” Gark said.

“I need to talk to you,” Nat replied in a dead-pan voice.

“Then come on in,” Gark said. Nat moved inside, but only a few steps. Gark closed the door behind her. “If this is about the job I offered you a few months back, I’m almost ready to hire you on.”

“It’s not about that,” Nat said. She looked anything but cordial. Whatever was eating at her, Gark thought, it must be serious.

“Then what do you need to tell me?” Gark asked.

“I’m pregnant,” Nat said. “And, guess what, genius? You’re the father.” She reached down to her stomach and lifted the bulge in it with her hand so that Gark could easily see it.

Gark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had knocked the Hapan up during their two nights of romance during the Kinshry debacle? This couldn’t be happening to him. What had he done to deserve now having a love child on the way? What could he do now, because Nat could easily sue him for paternity? What if Me’lin found out? If his wife discovered that her husband had fathered a child with another woman, it would break her heart. She was already going through therapy . . . she didn’t need another worry like this. But the Bothan had nothing he could do now. Nat just looked at her cohort with an air of suspicion, but also an air of confusion.

“This was the last thing I needed or wanted,” she said. “How could I have been so foolish? Now I’m going to lose my job before I even get it, because you’re going to try and make me and the child disappear.”

“I would never do that,” Gark said.

“I know too much, don’t I?” Nat asked. “Besides, if your wife ever finds out, we’re both as good as dead.”

“Then we need to think fast,” Gark said.

Then the sound of the garage door unlocking came to their ears, and Me’lin came inside. “I’m home,” she said as she came into the house, not even knowing that Nat was there.

“You’re right. We’re dead,” Gark said.

 

WHA-WHAT?!

 

Somehow this doesn't surprise me.

 

Here's your real update for the day:

TAGs to jcgoble3 and Trieste

Me’lin awoke feeling sick. The early morning rays were barely starting to seep into the bedroom, but she couldn’t fall back asleep. Her stomach raged, and she felt nauseated. It had been several days since her last episode like this, and each time it seemed to get worse. She had to get to the refresher, had to feel better . . .

She stumbled out of bed and to the refresher, the entire process a real chore. Her vision was dizzy, and she felt like she had to puke. It was not a fun experience, and she made it just in time before the vomit came. When the nasty exercise was done, she took several deep breaths to try and clear her mind. Why was this happening to her? Had she caught some disease from Galin that he had brought home somehow? She was otherwise healthy . . . or was she?

She staggered towards the bedroom, but realized that she just wanted to sit down. So she made her way into the living room, where Gark sat watching the Holo. “Morning,” he said.

“I feel like crap,” Me’lin commented. She sat down on the sofa.

“Again?” Gark inquired. He was no doctor, but he knew enough to realize that this wasn’t normal.

“I don’t know why this is happening,” Me’lin said. “What kind of disease have I caught now?”

“Well, just to be safe, I’ll keep my distance,” Gark said. “Can I help you get back to bed? That’s the best remedy for feeling sick.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” Me’lin said. “Also, could I have that trash bin . . . just in case the nausea takes over.”

“Gotcha,” Gark said. He helped his wife back to bed, and then set the bin next to the side of the bed. “Call me in if you need me,” he said before leaving. He left the door open so that he could hear her if necessary, but every second was now spent wondering what was going on. This had happened a few times already, with no distinct pattern to it. Whatever the Twi’lek was going through, the Bothan didn’t know, but he had a feeling that it wasn’t something he wanted to know.

---

The S’rilys returned from the grocery store later on in the day, Me’lin having recovered nicely from her morning nausea. Gark had tried to take it easy on his wife, and had done most of the shopping by himself while trying to keep track of Galin. The young boy liked to ride around in the shopping cart, and pretend like it was his own personal spaceship. Passerby thought it was cute, but Gark got annoyed when the boy didn’t move over when asked. Hopefully the young boy would grow out of this at some point.

Gark started to set things out in the kitchen, and Me’lin excused herself to go to the refresher before coming back to help put things away. Gark nodded and continued to place items away. Galin was on the floor in the living room, watching Holos. It seemed to calm his roguish spirit down, which was amazing considering how a month or so earlier he was recovering from the brutality of Binn Kinshry and his thugs. But at least that was over, and things could be back to normal, Gark thought.

Minutes passed, and his mind wandered to Limmie. What was he going to do before the Draft? There were rumors that Adanna Inviere, his assistant GM, was going to interview for the Hapes C-Bucs GM job. That disheartened him a little, but he knew when he had hired her on that this might someday happen. He would just have to make do when the time came to make a decision.

His line of thought was interrupted when he heard agonized screams from the refresher. Something was definitely out of whack here, so he placed the box of pasta he was holding onto the counter and rushed to see what was wrong.

“You alright in there?” Gark asked. Me’lin didn’t reply, but the Bothan could hear sobbing from inside. He had to know what was bothering her. Was it this mysterious illness? He opened the door and stepped inside. Me’lin was bent over, sobbing into her arms on the counter. “What’s wrong?” Gark asked.

Me’lin said nothing, but she turned a bit so that Gark could see her face. She looked visibly shaken, and the tears were coming down in droves. Then she reached out a hand, which had something in it.

It was a pregnancy test. And the color had changed.

Gark stared at the test for several seconds, trying to comprehend what was going on. And then it struck him; of course Me’lin would be saddened by this. Not only had she been molested by Kinshry’s thugs, but one of them had impregnated her in that act of violence against her person. It couldn’t have been his doing; he hadn’t slept in the same bed as his wife in months, let alone had intimate moments with her. Another thing was that she likely wouldn’t have been so sad if it has been his child. Obviously this distressed her immensely, because now everything was coming full circle. No matter what she did now, the Twi’lek would continue to be reminded of her time in captivity . . . and the brutal acts taken against her. It all resided in her stomach, the womb now a cold, cruel reminder of the violation of her dignity.

Gark didn’t say anything. What could he say? Don’t worry about it? He wasn’t the one who had been assaulted. It will pass? No, that wouldn’t work either. It felt like everything he had worked towards the last several weeks was now for naught; his wife was now carrying the offspring of a man who had raped her. Nothing he could say or do would help Me’lin feel better.


So all he could do was give her a huge hug. It was a small gesture, but there was no alternative. She just continued to cry on his shoulder, the specter of Kinshry’s thugs looming larger than they had in many weeks. The nightmare wasn’t over.

Spoiler

 

I think I preferred Nat being pregnant. What a terrible situation.

 

I'm not sure which development would be worse for Gark and his wife: the real one or the April Fool's one.

Will be interesting to see what she does. I think the best that can be hoped for here is that the baby isn't viable, but we know that Humans and Twi'leks are capable of cross-breeding (thanks to the typical stupidity of TCW). Otherwise, she has to choose between abortion or giving birth to a baby conceived by rape, which is a tough choice. I'll stop there and refrain from making comments that could turn this into an abortion debate, because that never ends well.

 

Simply put, Gark and Me'lin face a moral dilemma of the highest order and, honestly, I won't fault whatever choice they make as long as they make their peace with it.

 

Exactly.

 

Well, we're on our way to finding out.

TAGS to jcgoble3 and Trieste

Gark sat on the sofa, propping his head up on his elbow as it sat on the armrest. Ever since Me’lin had found out that she was pregnant from the rape suffered at the hands of one or both of KInshry’s thugs, she had become greatly disturbed. In fact, she had spent the whole next day crying into her pillow. Gark had tried to leave her alone to let her get all of the rage out before he would try to help her. It was a terrible thing the thugs had done; they hadn’t just taken her dignity, but they had also stuck in her a permanent reminder of the torture they had put her through. Gark didn’t blame his wife for feeling angry, for feeling lost and confused. He just wanted to be there to help her when she needed a hand.

The question he was thinking of posing was what she could do now. She could go through with having the child anyways, which wasn’t a popular option in his mind, but would hopefully ease some of the sting. Perhaps they could find a family wanting a child to adopt the baby . . . or if they had to, they could raise it themselves. But that was a slippery slope in itself. The child would only serve as a reminder to their mother of what had transpired to conceive them. The other option was to abort the pregnancy, but that also seemed a little bit risky. Me’lin likely would prefer that option, but Gark hadn’t been able to ask her just yet. He wanted to wait until she was of sounder mind to make the decision.

Galin had asked why his mother was so conflicted, but Gark didn’t want to explain. The boy wouldn’t understand anyways, and why would he? He didn’t know anything about rape, didn’t know what it meant to its victims. He was just a child; the majority of the ills of the galaxy were still new to him. He had been tortured during the Kinshry debacle, but Me’lin’s torment had been much greater than his. So Gark decided to just tell the boy that his mother was going through a hard time, and needed a chance to come to peace with herself. That had placated the child thus far, although if this continued, Gark wasn’t sure what more he would need to say to prevent Galin from becoming depressed that he might be the cause of the issue.

Gark was startled to see Me’lin up and about. She was still looking very depressed and moody, and the Bothan couldn’t blame her. This was all going so wrong.

“What’s up?” Gark asked.

“How can you be so casual at a time like this?” Me’lin asked angrily. “You don’t know what I’m going through.”

“I know I don’t,” Gark said. “You are suffering something that I will never understand. But you need to be strong. I know you have it in you. Fight through it.”

“I can’t,” Me’lin complained. She was still crying. “I . . . I can’t live like this. I don’t want . . . I don’t want to live.”

That last bit caught Gark’s attention like a knife to the body. Me’lin was now considering suicide? This had just gone from depressing thoughts to complete clinical depression. And it was severe. He needed to do something, and fast.

“What kind of talk is that?” he said, standing up. “Don’t say you don’t want to live. Never say that.”

“You don’t understand my pain!” Me’lin said.

“We’ve already established that,” Gark said. He moved in a little closer, trying not to unnerve the Twi’lek. He just had to get a little closer, to try and calm her down. This was going to be a precision operation. “Calm down. There’s no point in wanting to not live.”

“And what’s the alternative? Hm? Me having to carry this pain for the next six or so months, and then having to be reminded every day that this was not a product of my desires? That I was used, abused, thrown away, and not stuck with the consequences? I can’t live like that. It’s not worth me being around anymore then . . .”

Then Gark, using all the force he could muster, slapped Me’lin across the face with the back of his hand. The Twi’lek stood there for several seconds, completely stunned by what had happened. Gark just stood there with an emotionless look on his face, the only betrayal of his opinion coming from the action of his backhand. Then the pain shot through her face, and she groaned at it. This gave Gark enough time to get a hold on his wife, and try to talk sense into her.

“Lin, you don’t want to kill yourself. That won’t do either of us any good. Look at Galin. Look at him!” he ordered. The boy wasn’t in the room, but that wasn’t the point. “Do you want to leave him without his mother? Are you so depressed that you can’t see what his needs are? He needs you around . . . I need you around. I didn’t go all that way to save you from Kinshry just to have you turn around and want to kill yourself. I won’t let that happen, no matter what. You can’t do that, and you know it. Cut the crap, and realize what the implications of suicide are. There’s no going back. Do you want to die knowing that you’re letting everyone you love down? Is that what you want?” Me’lin said nothing, the only sound she made coming from her crying.

“Lin, I love you. I don’t want you to give up because life threw you an obstacle. Yes it was a heinous act that brought it about, but don’t give up on me. You still have options. Please be rational, and think it over. Just listen to me.” He wasn’t sure if this was working, but he had to try. “We need to come to terms with whatever happens. I’m willing to be there every step of the frakking way with you. I just need you to stay strong and go through it. If that means you having the baby, and we raise it like we are with Galin . . . so be it. I just want you around, want you to be rational now. Don’t kill yourself. We can get through this together, but I can’t do that without you.”

Me’lin finally fell into Gark’s grasp, and she sobbed on his shoulder as the Bothan stood there stoically in the embrace. “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t . . . mean to say . . . those things.”

“I know you didn’t,” Gark said, partially lying. He wanted to calm her down, whatever was necessary to do that. “Just remember that we’re in this together. I just need to talk to you about where we’re going from here. Come, sit down.” He led the Twi’lek to the couch, and helped her sit down. “Now, what do you want to do?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Me’lin said.

“Should you get an ultrasound?” Gark asked. “I think that might be the first step. Then we can decide if we want the child.”

“I . . . don’t,” Me’lin said. “Too painful.”

“Do you want to abort the process?” Gark asked.

“Um . . . I don’t know . . . if I can bring . . . myself to . . . to . . . do that,” Me’lin said.

“I’m fine with whatever you choose,” Gark said. “All I want to know is that you will be at peace with your decision.”

“Then . . . then . . . I should have . . . the child,” Me’lin said between sobs.

Gark knew that this was probably subject to change, but at least he had calmed Me’lin down. He made sure to embrace her so that she felt comforted by his presence, and continued to settle her down.


The next day, Me’lin underwent an ultrasound. Sure enough, there was a small embryo in her womb that was developing, so the pregnancy test had not been lying. The doctors said that the child should be healthy upon birth, so they seemed optimistic. Me’lin just took the information in stride; she didn’t say anything about the origins of the child, but she was instead comforted by Gark holding her hand the whole time. It seemed childish, but to the Twi’lek who had been through so much pain, it was the least her husband could do. She would have the child; it wouldn’t make her happy, but if she could make peace with herself, that was all that mattered.

 

I have an idea...but maybe you already do and it's your story, not mine.

Also, kind of surprised Gark slapped Me'lin. Obviously she needed a shock--but didn't see it coming that way!

 

Um, Gark, be careful you don't get arrested for domestic violence....

Really, though, very well-written. Interesting to see that she's going to carry and give birth to it, despite it's origins.

 

TAGS to jcgoble3 and Trieste

Gark stood in the hallway of the clinic, still trying to come to grips with reality. He had spent so much time over the past few weeks making sure that Me’lin wouldn’t go off and try to harm herself in any way after learning that the rape of her had led to an unwanted pregnancy. He figured that she wouldn’t now that he had calmed her down, but her decision to have the child anyways still nagged at him a little bit. Did she really mean that? She had to be at peace with her decision, and the Bothan wasn’t sure if his wife was really sure about her decision to let the child live.

Inside the ultrasound room, the doctor probed Me’lin’s stomach with a probe droid’s scanner. A small image of the fetus appeared on a screen; it seemed so large on the screen, although in actuality it was miniscule in size. However, it represented a lot. It represented a choice that Me’lin knew she was making. It was a hard choice, but could she let the child go even though she didn’t really want it? These thoughts floated through her head as she sat there on the table.

“Everything looks . . . hm, let me take another look,” the doctor said. He went over the Twi’lek’s stomach once more with the sensor, and then thought about it some more. Removing the sensor, the doctor then looked at Me’lin. “You can sit up now,” he said. Me’lin did as she was told. Then the doctor conferred with the nurse in the room. They kept their voices low so that they could not be overheard, and Me’lin desperately wanted to know what they had to say. Was the baby going to be disabled in some way? Was there imminent danger of her being hurt in this whole process? Galin’s birth had been a rough ride, and the Twi’lek didn’t want to deal with that again if at all possible.

The doctor finally turned around. “Mrs. S’rily, I have . . . bad news.”

“What kind of bad news?” Me’lin asked. She didn’t want to know, but felt like if she didn’t find out now, there was no going back.

“You have miscarried,” the doctor said. “The fetus is dead.” A few moments of silence crept into the room as Me’lin contemplated what this meant. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “We all are, for your loss.”

“Can I talk to my husband?” Me’lin asked. The doctor nodded. Me’lin pulled her shirt down over her stomach and then ventured out into the hallway. Gark noted her presence and came over. The two of them embraced each other, and the doctor commented to his assistant nurse.

“I feel very sorry for them. It’s not a pretty sight when couples realize that their child will never be born,” he said. “Your heart just has to go out to them.”

But Me’lin wasn’t so depressed. “I miscarried,” she whispered to Gark as she peeked over his shoulder in the hug. “I won’t have the child after all.”

“That’s great,” Gark said back. “So it’s over?”


“Yep. My pregnancy is over,” the Twi’lek said. She sounded very relieved, Gark noticed. They thanked the doctors and headed home. However, instead of having to make the difficult choice of whether or not to keep the child, the decision was made for them. And Me’lin felt at peace with it. The Kinshry nightmare, extended longer than she had anticipated, was now over. She still had to get therapy for those scars, but at least a rape-conceived child wasn’t going to be added to the pile of issues. She was at peace.


And yes, I had this idea all along as the ending to this side story.