Saga "Lovely Dark and Deep" / Kessel Run Challenge 2023

Title: "Lovely Dark and Deep"
Timeframe: Saga thus far, but we'll see where it goes.
Genre: "I write sins not tragedies"
Characters: Original and minor

*This is my thread for the 2023 Kessel Run Challenge. There won't be any overarching theme here (other than my usual deep spaceblack darkness) as such planning tends to implode on first contact with reality--at least for me.

*I am sure most of those reading this introduction recognized that title, and know whence I borrowed it, but just in case: it's from Robert Frost's poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

*So without any further ado:

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Index

1. The Mirror and the Razor Blade
2. Notes from the Labyrinth
3. Black and Blue
4. Blue Light (i) and Coda: He said. (ii)
5. "Dreams from the Magic Theatre"
6. The Song of Experience
7. "No more yielding but a dream"
8. Happy Endings
9. "This weak and idle theme"
10: Excerpt from The End of Beauty

 

Week One:

Title: The Mirror and the Razor Blade
Characters: All Original
Genre: Despair + Ennui
Summary: It wasn't so much that he had decided to live. No, he simply lacked the will to die.

The Prompt:

Spoiler

Write a story between 100 and 1,000 words that:

• starts with this sentence: “He had not been courageous.”
• uses this picture as inspiration:

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The Mirror and the Razor Blade


He had not been courageous. Hardly: it would be more accurate to say that the telbun had merely, and inevitably, given up. He had let his shoulders wilt, and his hand (which held the blaster-pistol locked in his fingers) fell down against his side. While she watched on from the background, Meshach had taken that opportunity to act. He went over with windwhispered steps, and carefully (oh so carefully, more gently than she would have thought him capable) he took up the telbun’s hand. He touched him. Then he opened his fingers, one by one, until he could take hold of the pistol. That done, he disappeared it away into his pocket.

The telbun allowed this to happen. The echo of his voice, from only the moment before, still seemed to float through the silent air. She could feel it, and she could hear: as though each of his words had attacked her, striking her in the chest and ripping straight through.

People didn’t talk like that. They just didn’t. Whenever one of her friends had appeared to be breaking into tears, she let them know soon enough she was only (thankfully, easily) laughing. But the telbun had: his voice bleeding as he exposed his guts to them, his audience.

The night sky overhead, hunched above the starlights glowing from the walkside lamps, was black: a true thick crushing velvet darkness the lights in the city kept away. It was always so at night here at the mistress’s countryside manor—darkest dark and quiet, far too quiet, the silence turning the air to glass. She didn’t understand why Cybele had chosen, in one of her whimsical moods, to spend the entire winter season at this particular residence.

More than that, it was cold here in winter. She had her arms crossed together tightly over her chest, but she could still feel the slick icebreath chill: on her face, and her eyes, and through the sheer chiffon jacket she wore over her dress. It was for fashion, not for enduring the elements.

(She had been born in the city, and had come of age with her schoolgang in its loud bright streets, in days spent in the mirror-glass teashops and garment showrooms of the Zinthe District. She hadn’t ever so much as thought of living somewhere else.)

Meshach shook his head, and clicked his tongue against his teeth, and: “There. That is quite enough of that. You’re luckier than you know, my dear boy. I don’t care to think of how our mistress would have handled your performance.”

“Ha ha,” the telbun said, each syllable a thrown rock, without even the pretense of mirth. “I have thought of just that. My one regret now is not seeing it for myself.”

“Be that as it may,” Meshach said, sweeping his hand out in a handkerchief-tossed gesture. He had large hands, befitting his craggy towering tall frame, and the lights glittered over the little nail on his right hand, the one he kept in a long knife claw, polished midnight bruised blue with silverdust diamonds. Everyone in the servants’ ranks, including the droids, knew why he kept that nail that way. Personally, she didn’t begrudge the old man his habits. As her grandmother often said, We all need something.

“It’s done now,” he said. “You’re going to continue living, in this particular life. That’s all there is to say on the matter.”

“You make it sound so easy,” the telbun said.

She had heard him speak before this. Of course, she had: but it had always been from another room, overhearing him while he was in private conversation with Cybele. He had a deep gloomy tenor voice. But what had she expected: that he would sound and look both like one of the pretty flower-eyed softboys in drama-comics.

“Did I?” Meshach smiled, with the usual razor-cutting flash of his mouth, amused and all-knowing. “There’s a reason for that. And now I must be off, my children. I trust you both can behave for the rest of the night without my supervision.”

He nodded at her, and she read his message: Get him back to the house, and get him under control before there’s a real problem here.

Once Meshach had gone off into the darkness, she headed off down the main garden path towards the house. The telbun hesitated before he moved to follow, but he did follow, and within several steps, he had caught up to walk with her. She looked straight ahead where she couldn’t quite see him. He was too real there, too exposed, outside the wall of that red robe. He wore a pale shirt with simple lace cuffs, and his long dark-as-wood hair (that Cybele so favored) was loose. Was ragged and barely held in control.

But she still knew he was watching her, and so she wasn’t taken aback when he spoke. “It’s going to snow tonight.”

She didn’t see how he could know that, but she would humor him: “It’s certainly cold enough. Let’s get on inside. I’ll make up some tea. Would you like that?”

Her voice sounded too bright, too eager-cheery, but she could still hear that echo of his voice, and see what was a newly made memory: when he held the pistol pointed at his temple, at his brain, and I can’t go on living like this. If this is it, I may as well truly be dead.

The telbun shrugged in the blurred edges of her sight. She was now the one being humored, and oddly, she found that a relief. “If that’s what you need to do.”

It did snow during the night. When she went outside in the morning, there was a deadwhite lace covering of it over the flagstones, and clinging to the burnt-brown leaves left on the trees. It never lasted, and it didn’t then. It dissolved back into the air within another hour as though it had never been at all.

*

 

Oh man, this is brutally sad. I actually had to read it twice before I figured out what was happening (and I hope I was intelligent enough to interpret it correctly)

We pick up in the middle of the action - Meshach slowly disarms an unnamed telbun.

Now there is a third character, an unnamed woman. And what this telbun had said had hit her to the heart.

What is the reaction to this? to the brutal truth of the words, to the mortal threat that was just unarmed?

In the past, it was laughed off. We were only joking. But this night, the telbun had pushed past the pretense and lies. And it unsettled everyone.

Funny how the mistress of the house, Cybele, is named. Yet the woman and the teblun are not. Is the woman a telbun also? Or something else?

Now we see it more clearly. The only reason for his existence was because the mistress, Cybele, favored it. And his life is ragged and barely in control, existing only to please Cybele and stripped of any sense of autonomy. He's a prisoner, condemned to live. The woman is to get him under control before the mistress discovers what he almost did -- his act of defiance that he ultimately could not bring himself to do. His only escape from the degrading hell he lives in.

And with that he accepts his fate, his doom. As if his act of desperate rebellion had never happened. And we shall never speak of this incident again.

Brilliant, Pandora! You make this unnamed man's misery and pain so real.

 

Yeesh, this was bittersweet and depressing, any love cannot be happy for anyone in this story. Only longing and hope to continue on into tomorrow.

 

Poor girl being there employed by a wicked mistress. And the telbun and his misery and pain. A great response to the challenge

 

Well done, the descriptiveness, the palpable pain from the characters... magnificent.

 

"My usual deep spaceblack darkness", eh? Yeah, that sounds about right.

I've spent enough time poring over your telbun post in the Fanon thread to know that you've dedicated a lot of thought to the telbun system, but seeing it "in action" is a different experience altogether – or, actually, seeing the Kuati caste system as a whole, because our POV character doesn't seem to be much better off than the telbun, even though she hasn't been driven to suicide. This fic is a tour de force in the "show don't tell" department, in the way it lets us know so much about this particular household: the absent but all-powerful mistress, her spooky enforcer Meshach, the handmaiden/servant narrator and the telbun who tried and failed to escape his status as a breeder. I'm not sure what is sadder: that he contemplated ending his own life, or that he slipped back into his telbun role so easily.

I kinda feel like I need a stiff drink now, but I'll be back for more spaceblack darkness when you post it!

 

divapilot: Oh man, this is brutally sad. I actually had to read it twice before I figured out what was happening (and I hope I was intelligent enough to interpret it correctly)

Yes, this one is about the darkest night of the soul. When you hit rock bottom, and it's not over yet. And don't worry at all about whether you interpreted it correctly. (Though for what it's worth, you did.) I realize I just started off with a bang, straight into the action--and into the viewpoint character's thoughts--without a single helpful information dump. I have a tendency to be overly subtle, I know, and I just hope that there's enough clues shown so those reading can sort it out.

Also, this story connects up with an unfinished story of mine from the 2009 era, and to a point in the story I never even came close to writing. (Though perhaps I'll make a comeback with it and get there now?) I hesitated over writing it for a few minutes for this reason, but as I didn't have any other ideas, I figured that connection didn't matter. It can't really matter if you spoil something that doesn't exist.

We pick up in the middle of the action - Meshach slowly disarms an unnamed telbun.

Now there is a third character, an unnamed woman. And what this telbun had said had hit her to the heart.

What is the reaction to this? to the brutal truth of the words, to the mortal threat that was just unarmed?

The viewpoint character is so unused to shows of genuine emotion, of those ugly feelings from the guts, that she doesn't know what to think of what she has just seen. But she still feels the impact.

In the past, it was laughed off. We were only joking. But this night, the telbun had pushed past the pretense and lies. And it unsettled everyone.

This part is inspired by real life: there were multiple times over the years when I was in school when a girl I knew sounded, for a moment, as though she were crying--and the people I grew up with did not cry. It was beyond socially unacceptable. Boys didn't cry, girls didn't cry, only babies cry. It was as though she were exposing a side of herself that she usually hid away. And then I would realize that, of course, she was laughing. Only laughing, only going along with the normal happy shallow flow.

Funny how the mistress of the house, Cybele, is named. Yet the woman and the teblun are not. Is the woman a telbun also? Or something else?

Technically, the telbun does have a "name," but as it only indicates his status as his mistress's property, it isn't much of one. No, the woman isn't at all a telbun--if she were, I don't know that she would so blatantly think of the mistress by her given name--and she does have a name. The technical reason for why I never name her in this story is that I haven't been able to come up with a name for her. And it seemed to work this way, so I just went with it.

As for the woman's position, she is the mistress's lady-in-waiting. So one of the higher ranking servants in the household, not far below that of Meshach, the steward.

Now we see it more clearly. The only reason for his existence was because the mistress, Cybele, favored it. And his life is ragged and barely in control, existing only to please Cybele and stripped of any sense of autonomy. He's a prisoner, condemned to live. The woman is to get him under control before the mistress discovers what he almost did -- his act of defiance that he ultimately could not bring himself to do. His only escape from the degrading hell he lives in.

Cybele doesn't ever appear in the story, but I think you still get an idea of what she's like--and she is a classic Kuati aristocratic bitch-goddess. The goddess of the household as well as in her own mind. The viewpoint character, and Meshach, can well guess how she would react if she were to know what happened. Hence everything relies on making certain she never does.

Thus ending the telbun's moment of despair. He had reached a point where he realized that if nothing else, he has control over whether he lives or dies--and he decided death was the better option. And then after all that, nothing changed.

And with that he accepts his fate, his doom. As if his act of desperate rebellion had never happened. And we shall never speak of this incident again.

That's exactly it: We shall never speak of this again. I thought of having Meshach openly say this, but as word count was at a premium, I settled for having him hint at it. I'm glad to see that message was there as clearly as though it were indeed spoken aloud.

Brilliant, Pandora! You make this unnamed man's misery and pain so real.

Thank you for reading this doom and despair, and thanks for commenting!

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Nehru_Amidala: Yeesh, this was bittersweet and depressing, any love cannot be happy for anyone in this story. Only longing and hope to continue on into tomorrow.

This may be the telbun's darkest and lowest moment, but none of these characters are living in a healthy environment. (Though Meshach especially has learned to flourish in it.) But there will be a tomorrow, and the telbun's story is not over yet... Thanks for reading and commenting!

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earlybird-obi-wan: Poor girl being there employed by a wicked mistress. And the telbun and his misery and pain. A great response to the challenge

"Wicked" is about right there. (One wonders how she came to be in this woman's employ, and why she continues to stay. The money can't be that good.) But the telbun didn't even choose his situation, and he has finally reached his breaking point. The question is now: What next?

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Vek Talis: Well done, the descriptiveness, the palpable pain from the characters... magnificent.

Thank you, and thanks for reading!

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Findswoman: Oof, wow, this really was lovely, dark, and deep. I had to read it a second time to make sure I understood all of what was happening.

As I wrote in my response to divapilot, I might have been a bit too obtuse (more subtle than subtle) here. Or as I was told a few times in graduate school, "You're not making things easy for the Reader." I don't actually intend to make them deliberately too hard, though, and--I hope it was worth a re-read?

That Meshach is super-creepy (and I don't want to speculate too hard about what that one sharpened nail is for ), but I really have to admire the telbun's gumption in standing up to him; if this is the society I think it is, he might just be more courageous than he thinks.

If you think Meshach was creepy here--and the original inspiration for the character is beyond creepy, so I suppose that was inevitable--you do not want to see how he is when Cybele is present. (Is that a spoiler for an unfinished story longing to break free? Perhaps.) And oh yes, the telbun knows exactly what he is doing here, and what the potential consequences could be. But he doesn't feel courageous. It's more that he has reached a mindset beyond hope, beyond despair where he just doesn't care.

As to the unnamed female character: she and the telbun have a thing of some kind together, no? Whether romantic, or collaborating to rebel, or even just one person helping another to a cup of tea on a cold night—or all of it?

This is probably the first time the viewpoint character has ever really directly interacted with the telbun, so at this point, they haven't got a thing together. What happens next? Well, depending upon the upcoming prompts, I might be able to tell another part of that story. Stay tuned.

Nice pervasive use of the winter motif; it really fits with the inner coldness of the society these characters must live in (kind of like your Winter Queen). So glad you are taking part in this challenge!

Cold within and without, in a way.

As always, thanks so much for reading and commenting!

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Chyntuck: "My usual deep spaceblack darkness", eh? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Even my father knows that my usual thing is angst: the darkest, depressing parts of life.

I've spent enough time poring over your telbun post in the Fanon thread to know that you've dedicated a lot of thought to the telbun system, but seeing it "in action" is a different experience altogether – or, actually, seeing the Kuati caste system as a whole, because our POV character doesn't seem to be much better off than the telbun, even though she hasn't been driven to suicide.

This is the first story I've written set on Kuat since I wrote that fanon entry. (Which I see now as the catharsis I had needed since I first read about the telbuns in Daniel Wallace's 1998 The Essential Guide to Planets and Moons.) But I knew that eventually, someday, I would come back to it. I have thought a lot about the telbun system--and as you've noted, the larger culture it is a part of--and telbuns are inevitably a part of any Kuat story I might write, whether in the background or playing a main role. When I encounter something that messed up, I have to deal with it somehow, and the way I often do so is in fictional form. Before I punch the hypothetical Reader in the face, I first punch myself.

That fanon entry was the first time I took a full-on sledgehammer attack to an aspect of the legendary EU. As though, failed "real writer" that I am, I could do better than the people who got paid. (And while it's true I did so after the EU had lost its canonical status, that is a mere coincidence.) But I felt obligated to complicate what they had created--and in so doing, examine just how messed up the telbun system is. I have my doubts that those who came up with it for the EU realized just how much.

(For example: I believe that by current definitions, all sex between a telbun and their master/mistress would be considered rape. The telbun cannot refuse that aspect of their duty, and therefore they can't truly consent. But I'm quite sure the EU writers at that time didn't at all think of it that way--and more importantly, neither would the characters in-universe, which is why I don't mention it in the story.)

This fic is a tour de force in the "show don't tell" department, in the way it lets us know so much about this particular household: the absent but all-powerful mistress, her spooky enforcer Meshach, the handmaiden/servant narrator and the telbun who tried and failed to escape his status as a breeder. I'm not sure what is sadder: that he contemplated ending his own life, or that he slipped back into his telbun role so easily.

He didn't just contemplate ending his own life--he was thisclose to doing it. (I suppose we can but guess at what Meshach said to get him to drop the blaster.) But now that moment is over, and he is still alive, and he has resumed the only role he has ever known. But I wouldn't rule him out entirely. He will live to see another day, and that story is not yet told.

I kinda feel like I need a stiff drink now, but I'll be back for more spaceblack darkness when you post it!

Personally, I don't drink--I never developed a taste for alcohol, and it still smells like rubber cement to me--but I sometimes have an HK-47 cleanser, via Youtube complilations, as a pick me up. I hope that isn't too weird.

Finally, thanks for reading and commenting!

 

Week Two:

Title: Notes from the Labyrinth
Characters: Original Naboo Handmaiden
Genre: Introspection
Summary: When "How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?" isn't just an existential question.

Note: This character previously appeared in Dutiful.

The prompt:

• Write a story between 400 and 800 words using second-person POV in which a character is lost.
• Word limit = 400-800 words

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Notes from the Labyrinth


Every street you have seen this afternoon, on this world paved bonedead with streets, has begun to look the same. You’re aware there are differences between them, and you have noted, and attempted to remember, the few landmarks (the rose-stone fountain in the small garden square you must have passed through several hours ago, and the mirror-silver foodstand with the carnival striped awning standing rampant against a stained-grey background) that stand out to you. But otherwise, it all looks the same. The same durasteel buildings towering, one after another, attacking the sky. The same sky, a shallow sneering-bright blue. There are a few randomly floating clouds up above the traffic lanes that almost make it look real. But only almost.

When you went out on this journey, you were a little apprehensive. You knew this, as you know it now—though you put on a good act for Lissa. That was only (you inform yourself to the sing-songing rhythm of your footsteps on the stone grey duracrete) reasonable.

You have never claimed to be brave, and really: before today, you haven’t been outside the confines of the Naboo Delegation's territory, which you have but seen, in a rushing creek blur, from the speeder window between the Senator’s apartments and the rotunda. You haven’t even been to the embassy offices. Lissa accompanied the Senator alone that day.

After you disembarked from the airbus at the station listed in your directions—the route you had to memorize, that exists only within your thoughts—you headed off towards your next step in the city-maze, and the next one that followed. But then somehow, and you can’t sort out when it happened, or how, you have gone astray.

You don’t know how to comport yourself as you walk, through the engine snarls from the air traffic overhead, and the babble of people, of multiple species, going about their business. They haven’t taken much notice of you, and you are grateful for that. As you fail to find the missed step, once and then twice, your face feels loose. Your mouth, which you attempt to keep in an agreeable smile, is attached by a mere thread. You’re sweating, not a-glow with sweetwarm light. You can hear yourself breathe. It is a heavy thrashing panting that could well frighten small children.

There’s no pretending otherwise: you have bunged this one up.

You can’t even get an airtaxi, as that would require spending your own money, and well—you spent most of that in one go, on two (admittedly wizard) dresses you can’t even wear.

Whatever happens next, you won’t be making that meeting with the Senator’s contact—that person of redacted name, and unknown identity markers, who is too shy (too frightened, too trampled underneath the Empire’s black boot) to come directly to her. You’ve long since missed that time and place. Moreover, you have accepted this.

The Senator trusts you, Elara, Amaria told you in parting. You’ve no idea how much. This is why our job matters.

Big mistake on her part, your wispy thought-voice says.

Getting lost, actually losing one’s place in the world, is for children: for those who haven’t reached the age of reason, for younger sisters who can expect to be rescued. You’ve been too old to excuse this situation for years. You will have to escape it all on your own.

And while you wander, you have still believed you’ll escape this. Somehow, you will be fine in the end. You will return to the apartments, to the place you refer to as home. Once you’ve made it, you can deal with whatever the resulting consequences will be.

You have considered that you might lose this position. But you are at peace with the possibility. You don’t know what it is you’re doing here, or even why you’re here. You suspect (impossible as this should be to think) you have made a mistake.

We’re here. Because we’re here, you think, the old schooldays chant, and it feels encouraging. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here.

It can’t be much further now. The right street has to be close, so close you can almost see it. There’s a rounded stone staircase just ahead of you, and you take it. You can hear the babbling rush of water, and then: You walk back into the garden square with the rosepink fountain.

You stand there for a moment, your mind a blastedwhite howl. You’ve gotten nowhere. You’ve merely gone around in a circle, and now the sky is fading with the approaching purplesmoke dusk. You have to figure this out, and you will. But only after you have lived through the next second. You know where you are. And that is all you know.

 

intimate view into her mind and what is lost. Great response to the challenge

 

The sense of oh no not the fountain again is palpable.

 

And that can be quite frustrating and frightening no matter what age you are.Not that I've ever been scared before, mind.

Well, at least you know where you are now. That's a start, right? Right?

I've had those moments, too.

 

Findswoman: Back on Pandoran Naboo, nice!

It was inevitable that I would get around to my fanfictional roots, to the world that brought me here in the first place, at some point in this challenge--and it didn't take long.

Also: proof that I have read E.K. Johnston's Disney-Approved Naboo canon in Queen's Peril (spoiler alert: it reads like a fourteen year old's fanfiction circa 1999 with better editing, as in it's not very good) and I continue to do things my way.

I get hints here that Elara’s literal, physical lostness on these motley streets is a reflection of some other, more interior kind of lostness.

When she became a handmaiden, she must have had her reasonings. She must have known, or thought she knew, what she was getting into. But at this point, two weeksish into her new life on Coruscant, she has been thoroughly disillusioned.

She seems lost about her role in the meeting she missed, too. If she’s timid, like that nameless contact of the Senator’s, that’s completely understandable given the era in which this takes place. One can’t help but ponder the possible outcomes: maybe not meeting up after all was a blessing in disguise for that timid contact (and maybe for Elara in a way too), but it sounds like there will almost certainly be consequences, maybe big ones. Or maybe there’s a small chance that she will find her way and that the meeting might happen after all. We don’t know which it will be, of courser (which I know is part of the point).

As you say, we'll never know what happens next, or any of the Need to Know details about the meeting Elara has missed. (And it's likely that has been a blessing in disguise for both her and the never-to-be-identifed contact.)

But I like to think that Elara’s newfound sense of presence at the end—in whatever combination of geography and self-awareness—will be of help to her no matter what the outcome. You are really acing this challenge so far, and I know I’m going to love seeing both where you take the prompts and where the prompts take you!

Thanks, and thank you for reading and commenting!

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earlybird-obi-wan: intimate view into her mind and what is lost. Great response to the challenge

She's definitely on a journey both within and without here. Thanks for reading!

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pronker: The sense of oh no not the fountain again is palpable.

As in: AARRGH.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Vek Talis: And that can be quite frustrating and frightening no matter what age you are.Not that I've ever been scared before, mind.

"I've never been lost. I've only been confused for a few weeks."

Well, at least you know where you are now. That's a start, right? Right?

I've had those moments, too.

It's a start, but the next step isn't ever an easy one--and it won't be for this character.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

 

The descriptive words set the main character, Elara, against an antagonistic environment: "bonedead," "stained-grey," Buildings "attacking the sky," and the sky itself "sneering-bright blue." I wonder if Elana feels that the city is against her because she is lost, or because she doesn't feel safe here?

Hmm. So many reasons why she would have been expected to memorize the route, rather than just pull up a map. Is she supposed to be paying attention to other things than navigation? Is she supposed to be looking like she knows where she's going rather than appear like one of the hundreds of strangers here?

Well, that's not good. There is a big price to be paid for this misadventure. The contact, skittish to begin with, might never come back now. But Elara is pragmatic - what is done cannot be undone now.

Which leads us in this literary labyrinth here: What am I even doing here? I could lose my job, but why am I even doing it? And Elara feels ok with this. Maybe meeting skittish contacts with mysterious names via a memorized route is too much of a labyrinth for her anyway.

The more she walks around in circles, the more her mind works out the puzzle of "what am I doing?". She will figure this out - not just the missed step, but where she is going in the bigger picture.

Great writing here!

 

divapilot: The descriptive words set the main character, Elara, against an antagonistic environment: "bonedead," "stained-grey," Buildings "attacking the sky," and the sky itself "sneering-bright blue." I wonder if Elana feels that the city is against her because she is lost, or because she doesn't feel safe here?

Both of those, I suppose. Elara doesn't think of herself as the nature-loving type, but she's still from Naboo, and Coruscant, the world that is "all one city" (thank you, Ric Olié) isn't just unlike anything she's known before, it is so strange it is unnatural. The weather isn't natural, and the landscape is artificial and feels dead in a way that other cities she has known are not.

Hmm. So many reasons why she would have been expected to memorize the route, rather than just pull up a map. Is she supposed to be paying attention to other things than navigation? Is she supposed to be looking like she knows where she's going rather than appear like one of the hundreds of strangers here?

Yes, she needs to look like she knows where she's going (because to do otherwise would be to stand out), but the main reason she had to memorize the route is that this is one of those Read Once and Destroy situations. There can't be any evidence for the Empire's agents to find that this meeting, whatever its exact nature was to be, ever took place.

Well, that's not good. There is a big price to be paid for this misadventure. The contact, skittish to begin with, might never come back now. But Elara is pragmatic - what is done cannot be undone now.

It isn't good (especially for that unidentified and unnamed contact), but there's nothing to be done for it now.

Which leads us in this literary labyrinth here: What am I even doing here? I could lose my job, but why am I even doing it? And Elara feels ok with this. Maybe meeting skittish contacts with mysterious names via a memorized route is too much of a labyrinth for her anyway.

She just thought she was going to be the Senator's lady-in-waiting of the wardrobe. She didn't know she would be told she was a bodyguard, handed a blaster and trained to use it, and then expected to aid, off the record, in a meeting that has to be going against the evil Empire. Speaking of labyrinths.

The more she walks around in circles, the more her mind works out the puzzle of "what am I doing?". She will figure this out - not just the missed step, but where she is going in the bigger picture.

She's working on it, but "What am I doing here?" is a question without end.

Great writing here!

Thank you, and thanks so much for reading and commenting!

 

Week Three:

Title: Black and Blue
Characters: Original Character, Kar Yang (not named)
Genre: You decide

The prompt:

• Write a story between 500 and 1,000 words in which you make up a new OC (original character). Your OC must interact with at least one EC (established character), and your story must include the following line of dialogue: “Something was bound to go right sometime today.”
• Word limit = 500-1,000 words

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Black and Blue


The protestors were leaving. Miércoles had overheard their voices marching in down the street underneath her window not even an hour before, but they were finished here. They were off to show, en masse, their feelings where it would matter. She had heard what everyone else knew about that. That they would walk through town to the university district, and thence to Greenwater Avenue, where the Senator Herself was staying with the university president at her mansion. No one knew what would happen then. Miércoles certainly didn’t. But she knew this much: the president, in all her oh so wise patience, would humor them. They would leave as they had arrived.

She remained where she was, sitting in the stuffed-fat armchair in the dense shadows of her room, as the last echo of the protestors, their footsteps and their voices, receded. It rang through the backs of her ears, and she shook her head. But now the silence from outside was louder than the dream-hum from her heater fan, and she stood and went to her window to see it for herself.

The street had been abandoned. She had never before seen it this empty: there wasn’t so much as a loose scrapwrapper on the bare pavement. There was one summerlight sign burning in the vanities shop across the way, but otherwise, all the shops were dark inside. And the sky hanging above the scene had begun to crumble into snow, into a curtain of soft moth-winged flakes.

It was as good a time as any to venture out to the grocery, an errand she had been delaying for several long cloudy-floating days now. The people who were her neighbors, in this building and the other ones on the street, would be staying inside. Hiding away, as she had hid for most of the day. They didn’t want to get involved and risk standing out, and getting in trouble.

Miércoles turned back to her room, and began readying herself for the elements. She pulled on a clashing rusted-dark red sweater over her dainty lace dress, and sat down on the side of her bed while she put on a second cloud-layered petticoat under her skirt. It wouldn’t do much to keep the wind off her legs, but it was what she had to work with. She was already wearing her heavy wool socks, so she just had to pull on her hiking boots, and go through the ordeal of lacing them up.

It was good, after all, to get out into the world: it doesn’t do to live your life within the confines of a box, where you might be safe, but only just.

She picked up her old tweed overcoat, and as she straightened up, her back grunting with the effort of bending and standing up and bending again, she looked straight into the mirror. She stared at her face (her fever-rose flushed cheeks and black holes for eyes) and her bushy-rope braids. She pushed on her hat, pinning the braids down, and turned away.

She wasn’t alone on the footpath as she walked through the thickening whispersoft snow towards the grocery. But there were only a few other people about, and they were far enough away that she wasn’t overly burdened by their freefloating emotions.

(The protestors’ rage had hit her like a wall crashing down. She couldn’t feel her own emotions, or share in their anger. There wasn’t enough room.)

Once she had gathered her items, she took her place in the short lineup at the register-desk, and joined with the general behavior. Polite and well-controlled. No one spoke. The older woman in purple crushed-velvet trousers ahead of her smiled in her direction, and she jerked her mouth into what she hoped was the appropriate expression.

She was walking back along the footpath with her bag when she felt the shadow loom up behind her. She turned around, her breath tripping over as she inhaled, and he was there. She couldn’t quite see him in the snow-blurred light from the treelamps, but she had the impression of enormous height, of mountain sloping shoulders, and a long beaky face pointing down towards her.

Then he spoke, with a harsh wavering voice that ripped the air open. Well now. I don’t remember seeing you in the crowds, chicklet.

Miércoles didn’t bother with a reply. She could only just think against the empty space, the hollow echoingcold darkness, he emanated towards her. But he answered himself without pausing for thought. But of course you weren’t there. You wouldn’t be in with their fight.

Of course: he had noted, as everyone did, her pink skin and the bright berryblue fringe under her cap. “I wasn’t born here. If that’s what you mean. But I’m here now.”

Quite so, he said, and continued to lope along with her. The lamp light drifted over him from the next tree ahead, and she saw the long blast-rifle he had strapped across his back. She swallowed a birdsqueak whine of fear. She wanted to run, to rush away through the next moment, but she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. Prey runs. She couldn’t be prey.

“You need to get gone,” she said—and she meant it. She was (finally and hopelessly and truly) angry. Get away from me, and this town, and everyone who lives here.

Oh I think not. His voice was amused. I have a job to do, and well. Something was bound to go right sometime today.

She didn’t know his meaning, and she was afraid she did.

She must have blinked, because then he was gone. He was off--to the university, and the president’s house, to surprise the protestors when they made their arrival. Miércoles could only continue on to her building, and her room inside, the muscles in her legs clenched into fisted knots. She inhaled a breath. And exhaled. It hurt when she did it, but she was glad enough that she could.

*

 

Delightful descriptiveness. Well done.

 

Oooh, I was thinking Bounty Hunter, and then ... Cad Bane? But mountainsloping shoulders did not quite fit, though the enormous height would, to a Naboo-norm height person.

Gah, she's overwhelmed and who wouldn't be?

Oh, she knows how to cope.

Now curious about who hired Yang ...

Also, Miercoles reminds me of Wednesday Addams, and Lisa Loring just now passed ...

 

A great worldbuilding with your new OC seeing it through her eyes with all the protesting that had been there

 

Notes from the Labyrinth: If I understand this story correctly (and going by what I remember of other handmaiden stories of yours), we have here a Naboo handmaiden assigned to the senator on Coruscant, and, if, still, my guesswork isn't too bad, that senator would be Pooja Naberrie, right? So that mysterious contact and all the sleuthing around would be related to the Rebellion, and in this case the consequences would be far more serious than just standing someone up.

My feeling for poor Elara is that she's lost in more than one way. Yes, she got lost on the day's quest, but she's also a Naboo lost on Coruscant, in this unfamiliar environment of duracrete and transparisteel, and she's also lost as a person, uncertain why she's doing what she's doing, if she should be doing it, if she's good enough to do it, why in the galaxy anyone would believe that she's the right person to do it... I found the little detail of having spent all her money on two dresses that she can't even wear very touching, in this sense. Nice clothes are something that she knows she enjoys, even if it doesn't make sense in her position to purchase them.

Black and Blue: So, you've done it again, creating an OC about whom you tell us so much (we have her description, her mood, the fact that she's hiding or at least sheltering in place and keeping a low profile, the hint that she's Force-sensitive or has some other form of sixth sense) and yet we know so little, and I want to know more! Why she's there; where "there" is, incidentally; why she's not getting involved; what is happening with the protest; and most importantly what her relationship to Kar Yang is – and it must be something, for him to be calling her "chicklet". Are we going to see more of her?

 

Vek Talis: Delightful descriptiveness. Well done.

Descriptiveness is my specialty. Thanks for reading!

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pronker: Oooh, I was thinking Bounty Hunter, and then ... Cad Bane? But mountainsloping shoulders did not quite fit, though the enormous height would, to a Naboo-norm height person.

Your first thought, that he's a bounty hunter, is the correct one. According to the character guide in the first issue of Shadows of the Empire: Evolution, Kar Yang is the "second most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy." (The entire galaxy. How do they even figure that?) But that's around 4 ABY/just after the Battle of Endor and The Return of the Jedi, and this story takes place some years earlier, so I would guess Yang would still be making his way up the galactic ranks at this point.

Still, he must have reached number five or six in fearsomeness, and here Miércoles--this ordinary citizen, this nobody--essentially tells him to go pound sand.

Gah, she's overwhelmed and who wouldn't be?

Anger is a powerful emotion, and it can be an exhausting one as well.

Oh, she knows how to cope.

She can haul out her social skills when she needs to.

Now curious about who hired Yang ...

That is the big question. My guess (which Miércoles wouldn't have ever learned) is that he is after a bounty--or two--who happen to be amongst the protestors, and he plans to snatch them during the chaos that is shortly to ensue.

Also, Miercoles reminds me of Wednesday Addams, and Lisa Loring just now passed ...

Aside from their shared name, she isn't much at all like Wednesday Addams, but I can see why you made the connection. *Snap, snap.*

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

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earlybird-obi-wan: A great worldbuilding with your new OC seeing it through her eyes with all the protesting that had been there

As an empath, she does have a certain way of experiencing the world.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Chyntuck: Notes from the Labyrinth: If I understand this story correctly (and going by what I remember of other handmaiden stories of yours), we have here a Naboo handmaiden assigned to the senator on Coruscant, and, if, still, my guesswork isn't too bad, that senator would be Pooja Naberrie, right? So that mysterious contact and all the sleuthing around would be related to the Rebellion, and in this case the consequences would be far more serious than just standing someone up.

That about sums it all up. And this is definitely the age of Read Once and Destroy--Senator Naberrie may want to help this mysterious contact (and the causes of the Rebellion) but she has to do so in a way where it never comes back to her. Every once in a while, the Emperor makes an example of some idealistic senator so everyone else remembers what happens to those who step out of line.

So yes, the stakes are high, and this is all off the record--hence why the Senator sends out of her invisible "ladies-in-waiting" to do the job, rather than one of her political aides.

My feeling for poor Elara is that she's lost in more than one way. Yes, she got lost on the day's quest, but she's also a Naboo lost on Coruscant, in this unfamiliar environment of duracrete and transparisteel, and she's also lost as a person, uncertain why she's doing what she's doing, if she should be doing it, if she's good enough to do it, why in the galaxy anyone would believe that she's the right person to do it...

As Tolkien once wrote (I believe) not all who wander are lost--but some who wander are, and there are multiple ways to be lost in life.

I found the little detail of having spent all her money on two dresses that she can't even wear very touching, in this sense. Nice clothes are something that she knows she enjoys, even if it doesn't make sense in her position to purchase them.

"But they were admittedly so wizard."

Black and Blue: So, you've done it again, creating an OC about whom you tell us so much (we have her description, her mood, the fact that she's hiding or at least sheltering in place and keeping a low profile, the hint that she's Force-sensitive or has some other form of sixth sense) and yet we know so little, and I want to know more!

That's one of the drawbacks of the 1000 word limit: it requires that I do a lot more oh so subtle hinting than I would have done had I words enough and time. But as has been said before, it's always good to leave one's readers wanting more, rather than wanting less.

Why she's there; where "there" is, incidentally; why she's not getting involved; what is happening with the protest; and most importantly what her relationship to Kar Yang is – and it must be something, for him to be calling her "chicklet". Are we going to see more of her?

I can say that, despite his familiar behavior with her, she hasn't any previous relationship with Kar Yang. She's never encountered him before, and hasn't any idea of his reputation as one of the top feared bounty hunters in the whole galaxy. (Otherwise, I don't know if she could have found the nerve to tell him to stick it where the sun doesn't shine.) As for why he calls her "chicklet," that's his version of calling a woman he encounters "girl." I figured, as he is of an avian species, he would go with something more like that.

As for whether I'll write more of her, well: Never say never, but that all depends on where the prompts lead me in the future.

Finally, thanks for reading and commenting!

 

Findswoman: When I saw the name Miércoles i immediately thought about Wednesday Addams too, but this character is quite different in a way.

Her name comes from the same source as Wednesday Addams's--that nursery rhyme line "Wednesday's Child is full of woe"--but that's where the resemblance ends. Or maybe not: I can see how (when observed from an external point of view) she might often bear a version of the iconic sullen expression Christina Ricci gave the character in the two 1990s era movies.

*Snap, snap.*

(Tune in later for when I introduce a retail worker named Sábado...)

You’ve given us several intriguing hints about her. I too am curious about the connection with Kar Yang (thanks for the link): I doubt he’s hunting for her specifically, but it looks like she is some kind of waypoint on his way to hunting down the protestors (or some of them), and that in itself is already pretty scary. She’s sure got gumption to tell him (at least sort of) off, though!

There's a great deal that Miércoles doesn't know in this scene: she doesn't know Yang (and thanks to the snow and the evening darkness, she doesn't even get a good look at him) only that she gets a very bad feeling off him. The big question is: Why did he approach her? Does he know something about her when she knows nothing of him?

As for telling him off: I have never found bounty hunters of interest as characters--though I do find it interesting that in a fandom where the theme is good vs. evil, and good always wins (at least until the next trilogy), they are so popular--and I'm going to be honest here. I enjoyed having my character tell this big oooh scary bounty hunter to literally GET GONE.

Thanks for sharing this intriguing, thought-provoking encounter!

You're welcome, and thanks for reading and commenting!

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Yes, I'm replying to comments earlier than is my wont this week, but fret not: I'm not actually on a quest for domination of the first page. The next story is incoming, just as soon as I fire up the file and get it formatted.