The twi'lek woke with a start, struggling with the heavy black silk covers of the bed. She slapped the switch of the glow lamp on the wall, and blinked owlishly at the sungold light flaring from the fixture.
Pale blue-green eyes, glazed with sleep-fog and a little bleary, flickered over the shadows cast over the room: the bookcase with some books stacked haphazardly on the top shelf... her kima watching her calmly from the foot of her bed, its eyes flashing red in reflection of the sudden glare from the glow lamp... A brown cloak thrown carelessly over an ottoman, a row of boots and slippers playing sentry near the door. Pulling herself to a sitting position, she frowned.
What broke my sleep?
Passing her hands over her face with a heavy sigh, her lekku curled limply about her shoulders, Daydream turned to face the terminal next to the bed. She tilted her head, absently listening to the faint hissing of filtered and chilled air whispering through the room, waiting to hear the telltale beep of the warning system being reset.
None of the alarms were tripped.
Daydream studied the row of vials next to the terminal: unlabeled, tiny, delicate little glass vials filled with some experimental elixir, each cylinder set into an injection unit. She'd gone begging to the medical center a week ago (Was it two weeks now? Three? Had it been a month? Longer?), screaming in desperation that she was going mad, absolutely mad with the clutter and chaos of emotional turmoil every time she went into town. She couldn't work for more than a half hour without flying into a rage or goading someone into a fight over her own swelling pride... breaking down into tears when a familiar face came in with a new scar, reeking of pain and trauma... bolting in terror through the streets at 2 am in sheer panic when the troopers grabbed someone near the starport... laughing hysterically at the antics of every kid with a noseful of giggledust...
She had grabbed the shoulders of the nearest technician, shrieked that it was behavior more appropriate for the local drunks than someone in the public eye, and quite a liability for her reputation as a dancer! And the dazzle-headaches! It was a nervous breakdown, she knew people knew she was leading a double life of sorts, and she knew people knew what she had tried so hard to hide and avoid showing, she knew people knew what she had learned on Talus... she knew people wanted her dead or silenced! She knew people had but to pass near her and she would be infected with whatever poisonous mood or intent they wore! Madness...
What she hadn't known was that the technicians were quite aware of this, and had even known all along about her attack on the one they'd set to watching her when she snapped, down to the minute details of how many hits it took to drop the man and how many seconds elapsed, even her empty pronouncement of justice on the man for what she saw as treachery. They had also known that she'd taken the datapad from his corpse, had seen the notation of the Hellion project, and of "increasing instability in this series."
Strangely, they didn't seem at all put out with her part in his death, but... interested.
She had expected to be charged for the incident, perhaps referred to a psychoanalyst, and had hoped for a prescription to a very exclusive spa retreat near Kaadaara, on Naboo, popular with holovid stars who let their excesses get the better of them. Instead, a medtech had proffered the case of blue-silver vials, his clinical smile sharpened into a predatory expression, explaining only that they were an experimental "sedative" designed to "reduce sensitivity."
Of course. They had thought her a silly woman prone to hysterics, overly sensitive to criticism. Emotional, despite her training to reveal nothing more than a polite smile and gentle words to a patron looking to be distracted. She had turned crimson with shame and a furious retort had swelled in her throat, but was quickly silenced: She didn't care when the injector bit into her flesh, and the condescending, avid hunger of the medtech, the metallic low-level anxiety and pain wafting through the medical center, had faded into blessed, flat emptiness.
Shaking her head slowly, Daydream reached for the case of injectors, examining them, glancing at the time display on the terminal. Not even 10:00 a.m.
I'm sure I took enough to get me through the day without that damn nightmare. I shouldn't even be conscious for another ... eight hours.
She rose to her feet with languid grace, letting the silk bedcovers puddle into an inky shadow around her ankles, her features blank with drowsiness.
Something has happened.
Pale blue-green eyes, glazed with sleep-fog and a little bleary, flickered over the shadows cast over the room: the bookcase with some books stacked haphazardly on the top shelf... her kima watching her calmly from the foot of her bed, its eyes flashing red in reflection of the sudden glare from the glow lamp... A brown cloak thrown carelessly over an ottoman, a row of boots and slippers playing sentry near the door. Pulling herself to a sitting position, she frowned.
What broke my sleep?
Passing her hands over her face with a heavy sigh, her lekku curled limply about her shoulders, Daydream turned to face the terminal next to the bed. She tilted her head, absently listening to the faint hissing of filtered and chilled air whispering through the room, waiting to hear the telltale beep of the warning system being reset.
None of the alarms were tripped.
Daydream studied the row of vials next to the terminal: unlabeled, tiny, delicate little glass vials filled with some experimental elixir, each cylinder set into an injection unit. She'd gone begging to the medical center a week ago (Was it two weeks now? Three? Had it been a month? Longer?), screaming in desperation that she was going mad, absolutely mad with the clutter and chaos of emotional turmoil every time she went into town. She couldn't work for more than a half hour without flying into a rage or goading someone into a fight over her own swelling pride... breaking down into tears when a familiar face came in with a new scar, reeking of pain and trauma... bolting in terror through the streets at 2 am in sheer panic when the troopers grabbed someone near the starport... laughing hysterically at the antics of every kid with a noseful of giggledust...
She had grabbed the shoulders of the nearest technician, shrieked that it was behavior more appropriate for the local drunks than someone in the public eye, and quite a liability for her reputation as a dancer! And the dazzle-headaches! It was a nervous breakdown, she knew people knew she was leading a double life of sorts, and she knew people knew what she had tried so hard to hide and avoid showing, she knew people knew what she had learned on Talus... she knew people wanted her dead or silenced! She knew people had but to pass near her and she would be infected with whatever poisonous mood or intent they wore! Madness...
What she hadn't known was that the technicians were quite aware of this, and had even known all along about her attack on the one they'd set to watching her when she snapped, down to the minute details of how many hits it took to drop the man and how many seconds elapsed, even her empty pronouncement of justice on the man for what she saw as treachery. They had also known that she'd taken the datapad from his corpse, had seen the notation of the Hellion project, and of "increasing instability in this series."
Strangely, they didn't seem at all put out with her part in his death, but... interested.
She had expected to be charged for the incident, perhaps referred to a psychoanalyst, and had hoped for a prescription to a very exclusive spa retreat near Kaadaara, on Naboo, popular with holovid stars who let their excesses get the better of them. Instead, a medtech had proffered the case of blue-silver vials, his clinical smile sharpened into a predatory expression, explaining only that they were an experimental "sedative" designed to "reduce sensitivity."
Of course. They had thought her a silly woman prone to hysterics, overly sensitive to criticism. Emotional, despite her training to reveal nothing more than a polite smile and gentle words to a patron looking to be distracted. She had turned crimson with shame and a furious retort had swelled in her throat, but was quickly silenced: She didn't care when the injector bit into her flesh, and the condescending, avid hunger of the medtech, the metallic low-level anxiety and pain wafting through the medical center, had faded into blessed, flat emptiness.
Shaking her head slowly, Daydream reached for the case of injectors, examining them, glancing at the time display on the terminal. Not even 10:00 a.m.
I'm sure I took enough to get me through the day without that damn nightmare. I shouldn't even be conscious for another ... eight hours.
She rose to her feet with languid grace, letting the silk bedcovers puddle into an inky shadow around her ankles, her features blank with drowsiness.
Something has happened.