Bonds Broken

Posted on Sat Nov 24th, 2012 @ 10:27am by Morgo Le'Shaad & Thane

3,113 words; about a 16 minute read

Chapter: Chapter II: Era's Dawn
Location: Galaxies Opera House, Coruscant
Timeline: 2000 Hours (Local Time), Day Six

As Morgo stepped off the hover-cab, she reached into the folds of her sari and pulled out a 50 credit chip and handed it to the droid.

“Will you need me to stay until the end of the opera, ma’m?”

“No, thank you. That will be all.”

The droid made an affirmative noise and sped away as soon as Morgo shut the door of the hover-cab. The skirt of Morgo’s dress fluttered off the ground. Of course, she needn’t have used the hover-cab. Merik himself had offered to take her to the Galaxies Opera House, saving her credits, but she had refused. Credits spent or no, having Merik pick her up would have involved giving him the address of the hotel she was staying—a risk she was not willing to take regardless that he seemed eager to prove himself trustworthy.

Morgo followed the red path of carpet until she reached the grand entrance of the opera hose. All around her, hover-crafts rushed to find decent parking spaces and senators, dignitaries and aristocrats alike streamed into the opera house, their chatter nearly deafening. Morgo only stood there amidst the sea of pomp looking up at the great building, a beautiful feat of architecture to be sure—especially now as it glowed like a jewel in the Coruscant night. Above her in the black sky stretched what remained of the famed Rainbow Bridge, echoes of what the Yuuzhan Vong once did to Galactic City. It was the only reminder that remained of what the world had suffered under the Yuuzhan Vong—namely the violent terra-forming of Coruscant. All the overgrowth and foliage that had once covered the streets and buildings had been cut away centuries ago. Morgo had to blink to keep her eyes from drying out completely. Aware of the many eyes staring at her like she was a loon, another star struck tourist, Morgo figured they weren’t too far from the truth either. Apart from the star-struck bit, this was the second time Morgo had ever been off-world in her life. The first had been on Ossus, and that ill-fated visit had been right after her escape from Dromache’s prison moon, Cassiopeia.

“I thought I told you to wear black.” Someone said, coming up beside her, full of mock-indignation.

Even without looking at him, Morgo knew the speaker. She smirked, “Indeed you did, Merik.”she said smoothly, turning her face to look at him. The long drop earrings of pearl hanging from her earlobes swayed with the movement. Like always, Morgo’s hair had been done up, but this time she’d woven a single braid around the crown of her head like a golden circlet, high above her brow, “So you can see why I was obligated to wear white.”

“To annoy me?” he groaned.

“Exactly.”

With a nod of her head, Morgo started forward into the opera house while Merik fell in step. Stylish as always, he wore a fit, silver embroidered, black outer-coat over a simple white tunic of fine quality. It’s understated extravagance was change from what she was accustomed to seeing him in: loose tunics and loose pants, with Dromachean sandals instead of boots on his feet. For a noble he’d always been remarkably simple. Merik gave her a quick glance and silently raised an eyebrow against her scrutiny.

“How very native of you.” She commented dryly on his changing style.

Merik scoffed at her, “And you? You look like you just stepped off the Zkovos Isle. How very native of you. Aren't you supposed to be blending in?”

True to Dromachean style, the white chiffon of her sari draped across one shoulder and covered one arm, wrapping around her with only minimal embroidery of gold and black on the trim. So practical (especially in hot weather of Dromache) that Morgo could run a marathon in it, if she cared to.

“Merik,” she said tiredly, “When you grow a bosom, an arse, and tiny female feet—you tell me how it feels to pour yourself into a steel-boned corset, a garter belt of itchy material, and seven-inch heels.” Morgo cast her lightly kohl lined eyes about the place as they entered the lobby, “I reckon half the women here will faint before intermission even begins. So excuse me if I’d like to be conscious and alert when I watch what I’ve paid for.”

Merik nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips in thought, “Well, not everyone can have your waistline.”

“I work at it, darling.” She said dully as they stopped before a large silver droid, handing in their tickets for admission. As they were admitted they were directed to a lift that would take them to the upper boxes of the Opera house. The place really was wondrous to behold—dramatic drapes of dark jewel tones hung from the domed ceiling while silver statues of hidden women held them aloft. Coruscant seemed to have a fixation on metal. Morgo was more accustomed to seeing stones and marbles in architecture and art.

Their conversation was put on hold as they boarded the lift with a handful of wealthy strangers. As if to prove to Merik the ridiculousness of Coruscantean fashion, a woman in pink entered after them as the doors of the lift closed. Feathers from some exotic bird were placed in her hair, but rather than look elegant however, it looked quite like something had decided to nest in her dark hair…and was still hiding in there somewhere. And from the dramatic slant from her bosom to her waist, Morgo could tell that there would be bone damage of her thoracic cage if she did not cease wearing corsets. That is, if there wasn’t already permanent damage.

Morgo exited the lift with Merik in tow with the pleasant image in mind of the woman suffering from a fall, and then subsequently from a punctured lung because of her ridiculous corset.

“Tell me you’re not smiling because you’re thinking of someone dying a horrible death.”

Morgo considered the question, a ghost of a smile on her face, “Well, I’m not sure if a punctured lung is equivalent with death, but without treatment—yes, it could be a horrible death.”

Merik huffed a short, disbelieving laugh. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m joking.” Morgo repeated flatly, and Morgo could practically feel Merik's eyes rolling. Looking up, a glowing sign marked this particular archway as being the one that led to Box Five. Slipping a hand in between the drapes, Morgo pushed aside the curtains and stepped into a short, mauve marbled corridor that led to their box. Morgo took the front left seat and Merik sat on the right.

Merik shot her a withering look and Morgo crossed her legs, pressing a button on the arm of her chair.

“Spiced gold tea, please—hot. And emerald wine for the sir.”

As a droid came and served the refreshments, Merik took a sip of the green wine from his glass and chuckled, “You know, I don’t have any braised nerf to eat with this stuff.”

Morgo waved a hand as she blew on her spiced tea, “Just look around you. The place is infested with mooing nerfs.”

“You mean the politicians and the elite? I’m so glad of your high opinion of our peers.”

“Your peers, Merik.” Morgo corrected while she absently tapped her sandaled foot on the railing, “Now Merik, if it's quite alright with you, I’d like to get to business.”

“Oh, right.” He said, sitting up and setting his flute down.

Morgo set down her steaming cup and tapped her fingernails on the white enamel of its rim, “When I was.... taken all those months ago, I left a lot of things behind—some things even unfinished. In my absence, all my data, my equipment, my cell slides and procedural notes were locked away, Merik, by none other than my mother.” Morgo’s eyes narrowed in annoyance at the memory of the woman, "I need you to retrieve them for me."

“Our old data? On midi-chlorians?”

Morgo nodded, “While I can’t do much from here, you can. They won’t suspect you if you come back to collect my works.

Merik looked away, considering what was saying, “I may have been a part of your team, Morgo, but you lead us. How suspicious would it be if I, just a lab hand, showed up demanding your data and files?” Merik brushed aside strands of hair from his face, massaging his brow, “I don’t know, it’s risky business.”

Morgo was silent, brows knitting in an uncharacteristic display of emotion as she watched Merik continue his mental brooding.

“If the Jedi Order ever found out that you were researching such things—”

“They won’t.” Morgo said firmly, “Not if you stay silent.”

“But the things they’re doing to material they deem harmful—”

“Is monstrous and unforgivable.” Morgo hissed viciously, “Which is why this must be done now, Merik. You know my mother. If the Jedi ever come to Dromache again, searching to purge what they see as harmful, she’d hand over solid gold, or even pure ambergris and all its healing properties, if they asked her to—let alone my work.”

Merik breathed, slumping back in his chair, distressed. Morgo eyed him speculatively before speaking again.

“You said you wanted to help me, Merik.” She said levelly as she leaned closer, “Now is your chance. Recover my work, protect it from those who’d see it burn…” Morgo suffused her words with an edge of desperation and paused. Merik’s eyes found hers as he sensed her change of tone. Briefly she wondered whether or not to plead with him and bat her eyelashes, but quickly decided against the ploy. Better not to overplay her hand with someone who knew her well enough to recognize such a move.

“Besides,” she said, casting her eyes downwards coyly, “It’s not like I’m asking you to do this out of the goodness of your heart.” Morgo smirked, her painted lips quirking up, “I’m prepared to pay you for your efforts.”

Merik sighed wearily and waved a hand dismissively, “Come now, Morgo, don’t play this. You and I both know you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.” He grinned self-deprecatingly, “And that’s on a very good day.”

Against her will, Morgo turned a little green, “Oh Goddess, I’m going to be sick all over your finely shined boots. I was talking about credits, you fool— credits. Do you hear me, Merik?”

There was a long pause in which Merik said nothing, yet Morgo smiled inwardly and leaned back in her seat. Yes, Merik had heard her.

She watched him like hawk, seeing every miniscule movement of every muscle. First his back tensed, followed by rapid eye movement—a quickening of breath followed by an attempt to hide such an outward show of excitement. All these were the good signs. Yet when his brow furrowed, his eyes cast downwards and lips thinned in distress, coupled with a attempt to inhale and exhale deeply, Morgo was thrown off.

What was this? Guilt? Morgo narrowed her pale eyes, pausing to consider the man. But just as quickly as the expression of bizarre guilt had come, it left, replaced by a brooding kind of sheepishness, Merik's eyes still looking downwards.

"There's no need to feel guilty, Merik. Credits are good for the soul." Morgo pointed out mildly, though she remained wary of the man.

The blonde man huffed a laugh, "What a pair we make."Merik said uneasily, gripping the arm of his chair so tightly his knuckles went white, "Here I am, doing something for the credits it'll get me, when friendship should be the only thing motivating me. And here you are, telling me that credits are good for the soul when you don't even have a soul!"

"Hear, hear."

"Morgo this isn't funny!" Merik shot back, irritated, "I'm having a moral dilemma here and you're cheering for greed! Aren't you supposed to be telling me that this favor shouldn't be for anything save for the sake of our past friendship? That even mentioning credits cheapens what we used to be?"

He looked at Morgo intently, conflict in his green, green eyes. Morgo smiled, sweet as nothing, eyes nearly colorless in the pale stage lights, "On the contrary, darling. I wouldn't trust you if you hadn't been interested in the mention of credits. The bonds of friendship are overrated, Merik. I do not expect you to abide by them any more than I expect these people," Morgo gestured around them, "...to stand by those they call friends."

As she spoke, Morgo stood, placing two hands on the cold metal railing and leaning forward, looking over all the people below and around her. Turning her face, she watched as those within the other boxes chatted away, plotting, forming new alliances and dissolving bonds and oaths between those they'd called "friends".


"These nobles and politicians don't have friends. All they have are superficial alliances." Morgo trailed off, her gray eyes settling on a man in dark robes, just coming into his box, "Our contempt for humanity is too great for anything else more lasting." she finished absently, studying the man with a passing interest. He was far too young to be a senator, too young to be anything other than a noble—evident from the way he carried himself. The lighting was poor but Morgo could make out his dark hair, swept back across his head, pale white skin, and dark clothes that swayed around his limbs with every fluid movement.

Something about him drew her attention, something she could feel all the way across the space between them.

A silver droid had followed the man into his box, most likely to show the gentleman to his seat. Endearingly, the droid fussed about him, probably laboring to provide him with drink and company, seeing as the man was alone. Yet irritation flashed across his aristocratic features, a mild impatience in his stance as he waved the droid away.

Yes, the man was most definitely a noble

“You’re staring, Morgo.” Merik commented.

“Of course I’m staring, Merik.”

"It's not very nice." he chuckled, finding himself slipping back into their old rapport.

“It’s my right to stare." Morgo shot back haughtily, "You can’t do anything about it. You’ll never take me alive.”

It was nonsense, and she was only half-aware of what she was saying, but Merik cracked a wide smile, probably the most genuine she'd seen the entire night, if a little sad.

Morgo was about to comment on it, perhaps tease Merik for it when from the corner of her eye, the cloaked noble went to sit. As he did so, however, he swept his cloak behind him and hung it across the back of his chair. And suddenly, it was not the young man that arrested her attention anymore, but the bright metal hilt hanging from his hip—the hilt of a lightsaber. A Jedi .

Morgo paled but resisted the immediate urge to take a step back. So that was why she'd sensed something from him. Intrigued as she was about a Jedi attending opera, his presence still alarmed her. She wasn't so sure of how Coruscant operated nowadays, but Morgo knew enough to know that the Jedi were always a part of keeping the peace on the planet and galaxy-wide. And part of that meant arresting wanted criminals and fugitives— an unsavory minority that Morgo was now a part of.

"Morgo?"

"Hmm?" she answered, currently making note of all possible exits.

“You were saying something about the bonds of friendship. About how we aristocrats and politicians don't have any—and about how I should just accept my inner mercenary and be merry. In what world is that supposed to make me feel better about being paid off by a wanted criminal? ” Merik questioned, voice full of humor.

Careful of keeping her face calm, Morgo sat back down and primly crossed her legs, turning to look at Merik, " I wasn't aware that you were a 12-year old girl that needed to be reassured, Merik." she said, arching an eyebrow, "Everyone is a mercenary, to be bought and bribed in some way. The sooner everyone realizes it the sooner the galaxy and I will be friends."


Merik sipped his emerald wine, “Your faith in humanity is nothing short of heart-warming.”

Morgo was silent as she raised the teacup to her lips, her tea gone cold, “Give me one thing to have faith in, and I will.”

The man laughed, and it was a bright sound, his smile lighting up his face, “You're too clever by half."

"That's sharp of you." Morgo widened her eyes, mock shocked, "But flattery won't get you anywhere, Merik."

"I'm just glad we’re on the same side.”


Morgo huffed a short laugh, wondering whether she should maintain the friendly facade that would keep Merik on her side, or give in to the irresistible pull of honesty, and all the risks that entailed. In the end, however, insanity won out— as it usually did.

“Thinking we’re on the same side will only make it more painful when I inevitably stab you in the back, Merik. Or vice versa.”

But Merik took it all in stride and grinned, a smile so big it lit up half his face.

“A true friend stabs you in the chest, Morgo.”

She snorted, “I’ll hold you to that, then.”

Smirking, her eyes found their way back to the Jedi noble. Because that was the truth, wasn't it? Morgo's eyes zeroed in on the Jedi's lightsaber, and then the seat beside him—empty. In the end, if one's duty demanded too much obedience, or perhaps (and Morgo looked back up to the Jedi's face) if one's ambitions began to rise, eclipsing that point where 'friends' could once see eye-to-eye, those bonds would break. Blood would spill. And the those once called 'friends'... would turn.

But it wouldn't be a betrayal, per say—Morgo thought to herself as the lights dimmed, the stage illuminating itself—because a true friend stabs you in the chest. She smiled.

You'd see it coming.

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