Secrets Secrets Are So Fun, Secrets Secrets Hurt Someone

Posted on Mon Mar 18th, 2013 @ 5:16am by Morgo Le'Shaad
Edited on on Mon Mar 18th, 2013 @ 5:20am

1,490 words; about a 7 minute read

Chapter: Chapter III: Relics
Location: Medical Bay, Red Raptor
Timeline: Very Late, Day Eleven (After "A Berry a Day Keeps the Doctor At Bay"

It was late.

Late enough, perhaps, that most of the crew was either winding down or already in bed. At this very moment, Berry, Sev and Kip were in their cabins sleeping, Bomoor was probably meditating or asleep, leaving Thane as the one in the ‘fresher.

Which meant it was the perfect to time to begin.

Walking barefoot in the Medical Bay, her domain, Morgo crossed the room to the doorway from which she leaned out to check the hallway. Once she was satisfied and sure that she was truly alone, Morgo waved the thick, laboratory doors closed, and they shut with a hiss.

“Lock.” And the sound of heavy metal sliding into place was almost comforting. On her own time, Morgo had installed precautionary measures and programmed two passcodes into the Medical Bay’s locking mechanism—one to unlock and open the door, and one to melt the locks and weld the door itself shut.

As experience has taught her, it was always better to be safe than sorry. Of course it wouldn't stop a grenade or two, but Morgo doubted anyone would be interested enough in her lab to whip out those.

Assured of her security measures, Morgo padded over to the countertop, from which she slowly began laying out the many things she’d…. collected in her time aboard the ship.

One hair from Thane’s head.

One saliva sample from Sev Rezer’s energy bar.

One saliva sample from a glass used by Kip.

One blood sample from a swab used on Berry’s abdominal injuries.

And the hardest to procure, one hair from Bomoor—taken from the fresher. Testing to differentiate an Ithorian’s hair from the many other hairs in the fresher had been a tedious task. But hopefully, the results would be well worth it.

No doubt the crew would be furious to know that a part of themselves were stolen without their consent. But then again, to the true scientist, when did consent ever matter? A horrible thing to say, but a truth that Morgo had learned at a young age. A very young age.

Wordlessly, Morgo slid open a drawer, taking in hand a stack of folders, each dyed a different color, leaving the white folder at the bottom of the drawer alone as she pushed it closed.

Seamlessly spreading them on a tabletop like a dealer would a deck of cards, Morgo ran her fingers over all of them. One folder for every crewmember aboard this ship.

None of the dyed folders bore any names but to Morgo, it made perfect sense.

For Berry there was cerulean blue, the color of Velusia’s vast oceans, and the color of hidden depth. For Sev there was red, the color of virility and strength, but also the color of shame. For Bomoor was a vibrant green, the color life for he was a firm believer in the Living Force, and also the color of the naive. For Kip there was black, the color of mystery and the color of understated power. And for Thane there was purple, the color that induced vomiting.

Morgo smiled faintly, allowing real mirth to color it. Was that a joke she just made? Shaking her head at what she was becoming, Morgo reminded herself of the task laid before her, and got back on track. For Thane was purple because it was the color of rarity and nobility, but also the color of distant and secret mourning.

Morgo had opened files on all the crew the day she’d finally been introduced to them all, but only now would she have something to put in all of them. With a flick of her wrist, Morgo opened all of them, their flaps wide as they laid there, open and bare for Morgo to dissect and study.

“Yes, your turns will come.” Morgo said into the empty air, “But Ladies first is the way it goes, no?”

Snapping on a pair of gloves, Morgo retrieved the white file from the drawer from before, placing it beside the microscope before rolling up her own sleeve and deftly tearing open a disinfecting wipe, swabbing the crook of her arm with it. With a metal tourniquet that automatically wrapped itself around her upper arm like a silver bracelet, slowing blood flow to her lower arm, Morgo opened a cabinet and retrieved a syringe.

Clinically slipping the needle into her median cubital vein, Morgo watched as her crimson blood spurted into the syringe with little interest. After all, if you’d drawn your own blood a thousand times over, the process became little more than tedious. As the syringe filled with her blood, Morgo finally withdrew the syringe from the site of venipuncture, and quickly smoothed on a bandage over it.

Removing the vial from the needle with a small click, Morgo tossed the used swab and the syringe needle head into the disposal chute, bringing the vial of blood up to her eye.

The procedure for examining fluids and tissue under a microscope on Dromache was a simple and quick process. But as she was on a spaceship with none of the sophisticated technology of a proper laboratory, Morgo would have to make do with more… old fashioned methods.

From the vial, Morgo removed two drops of her blood. And pipetting them onto a clean glass microscope slide, Morgo added a blood thinning solution to keep her blood sample from coagulating while she worked, and covered the slide with a clear plastic square, watching as her blood flattened and spread along the glass slide. Finally placing her sample of blood beneath her new, binocular microscope, Morgo fiddled with the instruments dials and buttons, zooming, switching powers and refocusing until she found what she was looking for. With technology like this, there was no need for dyes to distinguish organelles from inside cells, and all Morgo had to do was have the instrument contrast it for her. Flicking the contrast-view on, Morgo’s eyes narrowed, looking through the ocular lens.

“There you are, you little bastards.”

For there in the microscope was the little blue organelle known to the galaxy as a midi-chlorian.

Normally, they were little oval organisms, found living within the cells of beings. But what Morgo was seeing was a misshapen little thing, jerking about as died. To anybody else, it would’ve been an ugly, deformed organism, but to Morgo it was beautiful.

To Morgo, it was the defeat of the Force. The midi-chlorians she was seeing, after all had come from her own blood. And Morgo herself was…defective.

“Look at you.” Morgo breathed, zooming in slightly on the malformed being, “So, utterly pathetic. Because for once, your game hasn’t worked, has it? You’ve been beaten.”

And smiling coldly, Morgo paused to watch the midi-chlorian dance.

“They call you the Unifying or sometimes the Living Force. But you are nothing so divine, so benevolent as that, are you? Because I’ve seen your handiwork. Empires have risen and fallen at your command on a whim—and all because of your little pushed and nudges, your whispers and callings. Your Sith and your Jedi, your Darths and your Knights.”

And leaning away from the microscope lens, Morgo picked up the Sith holocron beside it. Darth Krayt’s holocron, still stinking of the Whiphid’s den of filth. Raising the holocron so that it was eye level, Morgo inspected it, twisting it in the light.

Here was one such example. Another Force-sensitive, high on his power, feeling that because he had such power at his fingertips that it entitled him to inflict himself upon the entire galaxy. But then again, Morgo could hardly blame the man. The Force tended to have that effect on those who could sense it—this overwhelming need to do something insane on a galaxy wide scale. Like conquer it and run it with a band of sociopaths at your side. Or perhaps spread love and peace and hypocrisy like a disease, with Coruscant as the heart of the cancer.

It was a wearying cycle, a tug of war between the two sides of the Force that had torn the galaxy apart time and time again. That the rest of the galaxy did not see that the Force as an sentient entity had been behind it all was beyond Morgo. And there was only one way to prevent it all from happening again, and again until not a living soul was left in the galaxy.

To kill the Force. Or at least, to deafen the galaxy from hearing it’s siren call…before they were all dashed upon the rocks again by Force-sensitives and their delusions.

And setting the holocron down, pale gray eyes flickered back to the microscope.

It was time to get to work.

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