"Anger. Fear and rage..."

Posted on Wed Mar 25th, 2015 @ 4:00am by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Morgo Le'Shaad

6,036 words; about a 30 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Prison Cells, Jericho
Timeline: After "Rend the Flesh I Wear"

OLD


Morgo did not doubt that the moment would pass, and whatever murderous haze she now floated in would be soon replaced by reality once more. But for now…Morgo felt the looseness of her limbs, the low hum of something just beneath the surface of her skin sing something lovely and perverse in her ear. For now, Morgo would enjoy the rare moment of stillness in her thoughts.

For the mind of Morgo Le’Shaad had a great many dark rooms. Navigating them took caution. Periodically airing one out took even greater caution.

Looking down at the mutilated corpses on the ground, Morgo considered the dangers of being around her when she did open a door to such a room.

And with eyes like the hollow death of stars, Morgo smiled like an open wound.


NEW

Some might have called it tender. Morgo, however, just thought it rather sad. As her eyes alighted on the figures of Thane and Bomoor, she found herself exhaling a sound not unlike a sigh.

Even separated, Thane and Bomoor had both managed to inch to the very edges of their adjacent cells, just to be nearer to one another. With both Jedi leaning like the filthy dead upon the durasteel bars of their prison cells, one might've mistaken them as simply sleeping. Morgo herself felt like sleeping, her muscles burning and weak from their recent exertion in battle. As it was, her body was unaccustomed to such intensive work, running on pure adrenaline that was beginning to dissipate from her system. Morgo could already feel the trembling begin.

Wasting no more time in loitering, Morgo bent forwards to pick up the scattered pieces of her equipment from her cell, lifting various glass hyposprays from the ground with care. Dusting one off, she approached Thane's slumped body and crouched, her joints cracking. Her focused gaze flicked about about his person, scanning for injuries and cataloging the details of his condition with clinical efficiency. As she did so, Morgo slipped her bloodied fingers into a pocket near her hip, tugging out a wrinkled pair of maroon gloves. Snapping them on, Morgo's tired thoughts doubted the sterility of the things. Yet, any defense against further contaminating Thane and Bomoor's grievous injuries was better than none. Lifting a slippery intestine off of Thane's lap, Morgo braced Thane's face between her gloved hands and gently rotated his face towards her. Against the deathly pallor of his swollen face, the maroon of Morgo's gloves were vibrant against his skin as she pulled up an eyelid with her thumb and observed his pupil contract within the blue of his iris.

With one hand, Morgo grasped his chin, and with the other, she slid two fingers into his mouth against his gum line. When she drew them back, the surface of her gloves were conspicuously absent of much saliva. Thane did little more than groan weakly at the manhandling, before Morgo depressed a hypo-spray at the junction between his neck and his shoulder. It hissed lightly as the cyan liquid dispersed into his system.

Rising to her feet, Morgo blinked down at Thane and dropped one of the Trandoshan's sacs she'd harvested onto his lap, watching it jiggle, the liquid within sloshing about within the thin membranous tissue. He would be rousing shortly, as her own cocktail of stimulants and healing compounds did its work within his body. She would definitely have to see to Thane's fingers when he woke, as well as the open wounds peppered along his skin, but Bomoor needed to be woken before she attended to anything else. Pausing a moment to run her eyes along his black and blue face, Morgo did not deny that seeing Thane in such a pathetic state quenched a low burning ember at the back of her mind. To say she was pleased to see Thane had suffered after their disagreement wouldn't be strictly true. But as she turned, flipping her loose hair over her shoulder, Morgo considered that she wasn't quite displeased with the way things had turned out, either.

Scooping up the ring of keys from the cool corpse sitting next to Thane, Morgo strode out of the cell and picked a particularly worn looking key to fit into the door of Bomoor's prison. Within the keyhole, the iron key clicked against the tumblers with a satisfying sound, and Morgo smirked as she turned it. The door to Bomoor's cell swung open with a rusty whine as Morgo approached the Ithorian, deftly side stepping several servings of rancid meat and what she suspected were feces. Lowering to her knees before the Ithorian, the grey tinge to his skin was not a good sign. Raising her hands to inspect both of Bomoor's mouths, the dryness of his gums was similar to Thane's level of dehydration. Massaging along Bomoor's throat with forceful fingers, Morgo was pleased that his throat sack seemed intact, if a little swollen. They would need his powerful shout if they were to escape this fortress alive. Carefully flipping his arm to feel for a pulse, Morgo was relieved to feel a faint but steady throbbing, there beneath his rough skin. Compared to Thane, Bomoor's pulse was sluggish, but perfectly within normal range for a male Ithorian his age.

As she worked, Morgo considered that she had not known Bomoor as well as she knew the others on the Red Raptor. All that she gleaned of him was that he was a gentle individual, of calm disposition and a kinder temper than Thane's. Reaching out to pick a piece of straw from Bomoor's ruined clothing, Morgo tilted her face with a thoughtful expression as she considered the Ithorian, his breaths heavy and warm on her skin. So much had happened to the kindly Jedi, for no reason other than he had foolishly followed his friend into the depths of Jericho, without question. Blinking slowly, Morgo wondered if the events suffered here would leave a lasting scar upon him.

Finally depressing a hypospray into his bicep, the lavender liquid—uniquely tailored to Bomoor's physiology—disappeared into his body. Cursory exams for both males had been necessary to determine if her dosage of stimulants and nourishment would aid them at all, or end up overloading their sensitive systems and killing them. Assured by the signs, Morgo was hopeful that they would regain consciousness as well as their strength.

Setting the second Trandoshan sac of liquid onto Bomoor's lap, Morgo rolled back on the balls of her feet and stood, stepping out of the cell and standing back along the damp wall, the rusted bars of their prisons separating Thane and Bomoor from Morgo.

As there was no telling just how Thane and Bomoor would react to the drugs in their system, the noblewoman preferred her nose intact if one of them thrashed back into consciousness. Eyes keenly observing the pair, Morgo waited.

Several slow moments passed the reunited trio by. The hulking Ithorian mass and his Human counterpart, just inches away from each other, were almost still but for the slow, weak heaving that came care of their breathing, affording them just the barest hint of visible life.

Battling imagined obscurities and spectres of friends and foes come to taunt him; Thane had felt at his weakest, slipping further and further away from the world around him. Less and less had he been aware of the cell that had become his existence, no longer knowingly conversing with Bomoor as his mouth dried up and words came less readily. Even the rancid stench that permeated the cells had at first become familiar, to then something he no longer even noticed. To him, the cell had become nothing more than a setting that would shrink and shift to forge new settings for his ghosts to haunt him.

The dirt, the bars, the jailers – they would all contort into new shapes as his mind spun, forcing Thane to rest his good hand upon the trembling ground to stop himself from slumping in the sensory miasma that increasingly frequently assaulted him in his feverish state. It was a rare moment that lucidity rewarded him with a view of the passageway beyond his cell, and rarer still that he took note of what transpired beyond.

What Thane perceived to be just moments prior, the poisoned beauty of Axion’s Nautolan apprentice, another of his mind’s shades, had melted away, replaced instead by the manic, angular features of Morgo Le’Shaad, somehow transporting herself from beyond the bars to his side, as if ready to pounce. Sharp teeth had protruded from her mouth as she looked about to tear his jugular from his throat.

He had recoiled from the sight, wincing in the hopes of pushing away the guilt and frustration she represented to the remnants of his vaguely-conscious mind, what remained of his voice lurching forth in fear. Mutterings that meant nothing to his ears had ensued, as well as the odd sensation that troubled his burning skin. Slipping away once more, it was only now that he began to sense a heat across his lap, simply assuming nature had taken its course during his lack of mobility, not that his embarrassment could run any deeper.

And then he jolted, the pain that had become so familiar yet dulled seemingly refreshed and terribly apparent, forcing his reddened eyes open and his muscles to involuntarily contract and cramp, bringing new discomfort to his frail body. Mind rushing to the fore as though all hinged on his awareness of the moment, the rogue and broken Jedi instinctively gripped his pained legs, the action itself reminding him of his shattered half-hand.

Panicked and now suddenly alert, his wearied eyes shot from one object to the next, appraising his surroundings as a wounded animal caught in a hunter’s trap searched for the predator’s inevitable killing blow, when suddenly there was a hollow thud from the adjacent cage as both of Bomoor’s legs leapt with a sudden jolt before returning to the sodden ground with a firm impact, drawing Thane’s piercing animalistic stare towards his leathery counterpart.

The stimulant had finally taken effect on his body and the Ithorian was jerked back to lucidity. For the first time in days, his eyelids were open wide, revealing two jet black orbs glinting with the dim yellow reflection of the flickering light strips lining the ceiling. His trunk sunk up and down with the rhythm of his heavy breathing, which forced its way out of his lips like a weathered growl.

For a moment, he could only stare ahead; seeing the incomplete body of his Trandoshan captor lying a short distance from the now-open doorway, he was caught in a realm of disbelief and confusion. The life he had accepted now lay in as many pieces as Kolk, swimming in the dirtied green vital fluid that had once sustained that life. He felt a deep loss he could not explain and a sharp anger that was directed, not at anything or anyone physical, but at the dark futility of the life he had lost.

Yet somehow he had been revived from that death, where Kolk had not; something had changed his fate. Another ripple of chemical energy spread through his limbs and his long arm clattered against the bars beside him. He angled his head to look towards the sound and was met by the gaze of Morgo Le’Shaad. He then recalled the glimpse of hair he had seen before and understood the form that his salvation had taken. He saw her now as both the destroyer of that old world and the crafter of the new one. He saw it in the way her graceful form still prevailed through the coat of blood she now wore.

Through low fanning lashes, Morgo looked from Bomoor to Thane, the white tips of her teeth peeking out to idly scrape droplets of dried blood from her bottom lip.

“Drink.” She said plainly, looking down at their laps in lieu of a gesture. She’d harvested the Trandoshan’s life water for their benefit, abstaining from it herself in a generous gesture that quaintly reminded Morgo of the primitive Humans. Tales of the way the men would savagely hunt and bring back carcasses to their females in an offer of mating washed through the thicket of her thoughts like clear water. Lips twisting up into a not-smile, Morgo wondered if this made Thane and Bomoor her cave-wives.

Morgo was not a nurse by temperament or by profession, but she would help the recovering Jedi drink if she had to. First, however, she wanted to test their coordination. Gripping the sac of flesh and squeezing the water into their mouths was not a difficult task, yet if either of them struggled to drink, Morgo would know something deeper was wrong.

Hearing the lone word tumble from her marked lips, it somehow seemed alien to Thane although the meaning was still known to him. His breathing fast and eyes wide, they dropped to look at the bulbous, slime-slicked orb resting in his lap, causing a sharp and painful intake of breath, pushing his back straighter against the wall. As he did so, his attention was drawn immediately to the corpse beside him; gored and blank-faced though the man was, the colours were increasingly vivid, almost as though they were intent on blinding the Force-absent Jedi with their vivacity.

Ire rising, the sound of ruckus applause, jeering and the shattering of bones flooded the Human’s thoughts, and his hand throbbed harder than before, as if the damage were new. The metallic shifting that accented the background and general noise of this ancient station grated loudly in his head, and he raised his good hand to his temple in pain and frustration, closing shut his eyes as he struggled to make sense of what was now happening, head pummelled by his swirling and terribly alive surroundings, a cacophony of voice and noises battering him into submission once more.

Anger. Fear and rage, he heard. Anger. Fear and rage.

Thane gritted his teeth as he tried to reach out with the Force to either silence or claim the ramblings, but nothing answered, only the screaming in his mind and the pain in his body. A rich, fresh yet familiar heat grew in his chest, the burning hatred he had come to know and draw comfort from spreading out from his chest. His nose, for the first time since he last tasted the emancipation of battle, seemed to clear, sucking deeply on the air, stale as it was.

Heart pounding faster, a metallic taste saturated his mouth and he felt compelled to rise. The discomfort in his unused and undernourished joints meant nothing as he managed to tear his eyelids apart, and his gaze settled on the blood-soaked figure just feet before him. Seized by an uncontrollable bloodlust, Thane took two stilted strides forward, the rags of his black robes, marred as they were by dried blood, tears that exposed mottled flesh and dirt that caked it all, fluttering as his legs rediscovered their purpose.

Anger, it said, fear and rage. He then lunged forward, compelled by the screams, the laughter of the audience and the pounding in his skull to destroy the foe before him. Moving with a speed unnatural to him without the Force, the Caanan was surprisingly nimble as he wasted no time in closing the gap between himself the murderess, throwing his full weight against her lithe frame before she could react, and his left hand quickly found its way about her throat as he held her against the wall alongside him.

His forehead resting against the wall, the coolness of the metal - however rusted, aged and dirtied - pleasant against his throbbing cranium, Thane’s cracked lips came to rest beside her ear, strands of her hair caught near his mouth as a rasping sound crawled from his throat. “What have you done?” He hissed, barely containing the panic that gripped him, not entirely sure himself what the question was in regards to. The blood? The corpses? Him?

Anger. Fear and rage. He let out a slow, low breath as he felt his fingers tightening about her windpipe, the grooves of her trachea abundantly obvious to his fingertips as his senses screamed at him. And that scent. That familiar scent that now assaulted his nasal passage. Sacrifice.

With his hand around her throat, Morgo was pinned to the wall with his newfound strength, the back of her head knocking harshly against the wall behind her. The little hairs of her neck stood on end as Thane's sour breath tickled the sensitive skin there, his voice rough and worn compared to when Morgo had heard it last.

"What," She struggled to repeat his question, swallowing air around Thane's tightening grip, "What have I done?" She gasped, eyes narrowed at Thane in sharp irritation.

Chuckling bitterly on what little oxygen she had left, the choked sound of it was only slightly more melodic than the grinding of ice diamonds. Coughing on the last note of her low laughter, Morgo saw the edges of her vision darken, the tightness in her lungs a burning reminder that perhaps, laughing wasn't the best use of what air she had. Wrenching forwards off the wall and taking Thane with her, Morgo's voice was a torn mess.

"I've saved your pathetic life." she snarled, shoving him backwards into the steel bars. Without remorse, Morgo raised her hand and stabbed a maroon thumb into Thane's maddened eye, evoking a sharp cry from the man as she brought her heel down hard onto his shin. As she felt his strangle hold on her loosen, Morgo reached for the knife at her hip.

"Now, stand down, Thane." Morgo ordered sharply, her hair whipping forwards as she danced away, light feet shuffling on the ground, "Or I promise," she threatened darkly, "you will bleed before I am through."

Bomoor's shaky eyes were fixed on the pair, seeing the urge for violence in each of them; Morgo relishing in the thrill of her recent kills and Thane striking out in anger and confusion, "Thane!" he hollowed in a dry voice, "What are you doing?"

Cupping his face in a dirtied hand, Thane, still letting out a low hiss, had taken some steps back, in fact almost losing his balance as he had done so. Exhaling and calming as much as he could, more tangible thoughts accompanied the familiar baritone of his Ithorian friend, the alarm and necessity that had driven him just moments before giving way to a eclectic combination of exhaustion and adrenaline-fuelled excitement, the Caanan's chest pounding.

As much of the pain in his eye passed, or perhaps just fleeting in whatever chemical trance he was now lost within, Thane brought his hand away, letting it run down his grimy face. Where once smooth, shaven skin had greeted his fingertips, dirt-encrusted digits caught rough, unkempt whiskers, the skin underneath sore to the touch. The madness passing as memories coalesced, several long moments slipped by, he then noted, with Bomoor and Morgo standing their respective grounds, staring him down.

Not yet raising his eyes to them, shaky though his vision was despite the growing effects of whatever stimulants had been introduced to his body - again - he inspected the withered form of his right hand, twisted and broken and a sickening sight to the once proud Jedi. Grimacing, not in pain but in disgust, Thane finally raised his head to consider the woman before him. His saviour.

"You came for us," he managed, the simple observation somewhat open-ended as to its tone as he remained leaning. With each passing second, sounds and smells became ever more intense, the shivers that would typically accompany a good stretch tingling about his frame almost with a fury that reminded him of the heat of battle. Despite himself, Thane felt a peculiar warmth at regarding those piercing grey Dromachean eyes, only now truly accepting it was not another trick of a collapsing mind.

"Noticed that, did you?" Morgo replied levelly, her voice clipped and her poise still wary of an attack. Within her blood-crusted grip, the metal of the knife was beginning to warm from her body's heat. Yet from the way awareness was slowly slipping back into Thane's eyes, Morgo doubted that she would need to use the weapon.

Resisting the urge to massage the abused skin of her neck, Morgo was certain that if the Trandoshan's attempt at strangulation hadn't already gifted her with a pretty ring of bruises, Thane's assault would no doubt add its mark. Already, she could feel the little crescents of blood welling where his fingernails had broken the delicate skin there, and Morgo imagined a new set of blossoming bruises would soon complete her lovely new necklace.

As far as gifts of gratitude went, Morgo thought this one was rather... lacking.

Thane let the snide comment slip. Whilst he was usually find such a trademark response somewhat irksome, he was both too wearied and focus on other considerations to bother forming his own retort. In truth, that glimmer of warmth within him was fanned further by the familiar attitude. Regarding her now, marks across her svelte figure, he recognised she had suffered injury in her efforts, yet had proceeded nonetheless.

Whatever ambitions that drove her forward or pretences she maintained in regards to her companionship to the crew of the Red Raptor, Thane in particular, she had still willingly put herself into harm's way to reach this point now. Undoubtedly well-calculated and methodically planned, Thane recognised something other than self-preservation or an incorrigibly eager Bería had brought her to this place - to them - to go against the nature and instincts that so clearly guided her in her seemingly vainglorious, conceited life.

For the moment, haunted as he already had been for the unknown amount of time he had been prison to both the Exiles and his own withering conscience, Thane put the thought of his informal pupil aside. His eyes dropping to regard the corpses littered about them, the rogue Jedi was grateful, genuinely. More concerning, however, was that he was impressed.

"Thank you, Morgo," he said honestly, mustering as much clarity as he could in his hoarse tones, his pride willing him to maintain eye contact despite the searing dryness of his eyes.

Straightening, Morgo sheathed her knife and considered Thane with a careful look. Perhaps she would have to check Thane for a concussion as well. If he continued to act like a decent human being, Morgo feared permanent brain damage was in play.

“It was my pleasure.” She replied in a low voice, the words strangely thick as her eyes tracked over the disemboweled dead littered upon the ground, before returning to Thane face, the whites of his eyes shot through with red. Slipping her fingers into a pocket, Morgo slid a small pot of bacta from its depths.

"But if it’s all the same to you both, I’d like to conclude my business here before the Exiles come back to finish what they started.” Morgo continued, an edge slipping into her tone as she brushed past Thane into the cell he’d been imprisoned. Bending low, Morgo picked up the fleshy sac of fluid from the ground. Within it, the thickening fluid sloshed about. Morgo did not envy Thane and Bomoor their tonic.

“Drink.” She said simply as she handed the pale organ back to Thane with an outstretched hand, turning to meet Bomoor’s dark eyes through the bars of the cell, “It will be the only clean water afforded to you until we escape.”

Bomoor relaxed a little as Thane did, knowing that the darkness had not yet taken his friend's rational mind. Morgo, too seemed to have soothed slightly but still spoke with conviction. Despite her current appearance looking like the last doctor you would put your faith in, the Ithorian trusted in her knowledge.

He looked down at the fleshy sack that still sat between his legs, "Water?" he quizzed in a low tone, misunderstanding the nature of the object. He looked back up and saw how Morgo undid the knotted opening to the organ and offered the liquid within to Thane. He reached down for his own; long fingers struggling to get a grasp on the slippery surface. The knot came loose relatively easily and he brought the opening to his right mouth.

It was indeed water and mostly pure, save for a slight tang of blood with the first few sips. Bomoor was unsure whether it was from the organ's donor or his own but this became less concerning to him as more of the water flowed down his parched throat, flushing away much of the blood and dirt that clung to his inner passages. The flow quickly came to an end, however, and he put the emptied organ aside on the ground. It would rot away in the filth with the rest of Kolk's hollow corpse.

Bomoor sighed with slightly more strength than before and looked once again to Morgo in the cage beside him, "You have my thanks as well, Morgo," he nodded, "I may yet have the strength to leave this place, which, until a moment ago, felt like the impossible."

"It may yet be impossible." Morgo warned, the ominous tone of her words colored by the foreign lilt of her Svartan accent, more discernible now in her fatigue. "Much rides on variables that are no longer in my hands." She said, sounding vaguely mournful, her gaze growing distant as her thoughts turned towards Sev Rezer—a key component to her plan. He was a warrior of the highest caliber, but the battle he now fought was not one of weapons. Somehow, Jericho had switched the roles of Sev and Morgo, laying the slain at her feet and honed deception on Sev's tongue, instead. The time for battle would soon be upon them, but if Sev was going to fight and emerge victorious, he would need aid.

Blinking away her concerns, Morgo's shadowed gaze lowered to the fetid robes still clinging in damp areas to Thane and Bomoor, reeking of shit and urine. With a tired flick of her wrist, Morgo motioned for the pair to disrobe as she made for the warden's table. In another lifetime, on another planet, a fleet of nurses would have already cut the offending robes from Thane and Bomoor's bodies in preparation for Morgo's hands.

"It's a dangerous game we're playing with Zrad Rezer. But if you both want to even the odds, give me your wounds. I need you in fighting condition." Morgo declared with eyes half-lidded, slipping the dermal regenerator like a ring onto her middle-finger, its face on the underside of her hand. The delicate device of foreign design rested at the center of her hand, round and flat—its center opal like in its iridescence.

"And please, spare me your modesty. There's no room for it here." She added smoothly, spreading out her equipment on the cleanest patch of table available.

As a first with this woman, Thane did as he was bade. First, he copied his friend in gorging upon the sac's contents, the fluid of which had so recently formed a part of another sentient's very living existence, a notion he could not help but consider as it gushed down his throat. Painful as it was and the taste aside, the sensation and feeling that came just moments after was invigorating and relaxing, entirely like coming upon a moisture farm after an arduous journey across the sands of Tatooine.

Secondly, with that accomplished, he let the emptied fleshy pouch drop to the floor, stepping over it as he moved towards Morgo, disrobing in the same motion. Doing his utmost to retain some level of dignity as he did so, Thane used his good hand to pull away at his tattered robes. Wincing, the Jedi once again cursed the Force's absence at such minor injuries plaguing him; he had to peel a portion of the black fabric away from his back, the motion tearing some skin from a viscous wound.

Noting a dull ache in his side and back, he saw it was matched by large and remarkable bruising all across his abdomen, especially on the left side. Although he barely recalled the incident, the Human knew this particular gift was courtesy of Bomoor when they were forced to engage one another in that pit. Only sparing the Ithorian a brief glance, he once again set about removing the remainder of his clothes. Considering their circumstances - his embarrassment and failure - he was past matters of modesty at this juncture.

Presenting himself to the former duchess now in this state, naked and past defeated, Thane elected to say nothing, silently accepting of his error, seething with an unspoken fury and deliberating his position - and who he was; who he wanted to be.

At first, that righteous, unspoken fury had been directed at the Exiles. Whilst his conscious mind had slowly receded and faded as he was further subject to torment and malnourishment as well as having the Force torn from him – a pain so abstract yet fervently apparent – he had soon directed that righteous fury at the one who deserved it. Himself.

So eager to see this mission through, he had put himself and his closest and oldest friend in jeopardy, relying upon suspect knowledge garnered from a distant source in regards to an uncertain target. So sure of himself and even that of his ally, he had miscalculated and brought suffering to not only themselves, but those reliant upon them. Through his error and inability, Bería would be without true guidance, left to the devices of the Jedi or the wider galaxy, a place that – whilst she may survive – would not treat her well or see her live up to her potential.

And then there was the Sith.

His body and mind beaten, some thoughts had nevertheless converged, and he had even considered the notion that the majesty and might the Sith could provide may also be lost along with him; so many had grasped at the mantle of Sith Lord, yet so few had been worthy or capable. What if that was lost?

Briefly drawn away by a sudden and growing pain in his empty stomach brought about his recent consumption, Thane let his focus settle upon Morgo once more, assessing the enormity of what she may have truly done. So nearly had the grandeur he was barely brushing with his fingertips been lost, only to be saved by the intervention of this woman. Thane wondered if this was what some Jedi perceived as a 'shatterpoint', where events could so easily diverge, the tendrils of endless possibilities tangling and dancing within the Force.

Suspect though he was of destiny and the apparent manipulations of the Force upon the material world, the lost Jedi could not help but be amused by the notion of a woman absent in the Force having such an impact upon it. Knowing what almost slipped by due to his weakness in coming to Jericho, a certainty began to spread through him - a conviction to embrace what was on offer, what he could claim.

Anger. Fear and rage, he mentally mused. Sacrifice. He awaited Morgo's treatment.

It was an additional pain to bear looking, as Bomoor did, upon his handiwork carved into Thane’s pale flesh. While Bomoor was aware of his own afflictions, delivered by his friend and partner, he knew his tough hide was unlikely to show any scarring; Thane would undoubtedly be less lucky. Slowly pulling himself up from the floor, the large sentient felt the damp material on the floor clinging to his backside.

He brought himself to the table’s side, where Thane lay, and his eyes were drawn to the dark stain covering his right hand where blood pooled from burst blood vessels around the shattered bones. That injury was particularly bad and it seemed unlikely that much of the hand could be salvaged. He thought briefly about the many wondrous prosthetics that were available in the core worlds for such an injury: limbs that moved and felt like living flesh but with the core of a machine. As the Jedi learnt with their lightsabers, a machine could be an extension of the body and even be made to channel the force. Still, once gone, there was nothing that could completely replace that muscle, bone and flesh lost.

Raising his neck, he caught the deep eyes of Morgo that gestured for him to do as he had been instructed and remove his clothing. By this point, most of Bomoor’s upper garments had been torn away: one of his favoured blue synfleece shirts, tattered beyond repair. With tug, the Ithorian ripped the rest of it away, looking at it with mild frustration before tossing it away. The tough hide of his belt was still largely intact and he unfastened this, allowing him to pull his filthy trousers down and off, around his wide feet.

After doing so, he returned Morgo’s glance but found her already working away at Thane’s wounds with a surprising arsenal of medical tools produced from the twists and turns of her hair.

To Morgo, falling back into the role of physician was like slipping on an old garment—it may have been a little tight, an inch or three too short at the wrists, but it fit for the most part. It was a skin that was familiar and soft in all the ways that old things were, but made all the places that had been ill fitting all the more obvious.

Morgo raked her eyes across the bare bodies of Thane and Bomoor with a detached sort of interest, a clinical appraisal devoid of prurience or judgement, yet oddly intense. As she mentally catalogued the vast display of injuries scattered across the bodies of Thane and Bomoor, Morgo was reminded of the complaints the Elders of Dromache had relayed to her from her first patients. The words ‘be more gentle’, ‘your intensity frightens’, and ‘they feel like market meat under your eye’ seemed to come to mind when she thought of her first years in the clinics. It was a part of the reason Morgo had retired her practice so early on, to focus on her work in the laboratory. It turned out that Morgo got on much better with people when they were ‘subjects’, rather than ‘patients’.

Looking down at Thane, Morgo was reminded of how young he really was. His face smeared with dirt and blood, Thane looked like boy who’d picked one fight too many, and was now being stripped and punished for his insolence. Blinking, Morgo twisted open a jar of bacta, and ran a finger along the inner lid, her maroon finger coming away wet with the translucent gel.

If any spite remained in Morgo’s mind, one look into the red eyes of Thane was enough to soothe its residual heat. For within his sunken eyes, defeat showed clearer than any rage, blended with a dark, crushing shame that had nothing to do with his nakedness. Upon his shoulders seemed to sit the heavy yoke of failure, his posture a far cry from the proud man she had first seen in the opera house on Coruscant. And so it was with a silent sort of awareness that Morgo stepped closer to him, brushing away a matted lock of his brown hair to smear bacta upon the deeper cuts of his forehead and face—satisfied with knowing that no amount of her censure would inflict the kind of pain Thane was already inflicting upon himself.

TBC

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