Master Apprentice
Archive
Stoicheia 13: Rubidium
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I'm swimming in a strange uncharted sea
Where no one's ever seen the shore
But I don't want to hear no more
Let me be
On my own
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Naboo. Bloody Naboo with its culture and its chattering political arty
pretty crowds. Oh no, it's not hard to get information from them, they're
quite happy to babble on about how these two great big formidable Jedi saved
their petty queen... they fill my ears with their vainglorious babbling, and
I find myself wanting to strangle them until their pleasant, sweet-accented
voices die in their throats and they clatter to the clean-swept pavements in
their pathetic civilian-voluntary armour...
Tracking them has become too easy. Too easy. It's becoming invisible that is
impossible. With dozens of clingy friendly Naboo all over the place (not to
mention those brainless beasts from the swamps whose minds are too
midge-like to even succumb to mind tricking) I have fast become the Jedi
groupie. Not good. They know what I look like, and I split my efforts
between muddling the memory banks of smiling honey-eyed locals and keeping
track of my prey... Naboo, bloody Naboo...
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Cause I have grown to be a man
This bird has flown but no one can
Tell me
Where I'm going to and what it's meant to be
Do you feel the same?
When all I really know is that time is running out on me...
No matter what you say or what you do:
we're only halfway through
So be polite and shut up now like all the other good boys do.
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Thought you would. Not much resisting to do when you're a pretty young city
boy faced with a well-placed Force constriction around your throat. Look, I
don't want you to tell me where I'm going, everyone here seems to know that
already, and it's only a matter of time until the shady client finds out and
then what? I don't have much time and even less direction... I need to blend
in, boy, and you will provide. Just your clothes, there, look at that pretty
limp body, all slender and smooth and ivory... I would have a taste of you,
lad, as you're lying across my thighs sweet and unconscious... if only we
were safe... my fingers itch to rake down your perfect pale chest, leaving
bright pink streaks... don't stir, Sithspawn... don't get me wrong, I love
it when they struggle, but time is of the essence here, and for once I need
your clothes unharmed... there. One pair of fine black boots in exchange for
your faded blue moccasins. That jacket of yours is too long for me, boy, but
it'll hide me... look at those thighs, will you? Oh, I would take your body
if I could, to hide in, or to plunge into anyway, the perfect camouflage or
the perfect possession... you look so vulnerable under the growing pile of
black clothing, sketched across your limp white limbs like splashes of
ink... so vulnerable. Your hat, boy. My hair is a touch darker than yours,
just a touch.
They might just take you for me when they find you. I wish you a sweet
awakening. Sweet, and violent. Violence on the streets is something you'll
have to get used to, boy. There's a war coming, you know?
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I want to have it my own way
I'm waiting on my lucky day
I keep waiting, I'm still waiting for the change.
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It's easier now, as one of them. More energy for tracking, less for
mind-muddling. Still can't be careful enough. The Federation are on planet,
huge army of droids, and surveillance. To make matters worse, everyone knows
the Jedi are alive. So the Client knows, and I'll be damned if those cowards
haven't given them an exact description, name and number and all.
Getting information without being recognised is getting harder. I feel my
image spreading in the blissfully unshielded minds of the lame excuse for
security on Naboo. Those Trade types must have spread my image around then.
A traitor, is that what they're making me out to be? Sith. Off-planet would
be good now. But getting off-planet without getting my mug recognised in a
spaceport? Rich and famous, and what good is it now, Lord te Crion? Sith,
pulling strings is never as hard as when you're in someone else's body, and
in danger of getting your throat slit if you're showing your face. These
sheep people would crowd around and hold me in place, I swear... and I feel
the presence of that Client, you know. Greasy, like electricity on my skin.
Force-sensitive! It'll take more than an innocent boy's clothes to shield
from that... off-planet would be good. There's war brewing.