Plourr Estillo (
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-11 10:41 pm
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[OOM] Simulator Room
Juke left, juke right, juke left, juke right; lure your opponent into a false sense of security, make him think he knows exactly what you're going to do.
Lasers flash by on the screen.
One last juke to the right, and there's the light-up of a targeting lock; she yanks the stick back and to the left, throwing the sim fighter into a tight roll that should press her back against the seat with its force. Of course, this machine isn't nearly complex enough for that.
She's got to find some way to throw the Priamsta off guard like that. To catch the rebels--the ones who say they're lead by Harran but they're not they can't be--off guard and--
The flash of an explosion and the screen goes dark.
"Sithspit!" Plourr slams an open palm against the overhead frame of the simulator, then lets her hand rest there, hooked on the frame.
She runs her other hand over her head in an unconscious motion; auburn stubble still foreign to the touch, too rough and scratchy. Hell, her whole body feels foreign; her tunic is smooth and skintight, eggshell-colored with deep purple, allowing every cord of muscle to show. She's not used to anything so fine, and she's definitely not used to the matching skirt, to seeing her legs bare in anything but athletic shorts. High heels. She'd drawn whistles from the Rogues that afternoon; joking whistles, yes, and ones that had earned several of them glares and thwappings, but she had caught admiring looks from not a few men at court, too. From the nobles at dinner.
Dinner.
"The tyranny of the nobles is at an end, Laabann. I will see to that. If you wish a place in the future of Eiattu, either stand with the throne-- or fall."
The crash of a breaking wineglass.
"The choice is yours."
Plourr hits the top of the simulator again.
Lasers flash by on the screen.
One last juke to the right, and there's the light-up of a targeting lock; she yanks the stick back and to the left, throwing the sim fighter into a tight roll that should press her back against the seat with its force. Of course, this machine isn't nearly complex enough for that.
She's got to find some way to throw the Priamsta off guard like that. To catch the rebels--the ones who say they're lead by Harran but they're not they can't be--off guard and--
The flash of an explosion and the screen goes dark.
"Sithspit!" Plourr slams an open palm against the overhead frame of the simulator, then lets her hand rest there, hooked on the frame.
She runs her other hand over her head in an unconscious motion; auburn stubble still foreign to the touch, too rough and scratchy. Hell, her whole body feels foreign; her tunic is smooth and skintight, eggshell-colored with deep purple, allowing every cord of muscle to show. She's not used to anything so fine, and she's definitely not used to the matching skirt, to seeing her legs bare in anything but athletic shorts. High heels. She'd drawn whistles from the Rogues that afternoon; joking whistles, yes, and ones that had earned several of them glares and thwappings, but she had caught admiring looks from not a few men at court, too. From the nobles at dinner.
Dinner.
"The tyranny of the nobles is at an end, Laabann. I will see to that. If you wish a place in the future of Eiattu, either stand with the throne-- or fall."
The crash of a breaking wineglass.
"The choice is yours."
Plourr hits the top of the simulator again.
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In the back of her mind, Jaina's words echoed. 'Just stay on your guard, Aeryn.'
"Some sort of Jedi mind thing, with Kira...the Exile."
She didn't volunteer anymore information, just picked at a small cut on her palm.
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"Because I was tired of feeling this way."
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How could anybody be so arrogant?
"It was supposed to show me what I wanted. Which path to take."
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"Oh, right. Sorry." She just avoids an eyeroll to go with the sarcasm. "It didn't?"
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"No. It did."
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She wanted to pace, to run, to scratch an itch she couldn't reach. Her feet only took her a short distance, right to the wall. This place, Milliways, was a cage.
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Laughter suddenly bubbled forth, bitter and a bit hysterical. She couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Not that we were ever together. But I can't keep waiting for him to change his mind. I'm sick of his games."
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"Is this the same man you told me about down by the lake? Aeryn..." She's a little concerned now, watching her with serious brown eyes. "That was ages ago. He's still stringing you along?"
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Angry, violent hands, pushed back her hair, because this was no time to lose it. Over such a ridiculous thing.
Get a grip, Sun. Self control. Forget him.
"I'm just frustrated. I'll be fine."
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Aeryn couldn't say why the thought surprised her.
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"Do I?"
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Jokes. They helped hide the pain. The problem was, it always came back.
"You don't have a window." She pointed out at the look on Plourr's face.
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"Are you being courted? By a Prince?"
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"What?"
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