Rirr Rozakk
Member
"You forgot the salute."
Rirr's self-admonishing growl bounced against the door to the new quarters he hunched before. The words soon brushed further into the empty corridor of the barracks, as the rolling dark clouds of his sigh chased them off. The crate ballooning with the kit he’d been assigned, with a few odds and ends he’d requested from the supplies, felt uncomfortably heavy with further disappointment as he hugged it to the side of his head, balancing it all on his shoulder like a boulder ready to topple.
The other mountainside of his frame was hoisted up with a contrasting comfort of the war-weathered assault cannon he’d retrieved after the interview, left aside in the shuttle. He didn’t need the first sight being him heavily-armed further than he was with the portrayed bravado to armour him from revealing that gnawing self-doubt. The ease of talking came much easier once he settled, but asking to pop out and get the weapon halfway through seemed even a step too obnoxious for him. How would it even help? Pose for them, show he knew where the trigger was and how intimidating he looked? He snorted, a breath warmer with amusement that trailed into a purring chuckle. On one side, the weight of new responsibilities and expectations slumped one shoulder lower, the other, laboured with familiar comfort that reinforced the confidence he could handle the path forward.
“You did it when you met them- Why didn’t you do it when you left?”
Another bout of throaty frustration disrupted the air with the ruinous chiding that slashed through the relieving chugs of quiet laughter. Even then, the annoyance was thoroughly cleaved in twain as the hiss of the door’s opening beheaded the sounds with ruthless efficiency. It was all the entryways doing. It certainly didn’t come from the awkward knee-ing fumble to open it with both hands occupied.
He stepped through with a thudding pause after clearing the doorway, taking in the ready-made, ready-cleaned room that would be his new home for the next stage of his life. Rowsed with the impression that echoed around in a murring rumble accompanying the bobbing of agreement. Better than anything so far. The disparaging thoughts ceased in the quiet din of the abode, left at the door and uninvited to come along, with the silence soon shattered by the clash of his gun being foisted upon the bed. It’s survived far worse tossings about than onto a cushioned mattress as the multi-barreled weapon rolled back and forth. The kit that remained earned a more polite drop onto the desk, with another splashing noise as the contents jostled and jangled against one another.
“You salute to the Special Operatives. You bow to the Sith. This is what you are getting in return. This is what you earn.”
Rirr needed a new conversational partner. A smaller one. The door had paid their dues. The bed shouldn’t be burdened more than the grease the weaponry smeared across it, marking territory already, which only left the other supplies he dredged from the base. Some flimsi wobble-wobbled as he dragged it out of the crate, blindly searching for the pen he’d snatched alongside it. Set down, the duo, a pair of victims within a crime scene of thoughtful poignancy, robbed from humble beginnings, now lay before the torturer to inflict his malice upon them. The chair, stolen into the villainous act, was pulled out to handle the weight of the feline frame as he thwumped into it.
Rirr sat. He sat, he stared. He sat and stared some more. The knee began to bounce in the fighterman’s impatience. The fingers found the grave of former slavery in the furless no-man's-land around the throat, scratching at the deeper hell-pit scarring when he stupidly tried to hack it off years ago in his childhood. It itched. Always, always itched. Crimson eyes bounced between flimsi and pen, almost envisioning them nervous with the infliction expected, but then came a huffing dismissal to the soldiers in the war of lacking literacy.
“Sticking with speaking. Gets it out quicker, no evidence for sneaks to find. Don’t blame yourselves. It’s not you, it’s me. Never been one for writing things down. You just lay there, endure the rambling. Make me look like a note-taker when inspection comes. Think you can keep up the act?”
No answer came back, unsurprisingly. Shockingly. Perhaps a whisper of a grateful exhale from the flimsi or a wipe of pen’s sweaty brow. Attention shifted to the crate again, all that kit he’d need to wear. All that embroidered respect that meant he made something of himself. Even in the Empire. Could’ve gone the easier route, could’ve done the simpler thing, but why be smart when you can be bitterly stronger? A Cathar had enough challenges, but a Cathar in the Empire?
He saw the ease his officers had, waving him off to certain death as they crammed another mouthful of food with the other. Here, however? The Special Operations Group? This was where he’d be able to breathe without hiding a growl of disappointment at overfed, overpromoted man-children.
He thumbed over the jacket plucked from the box, sharing a look of trepidation with Pen. Quality fabric. Quality fit. Quality overall. With a chair-screeching stand, he pushed up to full height, flung the jacket around his shoulders, and tested the tightness. A tug-tug of the sleeves, a yank-yank of the chest, easing it around the frame. Svilena had a good eye. It fit well enough that there’d be room to stretch it further. Likely worse in the winter months when his fur fluffed up, but he could handle it. The clasps, done up, waist-to-neck, brought a sight reassuring as the scarring around the throat was hidden. Then, with a grunt, he unlatched the top and let them show.
The rest of the outfit slid on snug enough, taking him from unwashed alleycat to prince’d-up housepet with one switch of the clothing. The wonders an outfit can manage. Of looking like you belonged. Once the armour was sorted, he’d be where he actually did, and not staring at the different man in the reflection.
“Pen. Take a note. Within two months, Operative Alark will smile at some comment I made, something illogical, if what I was told is correct. Even sooner than that, a Sith will respectfully address me for a task completed remarkably. We begin now. Come up with some fancy signature to sign this off with.”
Heel-tapping turn, a departing wink to the cannon, seductive as ever as they splayed themselves over the bed, and the Cathar left to uncover what the new job would entail.
Rirr's self-admonishing growl bounced against the door to the new quarters he hunched before. The words soon brushed further into the empty corridor of the barracks, as the rolling dark clouds of his sigh chased them off. The crate ballooning with the kit he’d been assigned, with a few odds and ends he’d requested from the supplies, felt uncomfortably heavy with further disappointment as he hugged it to the side of his head, balancing it all on his shoulder like a boulder ready to topple.
The other mountainside of his frame was hoisted up with a contrasting comfort of the war-weathered assault cannon he’d retrieved after the interview, left aside in the shuttle. He didn’t need the first sight being him heavily-armed further than he was with the portrayed bravado to armour him from revealing that gnawing self-doubt. The ease of talking came much easier once he settled, but asking to pop out and get the weapon halfway through seemed even a step too obnoxious for him. How would it even help? Pose for them, show he knew where the trigger was and how intimidating he looked? He snorted, a breath warmer with amusement that trailed into a purring chuckle. On one side, the weight of new responsibilities and expectations slumped one shoulder lower, the other, laboured with familiar comfort that reinforced the confidence he could handle the path forward.
“You did it when you met them- Why didn’t you do it when you left?”
Another bout of throaty frustration disrupted the air with the ruinous chiding that slashed through the relieving chugs of quiet laughter. Even then, the annoyance was thoroughly cleaved in twain as the hiss of the door’s opening beheaded the sounds with ruthless efficiency. It was all the entryways doing. It certainly didn’t come from the awkward knee-ing fumble to open it with both hands occupied.
He stepped through with a thudding pause after clearing the doorway, taking in the ready-made, ready-cleaned room that would be his new home for the next stage of his life. Rowsed with the impression that echoed around in a murring rumble accompanying the bobbing of agreement. Better than anything so far. The disparaging thoughts ceased in the quiet din of the abode, left at the door and uninvited to come along, with the silence soon shattered by the clash of his gun being foisted upon the bed. It’s survived far worse tossings about than onto a cushioned mattress as the multi-barreled weapon rolled back and forth. The kit that remained earned a more polite drop onto the desk, with another splashing noise as the contents jostled and jangled against one another.
“You salute to the Special Operatives. You bow to the Sith. This is what you are getting in return. This is what you earn.”
Rirr needed a new conversational partner. A smaller one. The door had paid their dues. The bed shouldn’t be burdened more than the grease the weaponry smeared across it, marking territory already, which only left the other supplies he dredged from the base. Some flimsi wobble-wobbled as he dragged it out of the crate, blindly searching for the pen he’d snatched alongside it. Set down, the duo, a pair of victims within a crime scene of thoughtful poignancy, robbed from humble beginnings, now lay before the torturer to inflict his malice upon them. The chair, stolen into the villainous act, was pulled out to handle the weight of the feline frame as he thwumped into it.
Rirr sat. He sat, he stared. He sat and stared some more. The knee began to bounce in the fighterman’s impatience. The fingers found the grave of former slavery in the furless no-man's-land around the throat, scratching at the deeper hell-pit scarring when he stupidly tried to hack it off years ago in his childhood. It itched. Always, always itched. Crimson eyes bounced between flimsi and pen, almost envisioning them nervous with the infliction expected, but then came a huffing dismissal to the soldiers in the war of lacking literacy.
“Sticking with speaking. Gets it out quicker, no evidence for sneaks to find. Don’t blame yourselves. It’s not you, it’s me. Never been one for writing things down. You just lay there, endure the rambling. Make me look like a note-taker when inspection comes. Think you can keep up the act?”
No answer came back, unsurprisingly. Shockingly. Perhaps a whisper of a grateful exhale from the flimsi or a wipe of pen’s sweaty brow. Attention shifted to the crate again, all that kit he’d need to wear. All that embroidered respect that meant he made something of himself. Even in the Empire. Could’ve gone the easier route, could’ve done the simpler thing, but why be smart when you can be bitterly stronger? A Cathar had enough challenges, but a Cathar in the Empire?
He saw the ease his officers had, waving him off to certain death as they crammed another mouthful of food with the other. Here, however? The Special Operations Group? This was where he’d be able to breathe without hiding a growl of disappointment at overfed, overpromoted man-children.
He thumbed over the jacket plucked from the box, sharing a look of trepidation with Pen. Quality fabric. Quality fit. Quality overall. With a chair-screeching stand, he pushed up to full height, flung the jacket around his shoulders, and tested the tightness. A tug-tug of the sleeves, a yank-yank of the chest, easing it around the frame. Svilena had a good eye. It fit well enough that there’d be room to stretch it further. Likely worse in the winter months when his fur fluffed up, but he could handle it. The clasps, done up, waist-to-neck, brought a sight reassuring as the scarring around the throat was hidden. Then, with a grunt, he unlatched the top and let them show.
The rest of the outfit slid on snug enough, taking him from unwashed alleycat to prince’d-up housepet with one switch of the clothing. The wonders an outfit can manage. Of looking like you belonged. Once the armour was sorted, he’d be where he actually did, and not staring at the different man in the reflection.
“Pen. Take a note. Within two months, Operative Alark will smile at some comment I made, something illogical, if what I was told is correct. Even sooner than that, a Sith will respectfully address me for a task completed remarkably. We begin now. Come up with some fancy signature to sign this off with.”
Heel-tapping turn, a departing wink to the cannon, seductive as ever as they splayed themselves over the bed, and the Cathar left to uncover what the new job would entail.