Sharkish’Ki
Legendary Member
Endure and Survive.
Some time ago, on Ailon Nova...
It seemed a lifetime ago that House Cruor was fighting for the possession of this resource-laden planet, and the surroundings he found himself in reflected this. The tall, sleek, rockrete architecture of the Cruor’s Seat building was adequately adorned with long, heavy drapes that bore the Imperial insignia and the striking Skull of their House. Climbing the steps with a sense of belonging he’d not felt in some time, Sharkish’Ki briskly walked in search of the General’s new office, situated at the top of the now grandiose structure that was previously the High Marshals central operations.
He was greeted with an almost scrutinising nod by a stoic and direct officer, dressed in a grey and black, sharply pressed uniform. He slid from behind his security desk with a snap of his heels and gestured towards an open turbolift guarded by two gloss-black armoured Sun Guard. The pair of imposing figures jerked to attention and raised their rifles vertically tight to their chest in salute. Their faceless visage remained unshifting as Sharkish’Ki’s cloak brushed past them, and the turbolift door glided closed behind him.
After a few moments, the lift came to a smooth stop. There was only one exit on this turboshaft, and it led to General Reiis Invadator’s war room and personal quarters. He stepped onto the plush red carpet of the eerily silent vestibule that led into the main antechamber of her offices. A dozen Sun Guard soldiers were spaced equally down around it, stoic and silent, save for the odd whisper of the communications devices in their suits crackling in and out of earshot as he passed them. The antechamber opened out before him, and ahead of him, a single large circular table occupied a vast majority of it, on the edge of which rested an arm; prone, lifeless, and looking like it had been misplaced.
Stepping up to it, he cast a gaze of amazement over its features. There was a simplicity to it that concealed the depth of its technical wonder. Precisely formed sleeves of synthetic skin overlayed black, fibrous phalanges and thick ulnar and radial muscles. He reached out to touch it.
“Apprentice.” The General spoke from the mouth of an adjoining chamber, startling the preoccupied warrior with her synthetic, feminine voice that emanated from the eyeless, black helm, as he rapidly withdrew his grasp. “I see you received my message”. She stepped down from the raised level, her hands clasped behind her back, drawing in her cloak behind her, which removed some of the bulk of her robes as she moved toward him with slow, nearly predatory, strides.
Sharkish’Ki stepped back from the table, turning to face his master, before taking a knee, bowing his head as her boots slipped into his field of vision. “Master, I came as soon as I could. Lord Vexx sends his regards.”
A hint of a smile tinged her voice. “Still grumbling over my opinion of Grog, is he?” She turned to pick up the prosthetic, gripping it softly, like a precious animal, cradling it and examining it.
“I wouldn’t presume to…”
“Rise, Apprentice. No need to waste time on ceremony.” She calmly ordered, cutting Sharkish’Ki short. He stood almost immediately, relaxing his posture as he reached his full height before her, standing perhaps half a head taller than his master. “Come.”
She held the arm casually at her side, motioning with a single, beckoning finger from her other hand for him to follow her to where she’d come from. Walking around the table, he noticed the adjacent room was fitted with an operating table, and several life-support apparatus, medical droids, and a hunched figure in a typical white uniform, whom he could only assume was a doctor of some kind. Sharkish’Ki took several controlled breaths, noting his increase in heart rate and the sweat gathering under his arms, as the anticipation of the procedure quickly set in.
“Calm yourself, Sharkish’Ki, for you have endured far worse than that which follows here.” She said, with a reassuring tone that would’ve been welcomed by even the most terrified of children, in spite of her commanding and militaristic appearance. She calmly handed over the limp prosthetic as the hunched figure turned around to accept it; an Ithorian that seemed gracious to receive it, giving a respectful nod before moving away with it. The Ithorian garbled a request towards Sharkish’Ki that was swiftly translated by the apparatus attached to its vocal processors.
“Please remove your garments,” it said softly, as a medical droid silently moved behind him and began clasping at his cape. The task was almost moot, as the droid attempted most of the work, lifting his pauldrons with one set of arms, whilst attempting the other fastenings of his tunic. This was the fastest he’d got half undressed in weeks, the menial task having become taxing and toilsome with having only one arm to do the usual motions required. His telekinesis however had received quite the training, improving on his finer manipulation. Though he had adapted to the new routine, it was not a substitute.
More garbled noise from the doctor was translated into Galactic Basic, “Now sit on the bed and lie down, placing your arms in the appropriate places,” and so he did as requested, swinging his legs up, and spreading his arms into their rests, around which circular clamps encompassed his biceps of the damaged arm, before their adjoining tubes injected into his skin without warning, and a brace became available at the end of the armrest for his hand. Interestingly, there was a red press-button at its end, conveniently positioned for his thumb. The General watched as the bed lowered and overhead lighting swiveled and focused in on the ugly wound where his arm used to be.
“After speaking at length with this specialist about their design, I am giving you a choice here, Apprentice. They say this will come at a price.” She stepped closer and leaned in to speak softly, the red insignias of her visor piercing him as he cast his eyes about the almost featureless helmet. “You may choose to continue as you are; damaged, broken, and yet capable,” she paused as she craned her view upwards towards the Ithorian, that gave a slight nod, “or you may choose this gift, and endure the pain of its installation as a reminder that it will take more than the loss of an arm to defeat you.”
She straightened up before turning sharply on her heel, marching out of the door. “Find me when you’ve finished.”
The doors slid swiftly shut as she exited the room, leaving him to determine his own treatment. For a moment he looked over at the exposed stump. The twisted and seared scars of skin that housed the remnants of his bicep and tricep inspired thoughts of anger, as he thought back to the serpentine beast that decided that snacking on him would be a valuable lesson.
“Skyllan…” he snarled quietly, before taking an aggressive grip of the handhold, and jamming down hard on the button with his thumb, expecting searing pain that didn’t come. A warmth spread up through his arm and across his shoulders like rays of sunlight crossing his body, as fluids diverted to and from the site of injury. Blood, plasma, and what looked to be Bacta fluid was all being softly pumped towards the collar, as he watched the droids gather around the amputation site.
There was a silence in the room, filled only with the sound of quiet beeping and the whirring of servos, before the warm, comforting feeling was violently snipped. The droids began cutting at his flesh with lasers. He threw his head back into the bed and groaned through tightly shut eyes and gritted teeth, as cut upon cut opened the scarred wound, peeling back layers of tissue as they did so to expose the available tendons and nerve endings, all the way down to the mangled shards of bone. He couldn’t move more than that, as paralytics coursed through the arm and shoulder they were working on, shutting down the motor neurons. All the pain was channeled down to his grip, as his knuckles turned white from the pressure.
The original bacta treatment had done well to keep infection at bay, as the droids worked quickly to splay and catalog the resources his new limb would need, removing anything that would prove problematic, such as rogue scraps of broken bone. He yelled in agony as the droids sliced at the microscopic nerves with almost atomic precision.
Meanwhile, General Invadator raised her gaze from the holographic display of the surrounding star system, looking toward the sealed door that the muffled scream had come from. “An excellent choice.” She muttered quietly, before swiping away the display and wandering deeper into her office.
Sharkish’Ki looked over at the surprisingly clean operating area, his breathing heavy and rapid, and sweat running off him in all directions, as the prosthetic was lined up. Meanwhile, the Ithorian moved about, overseeing the droids and noting Sharkish’Ki’s vitals, as well as monitoring a holographic display of the prosthetic. Tendrils emerged from it as it neared the exposed flesh, like worms seeking to make a meal out of the nearing meat. They attached themselves to the veins, arteries, lymphatics, nerves, and tendons, melding with the available tissue and drawing their way up into the limb before the lower portion of the feathering network seemed to solidify.
The Ithorian shuffled over to Sharkish’Ki’s tensed arm, to speak to his patient, blurting out more guttural noise for the translator to work on, after a slight delay, “Ish’ik nee famu nu… The prosthetic will join at your elbow,”
The droids began positioning a bacta sleeve around the myriad of tissue and cortosis. “Kha chuo vosh nos naru… This pack will work with the nearby stem cells to regrow the lower portion of bone and relevant tissue,” the doctor went on to explain the limb; cortosis muscles and bone, each containing a plethora of artificial neurons designed to impart function and sensation alike. There were no tricks or traps, and no hidden weapons or the like. It was a simple replacement that would no doubt outlast the user. It matched Sharkish’Ki’s request perfectly. “The cortosis has been programmed to be accepted by your major histocompatibility complex. There will be no rejection.” He seemed to stare at the limb with prideful eyes.
Sharkish’Ki quickly diverted his attention to the being, snapping his grip from the bar to their garment, before pulling them in close. “That… hurt!” He rasped, releasing his grip and allowing the Ithorian to back away, “It had better be worth it!”
“I assure you, it is my finest work!” There was a calmness to their words, as they straightened their garments back into their proper positions. “You may find that the item outlasts yourself, in regards to longevity. The cortosis was procured by General Invadator, and processed to her specifications, before being crafted into the limb by my own hands. When the bacta has done its job, the meld between the two portions of the limb will only be differentiated by their visuals.”
A bacta sleeve had been slid up the arm, before sealing tightly at each end and filling with the regenerative solution. The cloudy blue substance obscured the work done, and the droids sprayed something pungent over the site, that he could only assume was an antimicrobial.
“Over the next day, the paralytic will wear off, and you will want to flex your new fingers.” The Ithorian continued, “You are to perform light movements, to begin. As with any damaged muscle, you must progress in strength.” They moved to analyse the display, noting the green flashes of text that highlighted key points of integration. “Appropriate apparatus will be installed for your exercises. Until then, you must rest.” And with that, the doorway opened, and the droids scurried out of the room with the Ithorian not far behind, leaving Sharkish’Ki to the subtle sounds of fluids running their course.
He desperately wanted to pull his arm out of the cuff, as it throbbed and stung, like someone had rubbed the wound with Tarisian Gympie.
“Wait, you’re just gonna leave me here!?” He strained his words through gritted teeth, almost pleading for relief, “You don’t need to monitor me, or something?!” His words dissipated through the room as the doors slid shut once more, and the lighting dimmed, casting deep shadows of the most obscure of items. For the next eighteen hours, he would fight with his psyche over the pain of exposed nerve endings that surrounded the proliferating cells of the newly forming tissue.
Perhaps an hour had passed, or two, or even ten minutes. He had no idea. He’d taken a hold of the grip-bar again, squeezing it to the point of white knuckles and aching joints. The pain in his regrowing arm itched and scratched, flared and burned, and there was little to do but watch the liquid inside the sleeve. There was a slight swirling to it, that was almost mesmerising, inviting him into a trance that wouldn’t fully immerse him, as the pain kept him in this place. The paralytic kept him locked in position with an itch he couldn’t scratch. He could feel his legs twitching, like the energy he would have used to run away from the pain needed to escape. He pulled a knee up, and started tapping his foot on the bed, the other shaking to the same rhythm. He’d never been paralysed, or so helpless that he couldn’t escape the damage, at least. And he so desperately wanted to run away, to just rip his arm from the cuff and be done with it, and deal with the leftovers.
He eyed up the prosthetic, as it just sat there, inanimate, almost willing it to twitch like it was already his.
No… it’s not yours yet! A whisper came from the back of his mind. You can’t even manage to sit through this procedure without wanting to destroy your chances of a good thing!
Sharkish’Ki silently fought with the demons of his subconscious, and yet there was something else, something sinister. “No! Not now!” He pleaded, wishing he could knock the voice from his head. All he could achieve was a strain on his neck and across his brow from the deepening furrow, as the muscles that he wanted to use remained unresponsive.
Plead all you want, fool. It’s been a ride and a half, watching you endure the oh-so-sweet torments these masters put you through. Please, continue! The monologue knew what buttons to press. Was it his own consciousness? Was it someone or something else? The voice only seemed to speak its ugly words when things were at their worst; when the pain was verging on unbearable, or when he was at his most emotionally vulnerable. The presence wanted him to delve truly inward, to break all connections to the physical universe, and sink within the all-consuming blackness of the Dark Side.
Your weakness is my ambrosia! Come! Try harder to escape your fate!
“I… I won’t…” his words were strained, as the burning and stinging of his arm being fabricated whilst he was awake distracted the most basic of abilities. “Get… out!” He shouted, staring up at the black that lurked behind the lights.
There was a war going on. Not one of plasteel and blasters, but a battle of the minds in Sharkish’Ki that The General could sense clearly even from a distance. It was a battle with darkness – one that people did not always win. It would be a major notch in his belt if he survived…or she was about to lose an apprentice to madness. Yet she had faith in him.
She refused herself the personal comfort of letting him know she was nearby – no, that would not do at all. Personal wars had to be won on their own, without the help of an outside force. Perhaps if he’d been younger. Less far advanced in his apprenticeship. This was not his Final Trial, but it was a Trial nonetheless. She just hoped he made it out okay, because she did care.
Sharkish’Ki’s optimism was waning, as the pain of the intricate construction work had taken a firm grip on his senses. Bacta treatments had never been less enjoyable, as the usual solution involved an analgesic component, one that blocked the receptors of damaged nerve endings as a point of providing injury relief. The absence of one tiny chemical compound changed the whole experience to one of terrific torment. The initial injury, those many moons ago, had ranked first in his pain index, having never lost a limb, or indeed been wounded enough to stumble about helplessly. He’d never been the victim. He’d never lost. But then he’d never faced a Sith, let alone a sorcerer. And now here he was, wishing the shadows of the operating room would stop whispering to him, as the fires of that fateful cavern reignited with the recreation of every cell in his lower arm.
The laughter in his head was recognisable as Darth Lisan, as the room spun and the shadows in his periphery grew darker. Shades of black and greys morphed haphazardly into blurry polygons as his mind fought back the pain.
It’s hilarious, really, that after all this time the guilt our parents force-fed you still maims you as much as the wound you suffer through now. The voice coexisted alongside the bittersweet laughter, competing in volume for his attention as Sharkish’Ki slowly shook his head from side to side in an attempt to drive out the sounds. The familiarity of family hung on the mocking words, as the young voice sprung from the darkest recesses of his subconscious.
“You’re not here…” Sharkish’Ki groaned, “you died…”
You hope I died! It retorted with scorching malice. If only to redeem your failure to find me!
With watered eyes, Sharkish’Ki peered into the shadows, trying in vain to pinpoint the origin of his delusion as the raw nerves in the developing tissue of his arm sparked and itched, the muscle groups of smooth cortosis clearly visible through the thinning liquid. An itch he so desperately wanted to scratch.
Pitiful. I was torn to shreds by those…things. Losing an arm is the least you could suffer!
“I tried,” Sharkish’Ki whimpered, “the tunnels… the darkness…”
Somehow the shadows had coalesced in the corner of the room near the door, forming a blurry silhouette of a crouched boy. The laughter fell into silence as he focused all he could on the thing that was there, but not there, real and yet imaginary, straining his watering eyes into tears of pain. He could lie to himself and say the source of the water running down his cheek was physical, but he knew it was emotional, as the mirage began to slowly stand up, spreading its arms broadly, You tried?! How pitiful. Next, you’ll be telling me you looked almost everywhere, but mother stopped you! The laughter continued, subtly and quietly, mocking him as the shadowy figure slowly slipped across the room.
“Stop!” He pleaded halfheartedly with the darkness, like the childish mirage before him.
I won’t stop until you’re here, in the darkness with me. Alone, like me.
“STOP!”
Abandoned. Forgotten.
Sharkish’Ki looked away, trying to focus on anything else. But where he put his gaze, the shadow followed, morphing its silhouette into the face of his long lost brother, its visage a twisted embodiment of disappointment and disdain. Even closing his eyes did him no favours, as the memory of his brother begging for help as rakghouls pulled at his legs, etched into his eyelids from the repressed memory. He hated thinking of it. The loss of his brother was the first pivotal moment in his life, and the first most damaging. The apparition whispered like a breeze, close enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck
You were weak then, and you’re weak now. Even still, you can’t bear to face your failure!
Sharkish’Ki lay in near silence, with the sound of his rapid breathing competing for attention against the hisses of fluid pumps and the occasional beeping, signaling time released paralytics. The pain was retreating as the tissue reconstruction neared its completion. The bone had formed, surrounded by a network of capillaries, and the muscle groups and tendons that would contribute to controlling his new forearm housed the extension of his brachial artery and vein, all intermingled with the cortosis relays that carried his nerve impulses to command the impressive piece of technology. A layer of sub dermal fat slowly began forming skin, and if he watched it closely enough he could see it growing like a rapidly spreading fungus. The doors to his isolation suddenly swept open, obliterating the apparition in the onslaught of light, and swiftly stealing Sharkish’Ki’s attention as the Ithorian returned, heralded by the scurrying droids that had departed with him. The physician made some garbled noise, and the translator kicked in momentarily delayed as it did so.
“The process is nearing completion. I trust it wasn’t too much to endure?” he said, avoiding eye contact with him as it prodded at buttons and tapped gauges. Sharkish’Ki’s snapped gaze was wasted, save for generating just a little more anger at the whole ordeal. He wanted so desperately to channel it into his telekinesis. How easy it would be, to snap him in half, he thought, half-burying the thought as he had no idea how to proceed should the Ithorian perish and leave him there, forever paralysed. Surely his master would release him, he thought, no, best not to chance it.
“Come here and let me show you! I’ll only need your arm!” Sharkish’Ki spat the words without thought of consequence, as the relief of pain finally came with the promise of release.
It was then that The General entered. She had felt the war in her apprentice’s mind, and she knew it had been no walk in the park what he’d endured. She had not pried – had not peered into his private thoughts to learn from what he was suffering. She might have guessed, though, from things he had told her before. Right before he’d had his arm replaced, they’d dueled, and he told her of his brother. Invadator had lost someone she cared for in her past, but no one so close as a blood relative. Actually, that was not entirely true, but she had been too young to remember the death of her entire nuclear and extended family. Most of them anyway.
“You survived,” she said, as if she were not stating an obvious fact. She looked upon her apprentice with great interest, which was something of a compliment in and of itself. It wasn’t often that she bothered to look at people, much less for an extended period of time. This could be something terrible or…something less terrible, but no less nerve wracking. Few were accustomed to her extended attention.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He would know what she meant.
Sweat trickled down Sharkish’Ki’s brow, and past his ears, collecting atop his manubrium. He could feel the heat radiating from his body as the pain dissipated, and the hallucination with it.
“Well, it really kriffin’ hurt!” He didn’t know where to direct his anger at the experience. “I just… it’s been so long,” he rasped. “So much guilt I didn’t know I had, and something keeps pulling it out of me.”
The pumps had been deactivated, and slowly but surely the paralytics were wearing off, as a tingling sensation swiftly swept over his chest and down into his newly formed arm.
“There was something so haunting about it all,” he said, fighting back a dehydrated cough. “As if it wasn’t just my own thoughts betraying me. I don’t know how to explain it.”
The Ithorian placed an odd, hand-shaped contraption under the prosthetic, and rotated the arm to align with the white, traced outline of the hand, from which rose a half glove-like skin that glowed with blue energy. It sealed itself to the back of the prosthetic hand and rings emerged from it, seizing the tips of his new digits. Sharkish’Ki watched as the droids went about unlocking and removing the bacta collar from his arm. There was a soreness that came with the rush of blood flow that sought to expand the skin where the collar had rested.
If being yelled at meant her apprentice could get some of his frustrations out, the General wasn’t offended by it. She merely listened to Sharkish’Ki and watched as the Ithorian medic and the droids did their work. She was accustomed to a certain mouthy droid being part of any medical procedure, and the silence seemed almost odd.
“Being connected to the Force has many disadvantages,” she said, finally. “One of them is that you’re never truly alone, even when you want or need to be.” She wondered if it might have been a mercy to cut him off from the Force during his procedure, if she’d had the skill to do so. Not her particular ability, but perhaps this was better anyway.
“Now. Slowly contract your bicep,” the Ithorian instructed, and Sharkish’Ki obeyed. The glow of the glove began to cycle through the infrared spectrum, from blue, through to green as he pulled the prosthetic closer to his face. “The tissue has formed perfectly, as expected. Now relax.”
“Amazing,” Sharkish’Ki muttered, “thank you, General,” as the glove cycled back to blue upon its descent back to neutral.
“Now, twist your wrist,” came the delayed translation. And so he turned his arm, placing his hand palm down as the rings and fibres of the glove highlighted the muscle groups he was using with a similar glow. Striations of green fibres highlighted across the device, as each group fired in response to the slightest of movements.
“Excellent. Now make a fist,” and so he did, noting the colours push through to orange, bordering on red. The Ithorian placed a cool hand on the limb, “well done. The prosthetic had linked perfectly to your nervous system. You may now use the arm as you wish. The materials used should see it prevail under many stressors, though it will respond accordingly to temperature, much like your own nervous system. Avoid extreme cold to maintain optimal functionality. The synthetic skin will heal as normally as you would expect for human epidermis. It will also damage as such.”
As he relaxed his grip, the rings that secured his digits slipped back into the diagnostics equipment with subtle disappearance. He wiggled the digits, as if playing an imaginary instrument, rapidly flexing each one in turn. It felt like his arm had never been missing, as he watched them with intrigue. It was a confusing feeling. It was his arm, but it wasn’t; the design was something he’d need to get accustomed to, as the gaps in the skin exposed the striations of cortosis-weave muscle, highlighting an obviousness that it was a prosthetic. There were no fingernails, or the traditional prints on the tips. It looked alien, and indeed it was, and yet it felt every much a part of him as the rest of his flesh.
The reclining chair began to raise him into a seated position, as he leaned forward cradling his new limb and admiring the textures with his own wandering digits.
“Incredible, General.” He smirked, as he tentatively caressed the imitation muscles. He slid off of the chair, planting his boots firmly onto the soft textured floor, searching around the room for his belongings. The assistant droid silently maneuvered to within his field of vision, grasping his vest and pauldrons. “So, where do we test this out?” as he rapidly pulled on his vest, as if nothing was amiss.
The General grinned back. “The look suits you, but you’re going to lose your arm again if you don’t take it more slowly. You’re far from fully healed, even if the cybernetics are fully integrated. Trust in my experience,” she says with a wave of her arm in her own direction. On top of a right arm, both legs and multiple internal organs had been replaced and augmented, respectively. “You need at least a few months of physical therapy.” Nevermind that, within days of being transformed into a cyborg, she herself had been back in combat. Nevermind that at all.
“How does it feel?” she asks, intending to delve more into not just his physical state, but his mental one. She was never one to pry forcefully into the mind.
Sharkish’Ki thought for a moment, casting his mind back to the event that caused it. There was anger there, but this wasn’t what The General was asking for. He put his resentment to one side for the sake of making a comparison.
“It feels like… it feels like it’s mine,” he said, softly, nodding in agreement to his statement, still flexing his new fingers. “I feel like I owe you a debt, master. This wasn’t your mess to fix, but Knight Slayer’s.”
The name brought a bitter aftertaste. The woman that had so eagerly brought him to his knees, with the help of her cohort of a twisted sorcerer and a glorified droid, had simply vanished.
If she were in the business of psychotherapy, she might endeavor to unpack all of the feelings wafting off of her apprentice through the Force. Alas, that is neither her profession nor her calling. “You owe no debt. It is my duty to watch over those I’ve sworn to train and mentor. For a time longer, your messes are my messes…” Her voice trails off, lost to the thoughts in mind.
“I think, however, that such time is to end quite soon, Sharkish’Ki. I have spoken with Lord Vexx…do you see where I’m going with this?” She pauses, considering another thought.
“I feel a great deal of resentment in you, Apprentice. Are you going to do something about it? Are you going to let it eat on you? Or are you going to realize one day that it is an experience, but just that: an experience. You lost an arm, a shame, to be sure. Will this consume your attention for a time?”
She is giving him a choice. If vengeance is what he seeks, he is free to find it where he might. An alternative would be to let the hate and anger fester, and while the Sith revel in their hatred, no wound should be left undrained. Or, he can move on. Past his past and find his future. Now, she is giving him that choice.
“You’re right,” he replied softly, “and with all due respect, I am doing something about it, master. Every movement forward is a step further from how I got here. But these memories won't simply wash away, nor the pain and anger with them.” He paused for a moment, thinking about all the memories he had lost. Would he want these added to the pile? Not a chance. “Without events happening the way they had, I wouldn’t be here now. I am stronger for it.”
He let out a deep, relaxed breath. “I know what you’re trying to do. Perhaps I’ll seek my vengeance one day. Regardless, I will do what’s asked of me.”
She prodded him with words, and now she’s listening to his reply, trying to gauge the honesty of his reaction. And to her, it seems genuine. “Very well, then. I respect your decision – and you are perhaps a bit too fresh from this injury.” She looks him over, then nods, as if making a decision. “What I ask of you now is only one thing…”
“Prepare yourself. You’ll want to be ready for this next mission, I assure you…”
Tag: @Reiis Invadator
OOC: If you made it to here, thanks so much for reading. This has been a collaborative story, with Reiis, and a long awaited chapter conclusion to Sharkish’Ki’s ongoing story arch and training, and my thanks go to Reiis for sticking at it!
Some time ago, on Ailon Nova...
It seemed a lifetime ago that House Cruor was fighting for the possession of this resource-laden planet, and the surroundings he found himself in reflected this. The tall, sleek, rockrete architecture of the Cruor’s Seat building was adequately adorned with long, heavy drapes that bore the Imperial insignia and the striking Skull of their House. Climbing the steps with a sense of belonging he’d not felt in some time, Sharkish’Ki briskly walked in search of the General’s new office, situated at the top of the now grandiose structure that was previously the High Marshals central operations.
He was greeted with an almost scrutinising nod by a stoic and direct officer, dressed in a grey and black, sharply pressed uniform. He slid from behind his security desk with a snap of his heels and gestured towards an open turbolift guarded by two gloss-black armoured Sun Guard. The pair of imposing figures jerked to attention and raised their rifles vertically tight to their chest in salute. Their faceless visage remained unshifting as Sharkish’Ki’s cloak brushed past them, and the turbolift door glided closed behind him.
After a few moments, the lift came to a smooth stop. There was only one exit on this turboshaft, and it led to General Reiis Invadator’s war room and personal quarters. He stepped onto the plush red carpet of the eerily silent vestibule that led into the main antechamber of her offices. A dozen Sun Guard soldiers were spaced equally down around it, stoic and silent, save for the odd whisper of the communications devices in their suits crackling in and out of earshot as he passed them. The antechamber opened out before him, and ahead of him, a single large circular table occupied a vast majority of it, on the edge of which rested an arm; prone, lifeless, and looking like it had been misplaced.
Stepping up to it, he cast a gaze of amazement over its features. There was a simplicity to it that concealed the depth of its technical wonder. Precisely formed sleeves of synthetic skin overlayed black, fibrous phalanges and thick ulnar and radial muscles. He reached out to touch it.
“Apprentice.” The General spoke from the mouth of an adjoining chamber, startling the preoccupied warrior with her synthetic, feminine voice that emanated from the eyeless, black helm, as he rapidly withdrew his grasp. “I see you received my message”. She stepped down from the raised level, her hands clasped behind her back, drawing in her cloak behind her, which removed some of the bulk of her robes as she moved toward him with slow, nearly predatory, strides.
Sharkish’Ki stepped back from the table, turning to face his master, before taking a knee, bowing his head as her boots slipped into his field of vision. “Master, I came as soon as I could. Lord Vexx sends his regards.”
A hint of a smile tinged her voice. “Still grumbling over my opinion of Grog, is he?” She turned to pick up the prosthetic, gripping it softly, like a precious animal, cradling it and examining it.
“I wouldn’t presume to…”
“Rise, Apprentice. No need to waste time on ceremony.” She calmly ordered, cutting Sharkish’Ki short. He stood almost immediately, relaxing his posture as he reached his full height before her, standing perhaps half a head taller than his master. “Come.”
She held the arm casually at her side, motioning with a single, beckoning finger from her other hand for him to follow her to where she’d come from. Walking around the table, he noticed the adjacent room was fitted with an operating table, and several life-support apparatus, medical droids, and a hunched figure in a typical white uniform, whom he could only assume was a doctor of some kind. Sharkish’Ki took several controlled breaths, noting his increase in heart rate and the sweat gathering under his arms, as the anticipation of the procedure quickly set in.
“Calm yourself, Sharkish’Ki, for you have endured far worse than that which follows here.” She said, with a reassuring tone that would’ve been welcomed by even the most terrified of children, in spite of her commanding and militaristic appearance. She calmly handed over the limp prosthetic as the hunched figure turned around to accept it; an Ithorian that seemed gracious to receive it, giving a respectful nod before moving away with it. The Ithorian garbled a request towards Sharkish’Ki that was swiftly translated by the apparatus attached to its vocal processors.
“Please remove your garments,” it said softly, as a medical droid silently moved behind him and began clasping at his cape. The task was almost moot, as the droid attempted most of the work, lifting his pauldrons with one set of arms, whilst attempting the other fastenings of his tunic. This was the fastest he’d got half undressed in weeks, the menial task having become taxing and toilsome with having only one arm to do the usual motions required. His telekinesis however had received quite the training, improving on his finer manipulation. Though he had adapted to the new routine, it was not a substitute.
More garbled noise from the doctor was translated into Galactic Basic, “Now sit on the bed and lie down, placing your arms in the appropriate places,” and so he did as requested, swinging his legs up, and spreading his arms into their rests, around which circular clamps encompassed his biceps of the damaged arm, before their adjoining tubes injected into his skin without warning, and a brace became available at the end of the armrest for his hand. Interestingly, there was a red press-button at its end, conveniently positioned for his thumb. The General watched as the bed lowered and overhead lighting swiveled and focused in on the ugly wound where his arm used to be.
“After speaking at length with this specialist about their design, I am giving you a choice here, Apprentice. They say this will come at a price.” She stepped closer and leaned in to speak softly, the red insignias of her visor piercing him as he cast his eyes about the almost featureless helmet. “You may choose to continue as you are; damaged, broken, and yet capable,” she paused as she craned her view upwards towards the Ithorian, that gave a slight nod, “or you may choose this gift, and endure the pain of its installation as a reminder that it will take more than the loss of an arm to defeat you.”
She straightened up before turning sharply on her heel, marching out of the door. “Find me when you’ve finished.”
The doors slid swiftly shut as she exited the room, leaving him to determine his own treatment. For a moment he looked over at the exposed stump. The twisted and seared scars of skin that housed the remnants of his bicep and tricep inspired thoughts of anger, as he thought back to the serpentine beast that decided that snacking on him would be a valuable lesson.
“Skyllan…” he snarled quietly, before taking an aggressive grip of the handhold, and jamming down hard on the button with his thumb, expecting searing pain that didn’t come. A warmth spread up through his arm and across his shoulders like rays of sunlight crossing his body, as fluids diverted to and from the site of injury. Blood, plasma, and what looked to be Bacta fluid was all being softly pumped towards the collar, as he watched the droids gather around the amputation site.
There was a silence in the room, filled only with the sound of quiet beeping and the whirring of servos, before the warm, comforting feeling was violently snipped. The droids began cutting at his flesh with lasers. He threw his head back into the bed and groaned through tightly shut eyes and gritted teeth, as cut upon cut opened the scarred wound, peeling back layers of tissue as they did so to expose the available tendons and nerve endings, all the way down to the mangled shards of bone. He couldn’t move more than that, as paralytics coursed through the arm and shoulder they were working on, shutting down the motor neurons. All the pain was channeled down to his grip, as his knuckles turned white from the pressure.
The original bacta treatment had done well to keep infection at bay, as the droids worked quickly to splay and catalog the resources his new limb would need, removing anything that would prove problematic, such as rogue scraps of broken bone. He yelled in agony as the droids sliced at the microscopic nerves with almost atomic precision.
Meanwhile, General Invadator raised her gaze from the holographic display of the surrounding star system, looking toward the sealed door that the muffled scream had come from. “An excellent choice.” She muttered quietly, before swiping away the display and wandering deeper into her office.
Sharkish’Ki looked over at the surprisingly clean operating area, his breathing heavy and rapid, and sweat running off him in all directions, as the prosthetic was lined up. Meanwhile, the Ithorian moved about, overseeing the droids and noting Sharkish’Ki’s vitals, as well as monitoring a holographic display of the prosthetic. Tendrils emerged from it as it neared the exposed flesh, like worms seeking to make a meal out of the nearing meat. They attached themselves to the veins, arteries, lymphatics, nerves, and tendons, melding with the available tissue and drawing their way up into the limb before the lower portion of the feathering network seemed to solidify.
The Ithorian shuffled over to Sharkish’Ki’s tensed arm, to speak to his patient, blurting out more guttural noise for the translator to work on, after a slight delay, “Ish’ik nee famu nu… The prosthetic will join at your elbow,”
The droids began positioning a bacta sleeve around the myriad of tissue and cortosis. “Kha chuo vosh nos naru… This pack will work with the nearby stem cells to regrow the lower portion of bone and relevant tissue,” the doctor went on to explain the limb; cortosis muscles and bone, each containing a plethora of artificial neurons designed to impart function and sensation alike. There were no tricks or traps, and no hidden weapons or the like. It was a simple replacement that would no doubt outlast the user. It matched Sharkish’Ki’s request perfectly. “The cortosis has been programmed to be accepted by your major histocompatibility complex. There will be no rejection.” He seemed to stare at the limb with prideful eyes.
Sharkish’Ki quickly diverted his attention to the being, snapping his grip from the bar to their garment, before pulling them in close. “That… hurt!” He rasped, releasing his grip and allowing the Ithorian to back away, “It had better be worth it!”
“I assure you, it is my finest work!” There was a calmness to their words, as they straightened their garments back into their proper positions. “You may find that the item outlasts yourself, in regards to longevity. The cortosis was procured by General Invadator, and processed to her specifications, before being crafted into the limb by my own hands. When the bacta has done its job, the meld between the two portions of the limb will only be differentiated by their visuals.”
A bacta sleeve had been slid up the arm, before sealing tightly at each end and filling with the regenerative solution. The cloudy blue substance obscured the work done, and the droids sprayed something pungent over the site, that he could only assume was an antimicrobial.
“Over the next day, the paralytic will wear off, and you will want to flex your new fingers.” The Ithorian continued, “You are to perform light movements, to begin. As with any damaged muscle, you must progress in strength.” They moved to analyse the display, noting the green flashes of text that highlighted key points of integration. “Appropriate apparatus will be installed for your exercises. Until then, you must rest.” And with that, the doorway opened, and the droids scurried out of the room with the Ithorian not far behind, leaving Sharkish’Ki to the subtle sounds of fluids running their course.
He desperately wanted to pull his arm out of the cuff, as it throbbed and stung, like someone had rubbed the wound with Tarisian Gympie.
“Wait, you’re just gonna leave me here!?” He strained his words through gritted teeth, almost pleading for relief, “You don’t need to monitor me, or something?!” His words dissipated through the room as the doors slid shut once more, and the lighting dimmed, casting deep shadows of the most obscure of items. For the next eighteen hours, he would fight with his psyche over the pain of exposed nerve endings that surrounded the proliferating cells of the newly forming tissue.
Perhaps an hour had passed, or two, or even ten minutes. He had no idea. He’d taken a hold of the grip-bar again, squeezing it to the point of white knuckles and aching joints. The pain in his regrowing arm itched and scratched, flared and burned, and there was little to do but watch the liquid inside the sleeve. There was a slight swirling to it, that was almost mesmerising, inviting him into a trance that wouldn’t fully immerse him, as the pain kept him in this place. The paralytic kept him locked in position with an itch he couldn’t scratch. He could feel his legs twitching, like the energy he would have used to run away from the pain needed to escape. He pulled a knee up, and started tapping his foot on the bed, the other shaking to the same rhythm. He’d never been paralysed, or so helpless that he couldn’t escape the damage, at least. And he so desperately wanted to run away, to just rip his arm from the cuff and be done with it, and deal with the leftovers.
He eyed up the prosthetic, as it just sat there, inanimate, almost willing it to twitch like it was already his.
No… it’s not yours yet! A whisper came from the back of his mind. You can’t even manage to sit through this procedure without wanting to destroy your chances of a good thing!
Sharkish’Ki silently fought with the demons of his subconscious, and yet there was something else, something sinister. “No! Not now!” He pleaded, wishing he could knock the voice from his head. All he could achieve was a strain on his neck and across his brow from the deepening furrow, as the muscles that he wanted to use remained unresponsive.
Plead all you want, fool. It’s been a ride and a half, watching you endure the oh-so-sweet torments these masters put you through. Please, continue! The monologue knew what buttons to press. Was it his own consciousness? Was it someone or something else? The voice only seemed to speak its ugly words when things were at their worst; when the pain was verging on unbearable, or when he was at his most emotionally vulnerable. The presence wanted him to delve truly inward, to break all connections to the physical universe, and sink within the all-consuming blackness of the Dark Side.
Your weakness is my ambrosia! Come! Try harder to escape your fate!
“I… I won’t…” his words were strained, as the burning and stinging of his arm being fabricated whilst he was awake distracted the most basic of abilities. “Get… out!” He shouted, staring up at the black that lurked behind the lights.
There was a war going on. Not one of plasteel and blasters, but a battle of the minds in Sharkish’Ki that The General could sense clearly even from a distance. It was a battle with darkness – one that people did not always win. It would be a major notch in his belt if he survived…or she was about to lose an apprentice to madness. Yet she had faith in him.
She refused herself the personal comfort of letting him know she was nearby – no, that would not do at all. Personal wars had to be won on their own, without the help of an outside force. Perhaps if he’d been younger. Less far advanced in his apprenticeship. This was not his Final Trial, but it was a Trial nonetheless. She just hoped he made it out okay, because she did care.
Sharkish’Ki’s optimism was waning, as the pain of the intricate construction work had taken a firm grip on his senses. Bacta treatments had never been less enjoyable, as the usual solution involved an analgesic component, one that blocked the receptors of damaged nerve endings as a point of providing injury relief. The absence of one tiny chemical compound changed the whole experience to one of terrific torment. The initial injury, those many moons ago, had ranked first in his pain index, having never lost a limb, or indeed been wounded enough to stumble about helplessly. He’d never been the victim. He’d never lost. But then he’d never faced a Sith, let alone a sorcerer. And now here he was, wishing the shadows of the operating room would stop whispering to him, as the fires of that fateful cavern reignited with the recreation of every cell in his lower arm.
The laughter in his head was recognisable as Darth Lisan, as the room spun and the shadows in his periphery grew darker. Shades of black and greys morphed haphazardly into blurry polygons as his mind fought back the pain.
It’s hilarious, really, that after all this time the guilt our parents force-fed you still maims you as much as the wound you suffer through now. The voice coexisted alongside the bittersweet laughter, competing in volume for his attention as Sharkish’Ki slowly shook his head from side to side in an attempt to drive out the sounds. The familiarity of family hung on the mocking words, as the young voice sprung from the darkest recesses of his subconscious.
“You’re not here…” Sharkish’Ki groaned, “you died…”
You hope I died! It retorted with scorching malice. If only to redeem your failure to find me!
With watered eyes, Sharkish’Ki peered into the shadows, trying in vain to pinpoint the origin of his delusion as the raw nerves in the developing tissue of his arm sparked and itched, the muscle groups of smooth cortosis clearly visible through the thinning liquid. An itch he so desperately wanted to scratch.
Pitiful. I was torn to shreds by those…things. Losing an arm is the least you could suffer!
“I tried,” Sharkish’Ki whimpered, “the tunnels… the darkness…”
Somehow the shadows had coalesced in the corner of the room near the door, forming a blurry silhouette of a crouched boy. The laughter fell into silence as he focused all he could on the thing that was there, but not there, real and yet imaginary, straining his watering eyes into tears of pain. He could lie to himself and say the source of the water running down his cheek was physical, but he knew it was emotional, as the mirage began to slowly stand up, spreading its arms broadly, You tried?! How pitiful. Next, you’ll be telling me you looked almost everywhere, but mother stopped you! The laughter continued, subtly and quietly, mocking him as the shadowy figure slowly slipped across the room.
“Stop!” He pleaded halfheartedly with the darkness, like the childish mirage before him.
I won’t stop until you’re here, in the darkness with me. Alone, like me.
“STOP!”
Abandoned. Forgotten.
Sharkish’Ki looked away, trying to focus on anything else. But where he put his gaze, the shadow followed, morphing its silhouette into the face of his long lost brother, its visage a twisted embodiment of disappointment and disdain. Even closing his eyes did him no favours, as the memory of his brother begging for help as rakghouls pulled at his legs, etched into his eyelids from the repressed memory. He hated thinking of it. The loss of his brother was the first pivotal moment in his life, and the first most damaging. The apparition whispered like a breeze, close enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck
You were weak then, and you’re weak now. Even still, you can’t bear to face your failure!
Sharkish’Ki lay in near silence, with the sound of his rapid breathing competing for attention against the hisses of fluid pumps and the occasional beeping, signaling time released paralytics. The pain was retreating as the tissue reconstruction neared its completion. The bone had formed, surrounded by a network of capillaries, and the muscle groups and tendons that would contribute to controlling his new forearm housed the extension of his brachial artery and vein, all intermingled with the cortosis relays that carried his nerve impulses to command the impressive piece of technology. A layer of sub dermal fat slowly began forming skin, and if he watched it closely enough he could see it growing like a rapidly spreading fungus. The doors to his isolation suddenly swept open, obliterating the apparition in the onslaught of light, and swiftly stealing Sharkish’Ki’s attention as the Ithorian returned, heralded by the scurrying droids that had departed with him. The physician made some garbled noise, and the translator kicked in momentarily delayed as it did so.
“The process is nearing completion. I trust it wasn’t too much to endure?” he said, avoiding eye contact with him as it prodded at buttons and tapped gauges. Sharkish’Ki’s snapped gaze was wasted, save for generating just a little more anger at the whole ordeal. He wanted so desperately to channel it into his telekinesis. How easy it would be, to snap him in half, he thought, half-burying the thought as he had no idea how to proceed should the Ithorian perish and leave him there, forever paralysed. Surely his master would release him, he thought, no, best not to chance it.
“Come here and let me show you! I’ll only need your arm!” Sharkish’Ki spat the words without thought of consequence, as the relief of pain finally came with the promise of release.
It was then that The General entered. She had felt the war in her apprentice’s mind, and she knew it had been no walk in the park what he’d endured. She had not pried – had not peered into his private thoughts to learn from what he was suffering. She might have guessed, though, from things he had told her before. Right before he’d had his arm replaced, they’d dueled, and he told her of his brother. Invadator had lost someone she cared for in her past, but no one so close as a blood relative. Actually, that was not entirely true, but she had been too young to remember the death of her entire nuclear and extended family. Most of them anyway.
“You survived,” she said, as if she were not stating an obvious fact. She looked upon her apprentice with great interest, which was something of a compliment in and of itself. It wasn’t often that she bothered to look at people, much less for an extended period of time. This could be something terrible or…something less terrible, but no less nerve wracking. Few were accustomed to her extended attention.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He would know what she meant.
Sweat trickled down Sharkish’Ki’s brow, and past his ears, collecting atop his manubrium. He could feel the heat radiating from his body as the pain dissipated, and the hallucination with it.
“Well, it really kriffin’ hurt!” He didn’t know where to direct his anger at the experience. “I just… it’s been so long,” he rasped. “So much guilt I didn’t know I had, and something keeps pulling it out of me.”
The pumps had been deactivated, and slowly but surely the paralytics were wearing off, as a tingling sensation swiftly swept over his chest and down into his newly formed arm.
“There was something so haunting about it all,” he said, fighting back a dehydrated cough. “As if it wasn’t just my own thoughts betraying me. I don’t know how to explain it.”
The Ithorian placed an odd, hand-shaped contraption under the prosthetic, and rotated the arm to align with the white, traced outline of the hand, from which rose a half glove-like skin that glowed with blue energy. It sealed itself to the back of the prosthetic hand and rings emerged from it, seizing the tips of his new digits. Sharkish’Ki watched as the droids went about unlocking and removing the bacta collar from his arm. There was a soreness that came with the rush of blood flow that sought to expand the skin where the collar had rested.
If being yelled at meant her apprentice could get some of his frustrations out, the General wasn’t offended by it. She merely listened to Sharkish’Ki and watched as the Ithorian medic and the droids did their work. She was accustomed to a certain mouthy droid being part of any medical procedure, and the silence seemed almost odd.
“Being connected to the Force has many disadvantages,” she said, finally. “One of them is that you’re never truly alone, even when you want or need to be.” She wondered if it might have been a mercy to cut him off from the Force during his procedure, if she’d had the skill to do so. Not her particular ability, but perhaps this was better anyway.
“Now. Slowly contract your bicep,” the Ithorian instructed, and Sharkish’Ki obeyed. The glow of the glove began to cycle through the infrared spectrum, from blue, through to green as he pulled the prosthetic closer to his face. “The tissue has formed perfectly, as expected. Now relax.”
“Amazing,” Sharkish’Ki muttered, “thank you, General,” as the glove cycled back to blue upon its descent back to neutral.
“Now, twist your wrist,” came the delayed translation. And so he turned his arm, placing his hand palm down as the rings and fibres of the glove highlighted the muscle groups he was using with a similar glow. Striations of green fibres highlighted across the device, as each group fired in response to the slightest of movements.
“Excellent. Now make a fist,” and so he did, noting the colours push through to orange, bordering on red. The Ithorian placed a cool hand on the limb, “well done. The prosthetic had linked perfectly to your nervous system. You may now use the arm as you wish. The materials used should see it prevail under many stressors, though it will respond accordingly to temperature, much like your own nervous system. Avoid extreme cold to maintain optimal functionality. The synthetic skin will heal as normally as you would expect for human epidermis. It will also damage as such.”
As he relaxed his grip, the rings that secured his digits slipped back into the diagnostics equipment with subtle disappearance. He wiggled the digits, as if playing an imaginary instrument, rapidly flexing each one in turn. It felt like his arm had never been missing, as he watched them with intrigue. It was a confusing feeling. It was his arm, but it wasn’t; the design was something he’d need to get accustomed to, as the gaps in the skin exposed the striations of cortosis-weave muscle, highlighting an obviousness that it was a prosthetic. There were no fingernails, or the traditional prints on the tips. It looked alien, and indeed it was, and yet it felt every much a part of him as the rest of his flesh.
The reclining chair began to raise him into a seated position, as he leaned forward cradling his new limb and admiring the textures with his own wandering digits.
“Incredible, General.” He smirked, as he tentatively caressed the imitation muscles. He slid off of the chair, planting his boots firmly onto the soft textured floor, searching around the room for his belongings. The assistant droid silently maneuvered to within his field of vision, grasping his vest and pauldrons. “So, where do we test this out?” as he rapidly pulled on his vest, as if nothing was amiss.
The General grinned back. “The look suits you, but you’re going to lose your arm again if you don’t take it more slowly. You’re far from fully healed, even if the cybernetics are fully integrated. Trust in my experience,” she says with a wave of her arm in her own direction. On top of a right arm, both legs and multiple internal organs had been replaced and augmented, respectively. “You need at least a few months of physical therapy.” Nevermind that, within days of being transformed into a cyborg, she herself had been back in combat. Nevermind that at all.
“How does it feel?” she asks, intending to delve more into not just his physical state, but his mental one. She was never one to pry forcefully into the mind.
Sharkish’Ki thought for a moment, casting his mind back to the event that caused it. There was anger there, but this wasn’t what The General was asking for. He put his resentment to one side for the sake of making a comparison.
“It feels like… it feels like it’s mine,” he said, softly, nodding in agreement to his statement, still flexing his new fingers. “I feel like I owe you a debt, master. This wasn’t your mess to fix, but Knight Slayer’s.”
The name brought a bitter aftertaste. The woman that had so eagerly brought him to his knees, with the help of her cohort of a twisted sorcerer and a glorified droid, had simply vanished.
If she were in the business of psychotherapy, she might endeavor to unpack all of the feelings wafting off of her apprentice through the Force. Alas, that is neither her profession nor her calling. “You owe no debt. It is my duty to watch over those I’ve sworn to train and mentor. For a time longer, your messes are my messes…” Her voice trails off, lost to the thoughts in mind.
“I think, however, that such time is to end quite soon, Sharkish’Ki. I have spoken with Lord Vexx…do you see where I’m going with this?” She pauses, considering another thought.
“I feel a great deal of resentment in you, Apprentice. Are you going to do something about it? Are you going to let it eat on you? Or are you going to realize one day that it is an experience, but just that: an experience. You lost an arm, a shame, to be sure. Will this consume your attention for a time?”
She is giving him a choice. If vengeance is what he seeks, he is free to find it where he might. An alternative would be to let the hate and anger fester, and while the Sith revel in their hatred, no wound should be left undrained. Or, he can move on. Past his past and find his future. Now, she is giving him that choice.
“You’re right,” he replied softly, “and with all due respect, I am doing something about it, master. Every movement forward is a step further from how I got here. But these memories won't simply wash away, nor the pain and anger with them.” He paused for a moment, thinking about all the memories he had lost. Would he want these added to the pile? Not a chance. “Without events happening the way they had, I wouldn’t be here now. I am stronger for it.”
He let out a deep, relaxed breath. “I know what you’re trying to do. Perhaps I’ll seek my vengeance one day. Regardless, I will do what’s asked of me.”
She prodded him with words, and now she’s listening to his reply, trying to gauge the honesty of his reaction. And to her, it seems genuine. “Very well, then. I respect your decision – and you are perhaps a bit too fresh from this injury.” She looks him over, then nods, as if making a decision. “What I ask of you now is only one thing…”
“Prepare yourself. You’ll want to be ready for this next mission, I assure you…”
Tag: @Reiis Invadator
OOC: If you made it to here, thanks so much for reading. This has been a collaborative story, with Reiis, and a long awaited chapter conclusion to Sharkish’Ki’s ongoing story arch and training, and my thanks go to Reiis for sticking at it!