Several people expressed concern about my last roleplay-related sketch, confused about the excerpt I included and wondering what would warrant Laz'ab demonstrating such intimate physical contact. was kind enough to log the RP session for me, which is included below. Hopefully now it will make more sense.


Prior to this scene Cipher Twelve - Caspira - accidentally pushed a Captain off the roof of the cantina on Voss, mistaking what was supposed to be a romantic rendezvous as a possible kidnapping. Things escalated from there and she wound up arrested, interrogated, and tortured by the Captain's Sith handler and his Acolytes (not Laz'ab ... which made him quite mad). After her release, bored and unable to sleep due to the voices in his head, Laz'ab called up Caspira "to annoy her" and she invited him over to try to teach him meditation techniques to quieten them.

((It Should Be Noted: Unbeknownst to Laz'ab, Caspira used to be a Sith herself prior to losing her Force powers, hence her savvy grip on the lightsaber and her mumblings about Koma in regards to his training. It is a detail about her past Caspira keeps from him on purpose, because he already associates her too closely with Darth Koma, his former master, and has attempted to kill her for it on several occasions in the past. He would surely kill her if he ever discovered she used to be Sith, just one more similarity to his master.))

More about it here:


--Sak
Caspira ©
Laz'ab © Myself, Shamine A. King
Star Wars: The Old Republic © BioWare/LucasArts
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RP Log: We're All Broken Here


There's a small beep, a bit of notification that pings across her intercom system. Ah, good her guest is here... She keys the system, commands the door to unlock. “Come on in.” Her voice is weary, but firm. When Laz enters he might notice the drag marks from her recent 'redecorating' going down the hall. She waits for him, sitting calmly on the edge of a chair. She's not quite looking herself though... her clothing hides the worst of her recent damage, but here are bruises on her throat, one eye narrowed slightly by a black eye and her lip sporting signs of being recently split. Shoulders sagged in slight exhaustion, she's just not the Cipher she usually is.

Laz'ab makes his way onto her ship, side-stepping her droid on sentry duty as he skirts down the hallway. He's looking as twitchy and nervous as ever he is when surrounded by an alien landscape, but whatever energy he might have spent on a snide quip is quickly used to assess the damage to her ship instead. He avoids the deep gouges tracking down her hallway from the medbay until he gets to the open door, peering curiously at Caspira with red eyes. Maybe it's the light from where he's standing, but she looks a little smaller than usual. There's very little of the proud, domineering Agent to be seen tonight. He steps into the room. “Hello, Cipher.” His voice is dry and borderline-rasping, as always, an effect aided by several sleepless nights.

Caspira spares him a faint smile that seems to convey how aware of her condition she is, one that pulls at the still healing tear creasing her upper lip. “Hello, Lord Laz'ab.” She's without her usual sarcastic weaponry as well, seeing as how he seems to have set his aside. “You look about as tired as I feel,” she remarks, not unkindly. Rising to her feet with a wince, she takes a few steps toward him but still stops outside his personal bubble. “If you're not opposed ... I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to try those meditations.” There's a strain there if he knows where to look for it, is lucid enough. In the raw edge of her voice, in the unfocused depth of her eyes, something has rocked her that she's still trying to set aside.

Laz'ab allows his eyes to travel down her body from head to toe, mentally assessing the damage as she speaks. He's lightly gnawing his upper lip without realizing it, sharpened teeth gently tugging at his skin as he quietly assesses the damage. His eyes snap back to hers when she speaks and he detects none of her usual hostility. A chill crawls up his spine regardless, his months spent interrogating prisoners registering her slight strain, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead he nods only slightly. “You look like you've been kicked in the head by a Gundark,” he remarks, now that she's closer.

Caspira seems to find the spot she's standing to be good enough and sinks slowly to her knees, settling her hands atop her thighs in a meditative sort of posture. “Close ... try a Zabrak.” She takes her time getting comfortable, bruised ribs and hip protesting until she finally stills, waiting for Laz'ab to choose his own spot, though she does flick her eyes to the spot opposite where she sits in suggestion. “Just my usual charm at work, you know.”

Laz'ab narrows his eyes at her slightly. “You have a way of making people want to hurt you,” he attests, then adds in a growling undertone, “But I see someone beat me to it.” Laz'ab lowers himself to the ground directly opposite her, tucking his legs underneath him cross-legged with significantly more ease than she. He shoots her another disapproving stare at that, probably mentally assessing just how many bruised ribs she might be hiding under there.

Caspira twitches the sleeves down over her wrists in a vague attempt to hide the cuff marks still lingering there and closes her eyes, lips twitching in another faint, wry smile. “An unfortunate gift. Another Sith as well, fancied himself quite the interrogator. It's not much a skill to take information from a willing participant however.” Smoothing out the frown before it can take hold, she lets out a slow breath, either missing or ignoring his assessment. “Try and clear your mind, focus on a silence that you can build and enforce it in the forefront of your thoughts. Give it walls, make them strong. Find a center...”

Laz'ab doesn't seem willing to close his eyes in these surroundings just yet, lowering his eyelids only halfway as he stares at a blank spot on the floor in front of him. His mind is a roiling cascade of whispers and voices, made louder in such a quiet location. Nevertheless he grasps her words as they break through the mist in his head, sorting them out in order and then trying to act on it. But it's impossible to clear his mind, the suggestions and flitting noises making him edgy the harder he tries. First his lekku might twitch in irritation, then a lip curl back to expose his teeth. His palms spread on his knees tense slightly. “It's not working ...”

Caspira doesn't seem quite able to follow her own advice, breathing picking up slowly at first as images superimpose themselves over her closed eyelids, invade the silence she's trying to build for herself. The fall. The damn fall. Her own eyes pop open, fear-shame-guilt skittering across her aura, a turbulence he might be able to feel since she's not able to control it. “That's ... that's okay ...” she soothes, voice quiet. “Take each voice you hear, each thing that's reaching for you and shove it down. Lock it under. Build walls in a different way if you're able... it m-might not come the first attempt.”

Laz'ab feels the wave of her conflicting emotions cascade against him not unlike a sluggish wave, his mind blurred as it is, but it catches him enough that his eyes snap to hers in a curious stare. He continues to observe her as he gathers his strength, steels himself and tries again ... he now seems more interested in watching to see if she can do the same, however, blinking slowly when she stammers quite noticeably. “You do this often?” he mutters quietly, as if he never noticed a thing, watching her through his lashes for her reaction.

Slow, sluggish anger, usually so quick to surface, rolls through the conflict surrounding her and drags back down as she takes a few centering breaths. The attempt to push it all back is weak, unfocused. “Yes,” she murmurs, brow furrowing in building frustration. “When I need to clear my head.” Her eyes half close, lips barely moving. “Find or build the silence ... build the walls ... make them strong ...”

Laz’ab can sense her emotions through the Force whether he wants to or not, they are so tangible tonight. Amidst the jumbled, swarming, static noises and whispers in his mind he can almost watch as a part of him detaches itself, a shadowy extension with glowing eyes and black tattoos that drip and ooze and seethe like living beings. Its shadowy tendrils reach out, separate from his body to float across the space between them, clawed hands reaching out to touch the boiling emotions that ride from Caspira in waves. He can’t stop a small smile, “I would try again, but you keep distracting me.” He doesn’t say why; he doubts he needs to.

Caspira reels back slightly at his words, almost certain she knows what he's indicating. It's been building for weeks, since her wounding. Sleepless nights, accompanying nightmares, tension, that constant feeling of being watched ... holding herself tightly together with the mental equivalent of clenches fists, she lets out a slow, shaky breath. “I'm sorry. It's just difficult right now. I don't know why,” she lies, and poorly at that. She's still drained, energy too low to have built up a decent amount after the previous day. “Let's ... try again.” Her will wavers, stills a moment, wavers again. Her eyes close once more ... she'll force it if she must.

Laz’ab watches her silently again, not even attempting to silence the voices in his mind anymore. The drama rapidly unfolding in front of him warrants far more attention, though he pretends he hadn’t noticed, bought the lies, and lets the Agent spend several moments gathering her thoughts. The silence of her sleek ship gathers around them like a cloud, but it doesn’t seem to bother him anymore; he breaks it, his rough, rasping voice cutting through sharply, “In all the many months I’ve had the misfortune to know you,” he drawls lightly, “I’ve never seen you tell such a terrible lie.”

Caspira finally cracks. It's no surprise Laz'ab would be the one to drive the last hammer-blow home. Her entire body jerks in a shiver-twitch and whatever contained emotion is there ... is no longer contained. Guilt. Shame. Hurt. Grief. And anger rides atop it all in a thin wave, far easier to deal with than the other, far more jagged emotions clamoring for her attention. In one disjointed movement, she surges to her feet, wild eyes taking in the room but seeing little. Turning, she takes the single step needed to reach the small table and the items scattered atop the decorative sheet of plastifilm. Letting out a roar that's just unfocused noise, she hooks her fingers beneath it and throws. Whatever was stacked atop it goes flying, a few things shattering to the floor. It's a good start ... but just that. A start.

Laz'ab jerks back reflexively when the emotions over-floweth, as it were, a small hint of a grin gracing his lips as he leaps to his feet to avoid the surge of emotions that explode outwards, though his hand doesn't reach for his saber. She's of no threat to him. Instead, he watches as she sends the objects flying, wondering what the next item on her agenda of destruction will be.

Caspira doesn't seem to notice Laz'ab except peripherally, a blip on her small radar of destruction. She breaks what she touches, destroys what she's directed to ... time to put that practiced skill to test. Bitterness augments the flashfire of rage as she storms toward her workbench, throwing open the drawers and ripping out datapads, holocomms, stacks of flimsi and even her strange collection of lightsaber hilts; all thrown out in a small arc of destruction. Pads shatter, holocomms crack, sabers roll and yet she can't clamp down yet. Each breath is expelled in a coughing, laughing, sobbing burst of noise. Still waters do run deep it seems. She doubles back to a still-whole pad and brings her heel down on the screen with an angry screech.

Laz'ab observes her with growing interest, the parts of him still coherent taking in this sudden alternate personality – a part of her he didn't know existed – with great interest. He follows her quietly across the room, footsteps practiced and silent over the wooden floorboards as he pauses a safe distance away. He tilts his head this way and that to avoid the objects showering about the room, occasionally raising a hand to flick an oncoming saber or piece of junk aside with a whiff of the Force.

Caspira is almost out of anger, burning away too quickly to hold and leaving behind things that aren't quite so easy; the jagged corners hard to handle. Her dark eyes find the nearest saber and practically pounces on it. Hands clench around the hilt and she moves haltingly into an almost-form, the entire saber trembling as her hands shake. (It was an accident.) (What's done is done.) Voice a ragged shout, her whole body moves into motion, swinging the saber into a dead throw at the datascreen over the workbench. It strikes true at the same moment she collapses to her knees; the wrench of her bruised, beaten body knocking her down with a sudden spike of pain. Her breathing is ragged, audible over the electric crackle as the screen shatters.

Laz'ab continues to watch in silence as she wreaks havoc, though there's a spike of interest in his eyes that narrows to suspicion when he thinks he recognizes a saber-stance in her method of grasping the lightsaber. The look is gone as soon as it came, replaced by a mild admiration as she screen shatters, hissing and crackling and spraying a shower of colorful sparks in all directions in it's death throes. Even technology looks beautiful when dying. His eyes linger on the sputtering remnants of the screen, until eventually he seems to notice Caspira's crumpled form on the ground. His fingers twitch by his sides, but he doesn't make a move to approach her. “That was ... impressive.”

Caspira curls her arms tightly about herself as the anger burns out and the shakes take over, unable to stop the cascade of remaining emotions that hit her. Wrapping her arms tight, she digs her fingers ruthlessly into her skin and rocks forward to hide her face. “Medbay,” she hisses, voice rasping. “S-second drawer, left side ... red capsules ... please, it's ... I need ... a sedative ...”

Laz'ab leans forward at this, covering the distance between them in stealthy, sweeping steps until he's looming just behind her, leaning over her prone form as his lekku slip limply off his shoulders to dangle by his side. “Are you sure, Caspira?” he hisses like a poison, “You keep bottling that up and it's only gonna' get worse.”

Caspira makes a keening noise of pure misery, the potent sludge of fear-guilt-hurt rolling off her in waves, battering against him uncontained. “Nnnggghhh-no ...” It's practically a plea. “Don't make me ... I can't ...” She can sense him there, dark and unsettling and only making things worse. Her fingers dig in harder, enough for a sharp burst of pain to clear the fog. “It's too much.”

Laz'ab actually kneels down this time, brushing in so close she'd be able to feel his breath hot on her neck should she sit back, propping himself up with his left palm splayed on the floor by her body as he wraps the dark tendrils of his mind around her. He's smiling. “Not all of us here have the luxury of turning it off,” he whispers, “See what it's like? But you ... your mind is silent, you can turn it off with an injection and make the pain go away ... but you're only going to make it worse, bottling it up ...”

Caspira tries to drag herself back under control but it's a feat she's not able to handle just yet. She shivers at his proximity, the lekku, though it's almost unnoticeable in the midst of her current shaking. “I'm a Cipher, damnit,” she snaps, though it could be anything that accompanies it: resignation or pride? Excuse or foundation? There's no repairing the fact he's seen her at this moment of terrible weakness and she unexpectedly leans back against him, hands covering her face in a jerk of motion, shocked into momentary silence to find tears. Angry ones, she reassures herself, lie upon lie.

Laz'ab seems to stiffen with uncertainty at first when she leans in his direction, but in an unexpected move he doesn't shy away, and remains where he is. Her misery and anguish are so tangible to him, sending his mind into a frenzy of new whispers, and he closes his eyes to take it all in. He turns his head ever so slightly in her direction, giving her cheek a brush with his nose that for all outward appearances would seem to be a comforting nuzzle. In truth, it is far more likely he's trying to suck in all those negative emotions, to revel in them. They're hers this time.

Caspira isn't so broken up or tuned out that she mistakes Laz's actions for anything near comfort or affection. At best, it's tolerance ... but that seems to be enough. Don't bottle up, he says. That'll make it worse. He's already hip-deep in her own personal anguish, so why not open the doors to her miserable little hell a bit wider. “I killed him,” she grates, and would push that guilt on him if she were able. “Not completely but enough. So near a thing.”

Laz'ab twists his head slightly so he's closer to her anguish, nudging her at the back of her neck now. “Uh-huh,” he breathes against her skin, not so much listening to her story as enjoying the emotions he's riding on. “But you've killed plenty before him.”

Caspira sucks in a breath and drops her hands to fall limp at her sides. “Never by accident. Only on purpose.” She's not the least bit steady yet, hardly even close to coming to grips with it. “I don't care if they trust me when I'm there to kill them,” she mutters, unable to grasp what's rattling around in her head. “This was ... wrong.” Even knowing he's not there to comfort her, just there to revel in her pain, she sags against Laz'ab a little more, let's the physical and emotional hurt burn clean. “I'm dangerous. A Cipher. A tool. A vibroblade. Good for one thing ... I need to go back to one thing.”

Laz'ab smiles a little when she leans against him, stabilizing himself with both hands on the floor. In an unusual moment of clarity he slyly murmurs, “You're only human, Caspira, not a tool. You won't be able to do that.”

Caspira laughs, a sick, jittery noise as she swats at the debris of a shattered pad nearby. “You're right. Caspira can't do that. Somebody else could though ...” Another identity, another cover. Another shell. And she really must be desperate ... “What do I do ... I can't do this again. I'm just tired, that's all”

“Too tired to run, then,” Laz'ab murmurs, “So you hide.” His voice sounds borderline taunting at this point, though his words are more like slippery suggestions that override jibes. He shifts on his palms to support their weight better. “You're only gonna' break again, you might really kill him next time.”

Caspira shifts her weight against Laz'ab, trying to take some of the responsibility of bearing their weight, but it seems a largely futile effort. “I know,” she replies, calm and cold beneath the emotional jitter coloring everything. “... He's seen the last of me.” Her laugh is a sharp, cutting thing, filled with a measure of self-loathing. “I'm only good at hiding ...” she muses, “I only find to kill.”

Laz'ab seems to take a deep breath at her mention of “killing”, closing his eyes to take in the way she says that word with perhaps a little too much satisfaction. “Out of curiosity, who was the little shit anyway?” he muses, doing that creepy nuzzling thing again.

Caspira shivers away from the nuzzling, as much as she's wallowing in her own misery, it's a small pool with room only for one, comfortably. Harsh reaction skitters down her spine at his comment; “little shit”, but she tells herself not to care anymore, that it's a wound needing to be amputated. “Kevrin. The man you tried to skewer when he walked in on you throttling me in the medbay,” she says dryly.

Laz'ab leans back and stares at the wall as he grasps with the memories tumbling around in his troubled mind for several moments before he smiles brightly, those sharpened teeth bared. “Oh, I remember now ...” His expression turns as dry as Caspira's tone. “He had it coming, then.” There's a glint in his eyes as he watches her, anticipating her reactions keenly.

Caspira manages to find a small ember of hate still burning, enough that she attempts to drive an elbow back into the ribs that she's tucked herself against over the course of this broken conversation. “Bastard,” she hisses though the heat is gone almost as quickly as it came.

Laz'ab takes the jab in good grace, leaning away from it slightly when he senses it coming, before moving back in. He mutters again, “Look at it this way, he almost got you killed, and almost robbed me of my chance to do it myself one day.” He sounds more than a little bit irked at that, “I say he got what was coming for him.”

Caspira laughs, another bitter snap of noise in the silence. Surrounded by broken things, including the Sith at her back, she takes a long moment to try and gather the pieces back up, fit them together. “Many things 'almost get me killed'. That is what a Cipher does ... they wind us up, they let us go, and we keep going until the power cells run dry.” There's a touch of concern in her voice. “Or until they 'retire' us. I wonder if the criminally negligent homicide of an Imperial Captain is enough to merit retirement.” Somehow, she doesn't seem so terribly broken up at the thought. Tired in so many ways.

Laz'ab dips his head at the extent of her current state, watching her through lidded eyes once more; she looks so fragile, glancing at her through his lashes. It's tantalizing, how easy the spirit can be broken. “Never thought I'd see the mighty Cipher Twelve's power run out,” he mutters, almost amused. “Who'll shadow me then, if they retire you?”

Caspira seems to come back to herself slightly at his words, attempting to gather some of her former bearing up around her, dragging the tattered bits of Caspira: Cipher Twelve about her shoulders like shot-blasted armor. “I'm far from finished,” she responds coolly. “Too much to do, and not enough time in the world to train a replacement well enough to survive you.” It's a thin bravado, but a start.

Laz'ab blinks and raises his brows as a mocking grin creeps across his lips, “I'm not so sure they trained you well enough for that.” Oh, look, a little bit of genuine humor on his part, albeit drier than the Jundland Wastes.

Caspira tilts her head to give him a brittle smile at the joke, though she's a bit more pale than usual; eyes too dark and ringed by dark smudges of exhaustion. “Only time will tell.” There's still an unfocussed quality to her eyes, the thin film of artificial brown contacts doing nothing to take away from the effect. “... I could still use a sedative.”

Laz'ab gives her a last little bump on the neck with his nose, “Tsk, you're no fun.” But this time he gets to his feet, slowly in fact, to give Caspira time to balance herself and not topple over. He wanders towards the medbay, having completely forgotten her instructions about where she kept them, but he'll tear the place apart if he has to ... although it looks like whoever took her kolto tank also did a good job of tipping the place upside-down already. He calls out over his shoulder. “Out of purely professional interest ... who was the gutless pig who interrogated you so poorly?”

Caspira steadies herself as he rises, feeling too light and too heavy all at once. She lets herself slide back down onto the floor, resisting the urge to curl into a ball of misery. She hasn't even gone into her medbay yet, not yet ready to deal with the reality of that and so uncertain of what she would find anyway. “A novice, obviously ... thinking himself capable of handling an interrogation because he can hurt a person ...” Her tone is bitter ... but there's a trace of cold satisfaction. Sure her actions earlier got her trounced a bit more, but she'd goaded him effortlessly into it.

Laz'ab curls his lip and clicks his tongue in a 'tsk-tsk' as he tips open drawers even further looking for the sedative. “Does he has a name? Or will I have to carve that out of him, too?”

Caspira tries to recall the directions she gave him ... “Second drawer, left side. Red capsule.” It should be there ... stars, she hopes so. Snorting, she tries to stretch herself out, wincing at the bruises, wondering if something might be cracked. “Acolyte Jorreel ... huge Zabrak. Quite a temper on him.”

Laz'ab mutters something from the other room that sounds like it might be “Horny buggers,” accompanied by the sound of more drawers getting tossed about. Then a pause ... “Found it!” He looks like a child with a lollypop when he saunters back out, tossing the capsule in his palm. “It's so tiny ... sure you don't need another one? Or else I could just knock you out with a punch or two, you've already got plenty of bruises anyway.”

Caspira flops gracelessly over onto her back with a low groan of pain, dragging the edge of her shirt up to examine the deep purples and blues, the ugly greens painted across her skin. Nasty, horny bugger. “It should do just fine.” Smoothing the shirt back into place before he can make any of his standard slut, whore, harlot commentary, she turns tired eyes his way. The entire ordeal has left her drained, beyond caring at the moment. “My own special recipe ... it won't knock me out, but it dulls the mind significantly.”

Laz'ab considers the small capsule in his hand a little longer, brow arching when she exposes some of her skin, but he doesn't make a comment; she doesn't afford him room to. He bends down slightly to hand it to her, pausing. “... Need water?”

Caspira accepts the capsule with the barest brush of fingertips, giving it a careful look. “No,” she sighs, looking at it with something keenly like barely suppressed addiction. Swallowing it down without further hesitation, she gives him a quiet look. “I'm about to become a very dull person to be around.”

Laz'ab raises those brows again, “Caspira, you're always a dull person to be around. Throwing lightsabers was the most exciting I've seen you do ... ever.” He crosses his arms and muses quietly, “Maybe I should kick you around more often.”

Caspira glances around her shattered tools of the trade and trophies alike spread around her in a near perfect circle of destruction. She laughs, and it takes possession of her from there, turning almost hysterical until she claps her hands over her face. “I need to put in for time off. For gear requisition ...”

Laz'ab looks almost pleased at that news. “Maybe you should fix up your ship, too ... stay grounded for a couple of weeks.” He doesn't say it, but he's clearly hinting at the possibility that she won't be following him around.

Caspira laughs again, though it peters out quickly enough into a low sigh, dragging down and on until she's no air left in her lungs. “That's the plan, exactly ... though not grounded. No. People could still find me ... I think an anchored point somewhere off the Outer Rim instead ...” No, Laz'ab's shadow will be haunting the corridors of her own ship for some time to come.

Laz'ab considers her quietly for a moment from where he stands. “That's a long way out,” he murmurs. “Could be real easy for someone to get you, and Imperial Intelligence would never know.” It might have been a veiled threat, or merely an observation.

Caspira pulls her hands away from her face, still sprawled gracelessly on the floors, shards grinding beneath an elbow as she drops her arms on the floor. It's clear the sedative is starting to take effect, the still-churning emotions sinking into a low haze, eyes very very far away ... “Would that be so terrible? You'd never have to see me again, I'd never have to see you ... terrible really. Such ... potential for more.”

Laz'ab watches her as the coherence beings to slip from her words with narrowing eyes. He's either considering killing her, deciphering what she means, or wondering if he should move her. He opts for the latter after some hesitation and kneels in the debris, struggling with some difficulty to get his arms under chest and below the knees to carry her over to the couch. He's not about to figure out where her bedroom is; he's not exactly the biggest Twi'lek out there as it is. “What do you mean by that, Cipher?” he mutters.

Caspira doesn't seem to anticipate his intentions, eyes narrowing in vague suspicion though she makes no move to escape either way. When he scoops her up though, she makes a low grunt of noise and digs her fingers into his robes to steady herself. It takes a moment for her to regain the track her mind tasking. “You could do ... such great things. Steer the Empire, take hold of the path of destiny and walk it with dignity. She did wrong by you ... in so many ways.” She sighs, listless. “I would do you the favor of killing her for you too ... but gone. So gone.”

Laz'ab exhales and glares at the floor when she brings up Darth Koma, mentally assuring himself himself that he'll hurt her for it later, if only because he won't be able to have his fun with her when she's so far gone already. He jerks in surprise and peers at Caspira curiously at her words; what a strange offer. “What on earth for,” he mutters, perhaps a little too vehemently. “I don't need your sympathy,” he adds.

Caspira looks at him with undisguised surprise. “Sympathy,” she laughs, but it's a disjointed sound, like trying to duplicate something you can't quite recall. “No. She was useless ... better to cull the choking vine, the poison, before it destroys everything.”

Laz'ab finally reaches the couch and stoops over to lie her down across the seats. He throws an arm back and blasts away and remaining debris from her first little stunt with a burst of Force energy, then pauses, considering his hand as he flexes it experimentally, turning back to Caspira. “And leave me without training,” he mutters, “Force users in the Empire who cannot be Sith become dead, Cipher.”

Caspira settles against the couch with a series of stiff movements, trying to find a way to lie that's still comfortable, that doesn't put more stress on her aching body. “There would be better teachers. That guide. That ... cultivate.” Her voice carries some conviction to it, out of place for a Cipher perhaps. “Sith are supposed to raise more Sith, not cut them down before they reach what they could achieve.”

Laz'ab laughs harshly at her observation, “And then the Apprentice kills the Master. I already did that, the circle is complete.” He doesn't sound convinced of that either, and it's audible in his voice. He watches her with a curious gleam in his eyes, wondering, perhaps, if there's something she's not telling him. He turns away with a light snarl, and mutters quietly. “Anyway, it's too late for that now.”

Caspira watches him, the her that resides under the drugs aghast at what she's saying, but powerless to keep the seemingly casual conversation from spilling out. “It's never too late to teach an old akk new tricks,” she recites dully and rolls her eyes skyward, “Not all Apprentices kill their Masters. Some need to die; too old, too stiff to defend their stance, to halt the march of progress. Some ... do not.”

Laz'ab stiffens again, clawed hands ever-fidgety as his lekku twitch visibly in irritation. “Well, my Master IS dead, before she could kill ME. What's done is done, and I have no intention of being under anyone's heel again.” It's taking all his willpower not to lash out; the voices are getting louder.

Caspira continues to stare upward, too detached to notice the slow slide back to where the voices are. “What's done is done ...” she murmurs, tone defeated despite the haze of the sedative. Curling toward the back of the couch, she buries her face against her arms with a low sigh. “What's done is done and no way to go back, to fix what's broken ... only forward.” Her head shakes slowly. “Broken.”

Laz'ab shivers again with a dangerous concoction of emotions roiling through him when she repeats that word, but he doesn't deny it; even he knows something is very clearly and severely wrong with him. “Good night, Cipher Twelve,” he mutters instead, pausing on his way to the door.

Caspira sighs, low and long, and twists back around as he speaks, begins to move away. That's right. He's broken too. Such a sad thing. Her head sinks back against the couch, the steady burn of the overhead lights a comfort. “Good night Laz'ab ... Thank you. For everything. For nothing. Heartless bastard.” She laughs again. “You'll do fine.”

Laz'ab pauses on his way out the door, not quite sure what she means nor what to say to that. He settles for a frustrated huff and makes his way down the corridor and out of the ship. Avoiding the tracks in the ground all the while.