#spacecadetcity

“Do tell, old friend.”

“Well,” Ratchet puts down his own datapad, leaning on the desk next to him. “The kid hadn’t had a proper Cybertronian diet since he was a protoform. He’s been raised on nothing but junk food, which, really, wasn’t the human’s fault. They didn’t exactly have the tech to drill for the energon on this planet. That didn’t stop me from worrying what sort of habits Bumblebee had picked up due to being raised in a more-or-less completely organic environment.”

“His EM field is certainly one of them...” Prowl mutters, and despite the slight side-optic, Ratchet nods.

“Kid can’t control his EM field, at least, not as well as most others his age would be able to. There are few other things, mostly just a lack of knowledge about Cybertronian biology and history, but still,” Ratchet frowns. “It’s been a long time since any of us have met such a young mech. The youngest I’ve ever worked on since the hotspots started drying up was at least five hundred Earth years, and he’s going to hit three thousand soon.”

“Maybe it’s better that Bumblebee was raised here,” Bulkhead offers, “Whenever we did find a hotspot that wasn’t dry, it didn’t stay that way long enough for us to harvest any of ‘em. The ones we did manage to get--”

“The battlefield is not any place to raise a protoform,” Prowl interrupts, “And we have gotten off-topic.”

“Prowl is right,” Optimus says. Prowl’s doorwings seem to wiggle slightly, but if Optimus notices, he doesn’t say anything. “The point is, it was a startling experience, but we have been adjusting. Bumblebee and his human family have been extremely helpful in that, and in return, I only hope we can offer them enough protection against the Decepticons.”

He’s done his best to not drift their, almost outright avoiding the room, but when it’s the middle of the sleep cycle, and the only other people awake are a droid, Lana, and Manuzil, he feels there’s enough safety for him to go in there without being cooed at for it.

So, he sits in the dimly lit medbay, staring down at one of the most unlikely allies-- no, friends-- he’s made yet. Her presence in the Force is her own, but he can feel wisps of Valkorion at the edges of it. He suspects the ghost has something to do not only with her survival, but with her prolonged sleep.

He sits a small distance away, just within arm’s reach, but not close enough to get into her personal space. Just in case. At first, the only sound in the medbay is the soft beeping and whirring of machinery alongside the various creaks and groans of the Gravestone.

It begins to grate on Jareff’s already fraying nerves, so he whispers, just enough for only the two of them to hear, “You’re an idiot.”

He internally cringes at himself, backpedals, “What you did back there... it was foolish. I know you wanted me at the Gravestone to defend it, but we both knew-- know-- how dangerous Arcann is. You should’ve known HK wouldn’t be enough to defend you alone, and now he’s gone, and you... You’re here. Asleep. In the medical bay.”

Jareff sighs. He’s talking to a comatose woman who very nearly died and, under most other circumstances, would be considered an enemy to him. He should just get up and leave, talk to Lana or Manuzil or-- Force forbid it-- even Koth. He shouldn’t be doing this, it’s unseemly for a sith with such a high position as him.

“Why is it harder to talk to you while you’re asleep than when you’re awake?” Jareff wonders aloud, “I know conversation is usually easier when there are two parties involved but... I don’t know. I struggle to find my words, though from what I’ve seen and heard, you have that effect on people.”

He can almost imagine Myriad laughing at that, shoving him playfully and telling him to shut up, as if he were just a normal drinking buddy instead of Darth Nox, a man who has killed hundreds, if not thousands, of people time and time again. Sometimes he’s not even sure if she just ignores it, or if she genuinely forgets that’s who Jareff is.

“My grandfather was the first to tell me that there is darkness in everything. Whether it was a warning or him attempting to prepare me for a potential future as a sith, I don’t know, but it’s how I’ve always operated. Hurt them before they hurt you, or at least have a plan to. Betrayal and deceit is the way of the sith, and I am a very good sith.”

But...

“But then... I met you. You, Lana, Theron, even Jakarro. Trust came slowly from both sides, but you... Somehow, I always knew I could trust you. That you wouldn’t stab me in the back. Perhaps it was because of how open you always were-- are-- or maybe it was simply because you didn’t shoot me in the back at any chance you got, but after we first met, even if I never showed it, I... I trusted you. I still trust you. And for a long time, I wondered why you ended up trusting me as well.”

It had clawed at the back of Jareff’s mind for weeks after Rakata Prime, persisted all throughout their time on Rishi and most of the Yavin truce, but at the very end, as they boarded their separate ships, it had hit him.

“Despite your career, at the end of the day, you believe in the light. You believe that, so long as we work together, trust each other, there’s nothing we can’t do. You believe that compassion, love, and mercy are just as strong, if not stronger than a good blaster. It was-- is-- the antithesis to everything I’ve ever known, both as a slave and a sith.”

And yet, Jareff couldn’t help but feel fond of her. As close to her as he had been his crew, his grandfather. That took him even longer to figure out, but he did.

“You see the good in everything. Even me,” Jareff lets out a slight laugh. It’s wet, as if he’s on the verge of crying. He ignores it. “Perhaps that’s why I like it when you look at me.”

Several moments of silence pass, before Jareff finally pulls himself together, wiping away any and all rogue tears from his cheeks. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and stands.

He hesitantly places a single gloved hand over her arm, keeping it hovering, not actually touching the comatose smuggler. He wants to, he thinks. He wants to pat her arm awkwardly and gently in an attempt to show his platonic affection, but at the same time, he can’t help but pull his hand back from her.

Old habits, he supposes. 

My Sith Inquisitor is Jareff Tuun, a Human Man. Jareff’s had it rough, starting with the fact that he was not only born into slavery, but one of his earliest memories is of his father being executed by the Imperial Overseer in charge for attempting to start a slave revolt. His mother was taken from the camp and sent to Korriban for Sith Training once it was discovered she was Force Sensitive, but this proved to also be a death sentence, since she didn’t even survive her first month there.

Jareff was raised by his maternal grandfather, who was not FS, but upon discovering Jareff was, he urged the young boy to keep it a secret and refrain from nurturing it. Jareff listened at first, but eventually began using his abilities to keep the other slaves at bay, especially as his grandfather got older. However, one night, his grandfather was murdered by guards who had wanted to get their kicks from beating up an old man. All of Jareff’s fury manifested at once, and left desolation in its wake until he was captured and sent to Korriban for training.

Unlike his mother, he survived. More than that, he learned to thrive, becoming Darth Nox against all odds. He was Ruthless, Bloodthirsty, Sadistic, basically everything you’d think a Sith would be. This has... changed somewhat in more recent times. The more time he spent on the Dark Council, the less impulsively cruel he became, and a more mature Jareff began to take form. And after everything that happened with the Revanites and the Emperor (one large factor being meeting a Republic Privateer who he would come to respect and work well with), his worldview slowly began to shift, culminating in him mellowing out somewhat (as much as someone like him can).

He will be the first to suggest murder, mayhem, and torture, but if the others are against it, he’ll actually respect that. His temper is still something to be feared, and he is fiercely protective of his Alliance and its people, but he is... not benevolent, but certainly not the Sith who clawed his way up through the ranks, seizing his power with bared teeth and bloody claws.

And now, for something completely different

My Jedi Consular is Nyra Cheet, a Miraluka Woman. She was born on a Republic colony that was being ravaged by a horrible plague. Her parents were both taken by the sickness, and she was instead raised by the various medics and Jedi that had been assigned to keep the sickness under control. She showed her aptitude for the Force at a very young age, showcasing powers and abilities that even shocked the most experienced of the Jedi present. She was taught to control her abilities by both the Jedi and the handful of other Miraluka that the plague had yet to take.

While her healing skills were certainly impressive, her ability to enhance her combat skills and general disposition towards helping the Jedi defeat the Sith were what truly caught the eye of her masters, and when she joined the Jedi Order, they knew she was likely to become one of the greatest Jedi to live.

Nyra herself is, like many Miraluka, thoughtful and cautious, but due to her upbringing and the general, constant praise of her powers, she is also somewhat aloof towards matters and people not dealing with the Force. This has lead her own attachment to the Force to be neither light nor dark, but more neutral in nature. However, as she began to encounter more and more of the galaxy, even igniting a semi-romance with Major Motra Kanu of Havoc Squad, she began to become more grounded, her neutrality becoming more of worldly thing as opposed to an accidental thing.