#syrilposting

Being raised in a kinderblock she had been taught to see the Emperor as a father figure, even before he became emperor. My goodness did he have a lot of questions about that. During their first session the only thing he wanted to talk about was her youth. These people are obsessed with familial relations, she thought . They see childhood as the key to every facet of one’s personality, instead of simply an awkward transitionary phase one goes through before becoming a real person. No one asks a butterfly what it was like to spend time inside its cocoon . She assumed the obsession with parental issues among the Republic intelligentsia was some sort of hidden sexual fetish. Projecting their own fantasies onto others and treating it like a science. Her upbringing had been free of the ups and downs that came with a bio-family, for which she was thankful. She had been raised according to sound pedagogical principles by professionals instead of the personal whims of her genetic precursors. There had been a picture of Palpatine on the wall in all the shared spaces watching over her as long as she could remember. Under the poster had been a quote by good old Sheev. At first it had been ‘I Love Democracy. I Love the Republic’. Later it had been changed to ‘The First Galactic Empire: For a Safe and Secure Society’ - his official motto as emperor. Her eyes fixated on the image in front of her and she chose her next words carefully.

“Power,” she told him. He looked at her with inquisitive eyes. “Can you elaborate?” he asked as his fingers moved across the datapad. 

“He amassed a lot of power. Too much perhaps. I think it was preferable when he was just the Supreme Chancellor” She knew better than to lie outright. It needs to be believable . Perhaps she could have played the role of a teary-eyed Rebel convert, like Kallus, desperate to atone for her actions. But he would have seen through that, she knew as much. People don’t change their entire worldview overnight.

“Let’s go to the next image.” He adjusted the device to reveal a second figure. A projection of a fiery Mon Mothma, dressed in white standing, delivering a speech to the Senate. A series of unpleasant phrases popped into her head.

Self-righteous. Opportunist. Demagogue.

“Senator,” she said through gritted teeth. Dr. Marwynn made a careful note. The next projection showed an armoured mandalorian in mid-flight. 

Criminals. Thieves. Fanatics.

“Warriors,” Dedra said. He jotted down a few more words on his pad. The next slide revealed a Jawa, the small hooded traders of Tatooine, engaged in bartering with a human over an old dusty droid.

Dirty. Cheap. Selfish.

“Trade,” she said. Another projection appeared, showing a Bothan commander dressed in a rebel uniform standing on the bridge of a Mon Calamari cruiser.

Lying. Devious. Treasonous. 

“Clever”

Next up was an Asogian, one of those naked wrinkly long-necked creatures from the Outer-Rim, standing at a comms device.

Childish. Simpletons. Useless.

“Friendly”

He adjusted the device once again. A flock of Lepi, young and old, gathered around a dinner table, ready to share a meal. The long-eared species smiled with their buck-teeth as they looked directly at her.

Overpopulation. Famine. Sterilization. 

“Family,” she said. Some of her ISB-colleagues had been drawing up plans for a forced programme of mass sterilization on the planet Coachelle Prime, the homeworld of the Lepi. She wasn’t sure if it had ever been implemented or not. His fingers adjusted the dial until it revealed a human man dressed in traditional Ghorman garments.

Death. Pain. Syril.

No words left her mouth. She felt his eyes paying close attention to her every movement as the thoughts raced through her head. A lump formed in her throat. She desperately tried to think of something else. Anything else.

Riot. Chaos. Syril.

Her lips stayed shut. Dr Marwynn took a sip from his cup and observed her silence. His bespectacled eyes analyzed her soul. 

Spiders. Spies. Syril. She tried to push Syril out of her mind and tried to think of other words. Any words. Her mind was flooded with a string of disparate images. 

Kalkite. Stardust. Krennic. Traitor. Prison. Narkina. Floor. Pain. Syril. 

She felt something tightening around her throat. A cough that refused to surface. While her fingers massaged her own neck her counselor took extensive notes. Her voice continued to fail her. I can’t fucking breathe, she thought and gasped for air.

“Do you want some water?” he finally asked. She gave a silent nod. The doctor poured her a glass from the oval crystalline carafe on the table and pushed it toward her. The scrapping noise as it travelled across the table was the only sound in the room. She emptied it in mere seconds. Dedra coughed loudly as the doctor turned off the device. “Perhaps we can come back to this image, I sense it’s stirring up a lot of emotions.” Go to hell .