dathomirs | for all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me

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 The directive was a simple one. Routine even. For the Inquisitorious' most loyal hound, it was a test of his extensive conditioning. He wasn't a normal Inquisitor - where there was some level of free will with them, with this one, most, if not all of it had been snuffed out He had one order, and one order only: obey. 

Often, obey meant kill. Destroy. Terminate a target, eliminate a base or a threat by wiping it off the map and vanishing as if he'd never been there. No evidence. Typically, he was sent alone, where an Inquisitor would have an entire squadron of troopers to lead. There wasn't much else. He was a blank slate, a sum of what they made him into, a ghost. He didn't think of himself as anything because his thoughts were all programmed by someone else.

As was his training. 

Whoever he'd once been had been washed away under months of torture and conditioning until he truly was nothing but a weapon of the Empire. 

(It wasn't foolproof - on more than one occasion a hint of something would slip through his shields, causing him to question... but they'd take him back and start fresh, wipe the slate all over again).

The pilot did not let up once they landed on the nearly empty ruins of the planet Dathomir. A nightsister, his target, there had been a knowing smile on Grand's face but he did not know what it meant nor did he care enough to ask as he gathered his gear and boarded the ship. The chip in his hand revealed a woman, zabrak by the look of it - according to the information, one of the last of her kind. He said nothing, or felt nothing as he stared at the holographic image for a moment longer than normal, before stashing it once again. Adjusting his helmet, he drew his saber and stepped lightly over the rust red terrain to where he believed he would find her. 

When he found the woman in question, he engaged, red blade flashing as he ducked, dodged, and struck against her. She was powerful; the report had said as much - not to underestimate her and do not come back until the job was complete. For a while it seemed like they were both on even ground and fairly matched well. Neither had the upper hand. 

Not until she slipped past his defenses once, for only a second. The strike was strong enough to throw him back off his feel, the blank mask flying off his face as he hit the ground. 

Get. Up. Do not fail. Or else. 

Head still bowed, he climbed awkwardly back to his feet before meeting his opponents eyes, wiping blood from his mouth. Green eyes stared back from a face that might be all too familiar, if not slightly different - pale and thinner, but unmistakably the face of someone long since dead and gone stares back, eyes full of hate and rage, pain screaming into the force. 

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"Sounds like a plan." Cal picks up the armor off the ground and moves to follow Merrin, trying not to think too hard about the uniform in his hand. But a crunching noise draws his attention and he looks to see that he'd cracked one of the pauldrons in a tight fist. The force swirled dangerously - red with rage, as he stopped to take a deep breath.

The memories threatened to drag him down. Just keep moving. Don't think of it. He forced himself to keep moving, dimly aware that Merrin had asked him a question.

"I've had worse." He says with a shrug. "No, I feel pretty good - the springs really did wonders." His tolerance for pain has improved a quite deal, it had to in order to survive his training and conditioning without breaking, but -- it was in the past, it was at least something useful that had come out of the whole thing.

[dathomirs]

She regards him with quiet concern nonetheless, not missing that reaction to touching his armor again. She makes a mental note to take it and put it in her ship while he sleeps -- or more likely, pretends to -- so that he can be rid of the memories it stirs sooner than later. She only doesn't offer to take it from him now because she knows Cal; she knows he'll bristle at the offer of help if he thinks he should be able to keep his own emotions in line. She'd been much the same for the early part of their time together, though she'd paid the price for trying to suppress too much when her magic rebelled against her.

Still, she worries. It's a short walk back to the place she's been staying, and she leads him through the door with a nod to an unoccupied space in a corner.

"You can drop it over there for now. I will find you some fresh clothes and we'll see what we can find for dinner. It's not going to be Greez's cooking, but I suspect I can do better than whatever the Empire feeds you."

She disappears into the back room where a makeshift bed is surrounded by a few trunks with clothing and other things she's collected while here. She remembers exactly where she'd put Cal's old clothes, and one thing in particular stands out as being perfect both for the weather here and, perhaps, for helping Cal find an uncomplicated memory in all of this.

She returns a moment later holding a spare pair of pants that had been Cal's, and one of the more muted ponchos he'd been so attached to -- she unfortunately drew the line at the horrid pink one, but this one had, on occasion, warded off her own chill in the cold nights here.

"Here you are. You can change in my room if you like. You're welcome to take the bed tonight, as well."

Another time they'd have shared, but she wants to give him space. She doesn't imagine either of them will be getting the best sleep of their lives, but Cal at least deserves a comfortable space to shake off some of the shadows of the past two years.

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He's glad of the silence as they walk, till they get to the place that Merrin has been staying. Not until she instructs him to put the armor down does he loosen his death grip on it; but despite his anger and hatred toward what it stands for, he deposits it on the ground carefully not to damage it further. The conditioning in him scolds Cal for allowing it to be damaged --

As if to make itself known, his stomach growls at the mere mention of food and his face reddens slightly which luckily pulls him from getting too dark in his thoughts.

"I could honestly eat a bantha. Maybe two." He's used to rations, small portions, nothing has ever come close to Greez's cooking; now that he remembers what that was like.

With a nod he takes the poncho and clothing and moves to her room to change, running his hand over the thick fabric and letting the emotions attached to it in. There's his own: grateful for it's warmth on Illum and snuggling underneath it after he'd been ill. There's Merrin's; basking in the warmth and feeling close to him underneath it.

He dresses himself quickly, the pants fit a little loose on him now but they work fine enough. Cal for the first time in years, feels like himself again. A person, not a thing.

His legs move backward until he hits the edge of a bed. He crumples down onto it.