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Apr. 5th, 2016 09:08 am![[sticky entry]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/entry/sticky_entry.png){kind=small}
Leave an in-character message for Sinjir Rath Velus here.
Some PSL prompt? idek
Nov. 20th, 2016 11:49 pmThe ship is discovered on a ballistic trajectory headed into an uninhabited system -- "uninhabited", but one key hinge on the regular hyperspace route from one crime-heavy planet to another. So the emptiness between the scorched rocks and the pulsing radiation from the binary stars is crawling with hidden smuggling ships, buzzed by law enforcement and opportunists and thrill-seekers.
The ship. Engines burning at 400% of maximum capacity against its current velocity, a flare almost as bright as the lesser of the two stars. Blasting radiation like it's going out of style. Scorching across the hull, old laser fire, one arm of the ship missing, the joint ended in twisted, blackened metal.
Still, recognizably: it is an Imperial design.
He thinks it's pirates that found him first. They took out the engines with surgical, professional shots, and netted the ship, now moving at a relatively slow .2 lightspeed against the system trajectory. Burned out the hatches, and found pockets of atmosphere, the core of the ship still livable.
And they found Sinjir.
He's thin and half-crazed. He fights; they subdue, without killing, because one thing more valuable than a ship from the past is someone who knew what happened. They try to do a data dump, and find that most of it is corrupted or encrypted. A few scant, tempting morsels. And then, in the cargo bay, a few glass cylinders, almost like bacta tanks, with unfamiliar technology crawling up it. Every readout, every connection, every bit of sensitive technology within has been meticulously and thoroughly smashed. Every piece of computing equipment is broken, fried, ground into dust.
Sinjir did all that. Because he knew exactly what would happen if one of those cylinders got up and running. If it told its secrets to the galaxy.
They could have thrown him in a lockup, let him shiver as the radiation sickness got worse, let him suffer. Instead, they throw him in a bacta tank, and he fights against the viscous fluid and succumbs to unconsciousness. Wakes up on a bed, moving, a corridor, metal struts flashing by like a bared skeleton.
He wakes up, again, in a lockup, but his arm is immobilized and fluid leaks in from a bag above. Primitive, but effective. He can feel the nourishment spreading through his body like warmth.
For Sinjir Rath Velus, it has been three months alone on that ship. But, when he overfired the engines to try and bridge the gap to the nearest star system, after being stranded in the black, he couldn't reach hyperspace. He could only stay within ordinary space, where the speed limit is light, and where the faster you go, the slower you are. Three months for him. How long, for the rest of the galaxy?
~*~
escape:
They underestimate his sheer willpower and pain tolerance, obviously. Because he wriggles his wrist out of that restraint, quietly takes out the guard by the bed, and steals his clothes. Skinny, shaggy, and with that tough, haggard look in his eyes -- he actually blends in with the pirates pretty well. Maybe each delegation here to bid on the mysterious rescued Imperial will think he's a member of a different delegation.
Anyway, he'll be damned if he lets them sell off what he knows about the Spaarti cylinders. What he destroyed.
He slips through the hallways, at a near-run when there's no one in sight. What he doesn't anticipate is that the entire area is restricted, under guard. So when he walks out, a man with five blasters (a little excessive, really) does a double take, and draws two of them, starts shooting.
It's set on stun, which is gratifying, like a pleasant safety net. Sinjir dodges sideways, pushes off the wall, and lunges at the man.
It registers on him, a second later, as he's pummeling the pirate into the ground, that the second guard is being fought by someone else. Someone that, presumably, the guards were preventing from entering the restricted area.
Someone who might be an ally?
Or someone who just wants to buy?
Sinjir picks up one of the three (three!) leftover blasters and points it at his unfamiliar helper.
"Who are you?"
~*~
failure, First Order edition:
A captured blaster, and when he breaks out into the hallway, it's way too clean to be pirates. Way too organized. And those people, up ahead, those are way too stormtrooper.
Sinjir shoots through his immediate confusion, takes them out in a row, one, two, three. They probably aren't dead; despite appearances, those suits of armor aren't completely useless.
He runs, not as fast as he should be, winding his way into corridors in unfamiliar, twisting layouts. He shoots a couple more people. And, finally, he breaks into a control room, breathing hard enough to emphasize his utter lack of physical conditioning. He steps up to the computer.
He hears the stormtroopers passing by outside. He doesn't hear the one that slips into the room. Not until an armored arm is around his throat.
He thrusts his head back, and an explosion of pain at the back of his skull, plus an explosion of stars in his vision, reminds him why headbutting someone with a helmet on is a very bad idea. He staggers, dizzily, and the arm tightens on his throat.
Funny thing about choking people -- popular image says it takes three minutes, the time that it takes to render a human unconscious through lack of oxygen. But, really, blood restriction does the job much faster, and --
... He wakes up. Again. This time, it's from being dragged onto his feet, and then shoved onto his knees.
He peers up at his captor.
"Well," he coughs. "That was short-lived, but exciting."
~*~
failure, pirate edition:
Like all that above, but without the stormtroopers.
He falls onto his knees before the pirate -- king? Queen? Captain? Admiral? Kahuna? He squints into the dark.
"Much as I appreciate a good sense of drama," he says, "I may faint before long, so you should go ahead and reveal yourself."
~*~
auction:
He's more than a bit drugged when the people come to see him, inspect him closely. One party at a time. Three guards to monitor Sinjir's behavior, and, yes, he's still medical-restrained to a bed.
--
Later, he's pulled out into a spotlight. The announcer speaks into a booming microphone, thoroughly incomprehensible from this angle. Sinjir sits slumped and morose, wondering who's going to be his happy new owner.
Hopefully someone really bad at internal security and stopping escapees.
The ship. Engines burning at 400% of maximum capacity against its current velocity, a flare almost as bright as the lesser of the two stars. Blasting radiation like it's going out of style. Scorching across the hull, old laser fire, one arm of the ship missing, the joint ended in twisted, blackened metal.
Still, recognizably: it is an Imperial design.
He thinks it's pirates that found him first. They took out the engines with surgical, professional shots, and netted the ship, now moving at a relatively slow .2 lightspeed against the system trajectory. Burned out the hatches, and found pockets of atmosphere, the core of the ship still livable.
And they found Sinjir.
He's thin and half-crazed. He fights; they subdue, without killing, because one thing more valuable than a ship from the past is someone who knew what happened. They try to do a data dump, and find that most of it is corrupted or encrypted. A few scant, tempting morsels. And then, in the cargo bay, a few glass cylinders, almost like bacta tanks, with unfamiliar technology crawling up it. Every readout, every connection, every bit of sensitive technology within has been meticulously and thoroughly smashed. Every piece of computing equipment is broken, fried, ground into dust.
Sinjir did all that. Because he knew exactly what would happen if one of those cylinders got up and running. If it told its secrets to the galaxy.
They could have thrown him in a lockup, let him shiver as the radiation sickness got worse, let him suffer. Instead, they throw him in a bacta tank, and he fights against the viscous fluid and succumbs to unconsciousness. Wakes up on a bed, moving, a corridor, metal struts flashing by like a bared skeleton.
He wakes up, again, in a lockup, but his arm is immobilized and fluid leaks in from a bag above. Primitive, but effective. He can feel the nourishment spreading through his body like warmth.
For Sinjir Rath Velus, it has been three months alone on that ship. But, when he overfired the engines to try and bridge the gap to the nearest star system, after being stranded in the black, he couldn't reach hyperspace. He could only stay within ordinary space, where the speed limit is light, and where the faster you go, the slower you are. Three months for him. How long, for the rest of the galaxy?
~*~
escape:
They underestimate his sheer willpower and pain tolerance, obviously. Because he wriggles his wrist out of that restraint, quietly takes out the guard by the bed, and steals his clothes. Skinny, shaggy, and with that tough, haggard look in his eyes -- he actually blends in with the pirates pretty well. Maybe each delegation here to bid on the mysterious rescued Imperial will think he's a member of a different delegation.
Anyway, he'll be damned if he lets them sell off what he knows about the Spaarti cylinders. What he destroyed.
He slips through the hallways, at a near-run when there's no one in sight. What he doesn't anticipate is that the entire area is restricted, under guard. So when he walks out, a man with five blasters (a little excessive, really) does a double take, and draws two of them, starts shooting.
It's set on stun, which is gratifying, like a pleasant safety net. Sinjir dodges sideways, pushes off the wall, and lunges at the man.
It registers on him, a second later, as he's pummeling the pirate into the ground, that the second guard is being fought by someone else. Someone that, presumably, the guards were preventing from entering the restricted area.
Someone who might be an ally?
Or someone who just wants to buy?
Sinjir picks up one of the three (three!) leftover blasters and points it at his unfamiliar helper.
"Who are you?"
~*~
failure, First Order edition:
A captured blaster, and when he breaks out into the hallway, it's way too clean to be pirates. Way too organized. And those people, up ahead, those are way too stormtrooper.
Sinjir shoots through his immediate confusion, takes them out in a row, one, two, three. They probably aren't dead; despite appearances, those suits of armor aren't completely useless.
He runs, not as fast as he should be, winding his way into corridors in unfamiliar, twisting layouts. He shoots a couple more people. And, finally, he breaks into a control room, breathing hard enough to emphasize his utter lack of physical conditioning. He steps up to the computer.
He hears the stormtroopers passing by outside. He doesn't hear the one that slips into the room. Not until an armored arm is around his throat.
He thrusts his head back, and an explosion of pain at the back of his skull, plus an explosion of stars in his vision, reminds him why headbutting someone with a helmet on is a very bad idea. He staggers, dizzily, and the arm tightens on his throat.
Funny thing about choking people -- popular image says it takes three minutes, the time that it takes to render a human unconscious through lack of oxygen. But, really, blood restriction does the job much faster, and --
... He wakes up. Again. This time, it's from being dragged onto his feet, and then shoved onto his knees.
He peers up at his captor.
"Well," he coughs. "That was short-lived, but exciting."
~*~
failure, pirate edition:
Like all that above, but without the stormtroopers.
He falls onto his knees before the pirate -- king? Queen? Captain? Admiral? Kahuna? He squints into the dark.
"Much as I appreciate a good sense of drama," he says, "I may faint before long, so you should go ahead and reveal yourself."
~*~
auction:
He's more than a bit drugged when the people come to see him, inspect him closely. One party at a time. Three guards to monitor Sinjir's behavior, and, yes, he's still medical-restrained to a bed.
--
Later, he's pulled out into a spotlight. The announcer speaks into a booming microphone, thoroughly incomprehensible from this angle. Sinjir sits slumped and morose, wondering who's going to be his happy new owner.
Hopefully someone really bad at internal security and stopping escapees.
Canon update return post draft
Oct. 30th, 2016 10:13 amSinjir emerges from the cell, ready to do what he needed to dodge the rest of the New Republic guards, get out of the complex, escape clean – and he emerges into a corridor completely unlike any that he’s seen in the New Republic. A corridor with lots of different doors. A corridor mismatched, designed by a madman with an antiquities obsession and a flirtation with abject stupidity.
Sinjir stops dead for a handful of seconds, as his brain works to catch up, tick-tick-ticking along like a broken astromech.
“Oh,” he says, out loud, after a very long moment. He dredges up the memories from somewhere long lost, lurking down in the chasms of his personality. Oh, indeed. He is back here. It has been a long time, he thinks. In fact, he’s not sure how long, and he has to grope back in time, feeling around for what was the last thing I remembered…
Oh, yes. The cantina. Jas. Only he hadn’t quite known her as ‘Jas’ yet, had he? Sinjir thought that he’d died then. But apparently he hadn’t. He went on to live another year. Seven – no, eight Imperial war criminals, and then Kashyyyk, and then…
Right.
Well.
And now he’s back here. Does that mean he dies after he plants that vibroblade deep in the guts of Traducier? Or has the Barge simply snapped him away at a time when he could potentially, plausibly, perhaps have died?
The Admiral is untrustworthy. And, therefore, Sinjir does not trust him. So he’ll go on the assumption that he might have been alive afterward. Doesn’t really matter, though, does it? He’s here again because he deserves to be here. Sinjir is a bad man with a talent for bad things. And he’s come back, to the place where bad men go. Where bad men might have the chance to become good men.
“Hah,” says Sinjir, out loud. “Good luck with that.” He’s addressing the Admiral. Or he’s addressing himself.
He wanders up the stairs, to the top deck. And straight towards the pub, where he camps himself right outside the door, waiting for someone to come by and open it up.
He can be patient.
It occurs to him, about ten minutes into his waiting, that if he was returned to any time close to when he left, he should probably be under house arrest. For, right, he tortured someone. Two someones. Poe Dameron… and that other one. Z-something. Ziji. Zizi. Zinzi. So it could be that no one is going to let him into the pub.
That seems, at this very moment, just honestly heartbreaking. Sinjir’s feelings are hurt, in advance.
He gropes in a pocket, knowing, somehow, what’s going to be there – and he comes up with the communicator, in all of its illogical glory. He switches it on.
[ video ]
[ Welcome, Barge, to the sight of Sinjir Rath Velus, returning from the wars. He looks a little different. Still slim, still a hint gaunt, perhaps – the faint shadow of bruises under his eye, at his nose. Bacta-healed bruises. His skin is a little darker, from exposure to sunlight. His eyes…
The look in his eyes is complicated. ]
I would consider it the greatest of favors if someone could open this… [ He knocks twice on the pub door, next to him. ] Solid little homage to primitive technology. You see, I find myself in great need of a drink, and such things are not left scattered around…
The Barge. [ The name is familiar and unfamiliar on his tongue. He rolls it around, sampling the taste of the word for himself. ]
After all, it’s been a while. Maybe not a while for you. A while for me. Oh, I had all sorts of adventures. You see before you a changed man. Not that changed, maybe. A little changed. Not really forward or backward, perhaps. Changed sideways.
You know, I never really knew what it was like, having friends. A bit disgusting, isn’t it? Almost uncontrollable. They bring with them all of these feelings. Warm feelings, happy feelings, caring feelings. But I could make a list! A list of my favorite people in the galaxy. And I know who would be on top. And… there’d be a few ties in the next spots. But it’s strange the people who make it on there. An idiot with a mustache like a bristle-brush… an extremely handsome, unfairly charismatic smuggler jerk with a Wookiee partner. The Wookiee partner too, for that matter, brave and smart as anyone I’ve known.
I understand why you’re a warden, now, Solo. If you’re still here, that is.
I understand a few other things, too. Like – I have a theory. I theorize that anyone, no matter how strong-willed you are – and I don’t include myself in that, I’m about as strong-willed as a soggy vole-kite – given enough exposure to Leia Organa, you will willingly become a happy minion of hers. It’s that attitude, you know? Not bossy, but like she’s been truly in command of you all this time and you never even noticed.
Ooh! [ He sits up, realizing something. ] And I’ve met one of you in utero! At least, I do believe that was a very small Kylo Ren creating the lovely glow in the princess’s cheeks. And the slightly-less-lovely puffiness in the princess’s… well, everywhere else.
Now. Where was I?
Oh, yes. The pub. Someone? Please?
Sinjir stops dead for a handful of seconds, as his brain works to catch up, tick-tick-ticking along like a broken astromech.
“Oh,” he says, out loud, after a very long moment. He dredges up the memories from somewhere long lost, lurking down in the chasms of his personality. Oh, indeed. He is back here. It has been a long time, he thinks. In fact, he’s not sure how long, and he has to grope back in time, feeling around for what was the last thing I remembered…
Oh, yes. The cantina. Jas. Only he hadn’t quite known her as ‘Jas’ yet, had he? Sinjir thought that he’d died then. But apparently he hadn’t. He went on to live another year. Seven – no, eight Imperial war criminals, and then Kashyyyk, and then…
Right.
Well.
And now he’s back here. Does that mean he dies after he plants that vibroblade deep in the guts of Traducier? Or has the Barge simply snapped him away at a time when he could potentially, plausibly, perhaps have died?
The Admiral is untrustworthy. And, therefore, Sinjir does not trust him. So he’ll go on the assumption that he might have been alive afterward. Doesn’t really matter, though, does it? He’s here again because he deserves to be here. Sinjir is a bad man with a talent for bad things. And he’s come back, to the place where bad men go. Where bad men might have the chance to become good men.
“Hah,” says Sinjir, out loud. “Good luck with that.” He’s addressing the Admiral. Or he’s addressing himself.
He wanders up the stairs, to the top deck. And straight towards the pub, where he camps himself right outside the door, waiting for someone to come by and open it up.
He can be patient.
It occurs to him, about ten minutes into his waiting, that if he was returned to any time close to when he left, he should probably be under house arrest. For, right, he tortured someone. Two someones. Poe Dameron… and that other one. Z-something. Ziji. Zizi. Zinzi. So it could be that no one is going to let him into the pub.
That seems, at this very moment, just honestly heartbreaking. Sinjir’s feelings are hurt, in advance.
He gropes in a pocket, knowing, somehow, what’s going to be there – and he comes up with the communicator, in all of its illogical glory. He switches it on.
[ video ]
[ Welcome, Barge, to the sight of Sinjir Rath Velus, returning from the wars. He looks a little different. Still slim, still a hint gaunt, perhaps – the faint shadow of bruises under his eye, at his nose. Bacta-healed bruises. His skin is a little darker, from exposure to sunlight. His eyes…
The look in his eyes is complicated. ]
I would consider it the greatest of favors if someone could open this… [ He knocks twice on the pub door, next to him. ] Solid little homage to primitive technology. You see, I find myself in great need of a drink, and such things are not left scattered around…
The Barge. [ The name is familiar and unfamiliar on his tongue. He rolls it around, sampling the taste of the word for himself. ]
After all, it’s been a while. Maybe not a while for you. A while for me. Oh, I had all sorts of adventures. You see before you a changed man. Not that changed, maybe. A little changed. Not really forward or backward, perhaps. Changed sideways.
You know, I never really knew what it was like, having friends. A bit disgusting, isn’t it? Almost uncontrollable. They bring with them all of these feelings. Warm feelings, happy feelings, caring feelings. But I could make a list! A list of my favorite people in the galaxy. And I know who would be on top. And… there’d be a few ties in the next spots. But it’s strange the people who make it on there. An idiot with a mustache like a bristle-brush… an extremely handsome, unfairly charismatic smuggler jerk with a Wookiee partner. The Wookiee partner too, for that matter, brave and smart as anyone I’ve known.
I understand why you’re a warden, now, Solo. If you’re still here, that is.
I understand a few other things, too. Like – I have a theory. I theorize that anyone, no matter how strong-willed you are – and I don’t include myself in that, I’m about as strong-willed as a soggy vole-kite – given enough exposure to Leia Organa, you will willingly become a happy minion of hers. It’s that attitude, you know? Not bossy, but like she’s been truly in command of you all this time and you never even noticed.
Ooh! [ He sits up, realizing something. ] And I’ve met one of you in utero! At least, I do believe that was a very small Kylo Ren creating the lovely glow in the princess’s cheeks. And the slightly-less-lovely puffiness in the princess’s… well, everywhere else.
Now. Where was I?
Oh, yes. The pub. Someone? Please?
Police Negotiator AU [open]
Jul. 16th, 2016 04:41 pmOkay, so, these days: you can't run a city with one police negotiator. That didn't stop them trying, with the budget shortfall, up until about five years ago. Doesn't stop them from trying now by running a few day-workshops with firemen and SWAT teams and Drug Squad detectives, firing their experts, and calling it a day. Still, though, the reality of the work punches through, even when we're talking about famously oblivious politicians and their lack of give-a-fuck about anything but the monetary bottom line, the total, whether the number their accountants circle at the bottom is in (parentheses) -- meaning, a deficit -- or is plain -- meaning a surplus.
Today marks the seventh attempt (that Sinjir knows of) at getting Sinjir fired and replaced with someone more multifunctional. The attempt has already failed, obviously, because it's worked its way down the rumor mill to Sinjir. Various chiefs, over the years, have had it explained to them, patiently, in small or large words -- whichever the situation required -- that Sinjir is an important part of this force and your yearly CompStat results will be influenced if you get rid of him.
CompStats are federal funding, and tourism taglines, and pleased mayors. CompStats are money. Sinjir is money. He is money well spent. Law degree, psych undergrad, military intelligence. A nice, clean, photogenic, multicultural face, that white people can choose to believe is white, that brown people can choose to believe is brown. Killer cheekbones. You can buy cheekbones like Sinjir's, but it costs around his annual salary.
Speaking of spending money, Sinjir happened to spend his own quite well last night, leaving him with a nasty case of dry-mouth and a vague, rolling feeling of nausea. This is semi-permanent when he doesn't actually have any alcohol in his veins (according to his calculations, the last of it was filtered out by his abused, overburdened liver, gamely limping along, at about 10:20 AM, four hours ago). It's a badly-kept secret that he hits the bottle when he's off-duty. The section supervisor's response to this was just to keep him on duty as much as he could legally volunteer for without attracting the attention of screeching clouds of hawk-eyed police union lawyers.
Sinjir has to admit: it's been pretty effective.
He's on call more often than not, these days, and always during the peak hours of the week. He's got a sofa in his office, a closet-sized corner-tucked space thirty seconds from the garage at a dead sprint. The couch takes up most of the office, being some elaborate, hydrophobic, overstuffed monstrosity both more expensive and more comfortable than Sinjir's actual bed. Personal gift, from the last Chief. The hint was clear, Sinjir had reflected, as they assembled the couch about a foot away from his knees (it wouldn't fit through the door). That couch has hydrophobically repelled more nap-drool than a box of tissues could absorb.
The firemen on District 8 are also perpetually grateful, since Sinjir saved a whole bunch of them from a schizophrenic street robber with a stolen grenade two Christmases ago. Every time he drops by they vacate a bunk and a bottle of Scotch and ply him with home-cooked meals. There's even a bar seat with the permanent imprint of his ass at the corner of Washington and Bluebell.
Here's the gist of all this: Sinjir is highly valued, but not highly respected. They know him. They know all the ways his voice turns colors when he's talking to a subject, from pained to persuasive to calm to that sort of clipped seductive mystery that nets a shocking number of criminals. They know having him on scene means that more people will come out with their hands up and fewer people will come out feet-first. Sinjir even has gone through every inch of the tactical training they have, so he knows their methods and their needs, and so that he can bust in with a full-automatic and a bulletproof vest if and when they need him to.
But he's not one of them.
And it's starting to break him down.
The squad car in which he's catching a ride comes to a smooth halt in the V between a fire truck and a brick wall, and Sinjir is out before the wheels have fully stopped spinning. Kicks the door shut behind him, jogging up to the tactical truck. Fergus, the tac-tech (he came up with his own title, and yes, he likes it) passes Sinjir an earpiece and radio, which Sinjir clips onto his belt and hooks over his ear, in the correct order, as he approaches the scene commander. "What do we have?" he asks.
Today marks the seventh attempt (that Sinjir knows of) at getting Sinjir fired and replaced with someone more multifunctional. The attempt has already failed, obviously, because it's worked its way down the rumor mill to Sinjir. Various chiefs, over the years, have had it explained to them, patiently, in small or large words -- whichever the situation required -- that Sinjir is an important part of this force and your yearly CompStat results will be influenced if you get rid of him.
CompStats are federal funding, and tourism taglines, and pleased mayors. CompStats are money. Sinjir is money. He is money well spent. Law degree, psych undergrad, military intelligence. A nice, clean, photogenic, multicultural face, that white people can choose to believe is white, that brown people can choose to believe is brown. Killer cheekbones. You can buy cheekbones like Sinjir's, but it costs around his annual salary.
Speaking of spending money, Sinjir happened to spend his own quite well last night, leaving him with a nasty case of dry-mouth and a vague, rolling feeling of nausea. This is semi-permanent when he doesn't actually have any alcohol in his veins (according to his calculations, the last of it was filtered out by his abused, overburdened liver, gamely limping along, at about 10:20 AM, four hours ago). It's a badly-kept secret that he hits the bottle when he's off-duty. The section supervisor's response to this was just to keep him on duty as much as he could legally volunteer for without attracting the attention of screeching clouds of hawk-eyed police union lawyers.
Sinjir has to admit: it's been pretty effective.
He's on call more often than not, these days, and always during the peak hours of the week. He's got a sofa in his office, a closet-sized corner-tucked space thirty seconds from the garage at a dead sprint. The couch takes up most of the office, being some elaborate, hydrophobic, overstuffed monstrosity both more expensive and more comfortable than Sinjir's actual bed. Personal gift, from the last Chief. The hint was clear, Sinjir had reflected, as they assembled the couch about a foot away from his knees (it wouldn't fit through the door). That couch has hydrophobically repelled more nap-drool than a box of tissues could absorb.
The firemen on District 8 are also perpetually grateful, since Sinjir saved a whole bunch of them from a schizophrenic street robber with a stolen grenade two Christmases ago. Every time he drops by they vacate a bunk and a bottle of Scotch and ply him with home-cooked meals. There's even a bar seat with the permanent imprint of his ass at the corner of Washington and Bluebell.
Here's the gist of all this: Sinjir is highly valued, but not highly respected. They know him. They know all the ways his voice turns colors when he's talking to a subject, from pained to persuasive to calm to that sort of clipped seductive mystery that nets a shocking number of criminals. They know having him on scene means that more people will come out with their hands up and fewer people will come out feet-first. Sinjir even has gone through every inch of the tactical training they have, so he knows their methods and their needs, and so that he can bust in with a full-automatic and a bulletproof vest if and when they need him to.
But he's not one of them.
And it's starting to break him down.
The squad car in which he's catching a ride comes to a smooth halt in the V between a fire truck and a brick wall, and Sinjir is out before the wheels have fully stopped spinning. Kicks the door shut behind him, jogging up to the tactical truck. Fergus, the tac-tech (he came up with his own title, and yes, he likes it) passes Sinjir an earpiece and radio, which Sinjir clips onto his belt and hooks over his ear, in the correct order, as he approaches the scene commander. "What do we have?" he asks.
I have an insane few weeks coming up, friends, so I'm going to go ahead and call a hiatus. (Trials?? Law school immersion?? Investigations??? CARPAL TUNNEL????)
This affects Hugh Cambridge/![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chaotica and Sinjir Rath Velus/drunk_ish. I'll still be tagging old stuff every once in a while, but they're both going to go ahead and fall into comas for at least two weeks.
Discovery rights go to whoever claims it first.
<3
This affects Hugh Cambridge/
chaotica and Sinjir Rath Velus/drunk_ish. I'll still be tagging old stuff every once in a while, but they're both going to go ahead and fall into comas for at least two weeks. Discovery rights go to whoever claims it first.
<3
(no subject)
Nov. 7th, 2015 10:19 pmUser Name/Nick: Ryann
User DW: cornichaun
AIM/IM: cornuchaun @ aim, plurk
E-mail: cornichaun @ gmail
Other Characters: Sokolov, Hugh Cambridge
Character Name: Sinjir Rath Velus
Series: Star Wars (new canon, the novels belonging with the upcoming Star Wars movie)
Age: 30s
From When?: During the events of Star Wars: Aftermath, when he’s knocked out after attempting to buy a captured female bounty hunter.
Inmate/Warden: Inmate. Sinjir has been a loyalty officer for the Empire for the duration of his career. That means that he investigates infractions that can be anything from murder and theft to improper thoughts and behavior. Loyalty officers are figures of terror; Sinjir has, without regret, broken the fingers of a cadet who dared to learn an alien language, and tortured a confession out of a gunnery officer who stole a ring. More recently, he’s had some twinges of conscience. Doesn’t mean he’s anywhere near a good person yet.
Item: n/a
Abilities/Powers: Human normal. Sinjir is an Imperial Officer, and therefore has gone through all the training the Imperial Academy has to offer, including advanced combat (even drunk as shit, he takes down a few people who pick a fight with him), generalized knowledge of navigation, starship operations, piloting, etc., and very specialized training in manipulation, lie-detection and behavior. He has no powers.
Personality: For years, Sinjir was the perfect Imperial officer. That’s a loyalty officer, one of the people responsible for maintaining the loyalty and discipline of the officer corps. That means that Sinjir wasn’t just one of the best, brightest, and most well-connected but that he was also cold, detached, and could turn on cruelty without a blink. He tortured, he intimidated, he interrogated.
This isn’t to say he was a true believer in the Empire; to a certain extent, he had to buy their propaganda (the Old Republic was useless and corrupt, the Emperor brought order to the galaxy, to serve the Empire is honorable) but he was never one of the fanatics. He came into contact with too much disloyalty. Sinjir was up close and personal with all of the cracks and flaws in the face of the Empire, aware of them with a keenness that exceeded any other position. No, he wasn’t a fanatic. He just, in large part, didn’t give a damn. He had his empathy, his faith, his optimism turned off. Those weren’t mechanisms for survival. They weren’t helpful, in his situation. Hope was not rewarded. Success was rewarded. Hope was what he was in charge of beating out of people.
Sinjir has always had a conflicted relationship with loyalty and violence. It started with his mother, whom he describes as regularly whipping him with switches she made from a tree in the front yard. He hated her, and he loved and worried for her, all at the same time. Violence was her way of showing concern and affection, and it was her way of ensuring that her boy would be disciplined and successful in the Empire.
And successful he was. Until the battle of Endor.
Endor marked the destruction of the second Death Star, and the death of the Emperor himself. Sinjir was there. He was one of the men down on the surface assigned to defend the shield generator that protected the construction of the second Death Star. The catastrophic nature of the defeat changed him – or, more accurately, it let loose what was inside him and had been suppressed all along.
Sinjir fled, and stole the identity and ship of a dead Rebel. His name was listed among the casualties of the battle. He ran away from the Empire, found planets outside of the Empire’s regular reach, and proceeded to start drinking himself to death.
Sinjir never actually succeeded in eliminating hope. When he sees little hints of Rebel propaganda – the Rebels now in the process of becoming the New Republic – he feels little, entirely unwelcome flickers of optimism, of yearning. He wants there to be something better than what the Empire was. But he acknowledges himself as a bad person, as someone with a great deal of blood on his hands. He’s caught between moving forward and being tied to his past.
“Wait!” he calls, “I’m not a rebel! I’m an Imperial!” He shouts louder: “An ex-Imperial loyalty officer! I stole a rebel’s clothes on Endor! And his…” But she’s gone. Her cage has already stopped swinging. “Identity.” And his life and his ship and apparently his moral center.
Well then.
Outwardly, Sinjir is a sassbasket. His accent is high-class Imperial precision, and he thinks he’s witty, so he tends towards sarcasm and dismissiveness. This can easily and quickly about-face towards maudlin self-hatred, one of his favorite moods. He’s handsome, and he knows it, unfortunately for everyone. He operates with a combination of insight and paranoia, battling between reluctant optimism and the overwhelming certainty that the world is just awful and that everyone probably sucks a lot.
He definitely also has a problem with alcohol, at the moment, but wouldn’t admit it. He doesn’t even describe himself as drunk, just “pickled.” “Brined.” Drunk ish. Like he needs a haze of alcohol to be able to face the world and himself.
Barge Reactions: To be honest, he’s not going to have much of a reaction. He’s used to space, and ships. He’s used to weird stuff happening, given that he’s had some peripheral contact with Vader and some glimpse of the Force. Granted, this is way outside the realm of weird that he’s used to. But Sinjir is purposefully insulating himself from the world to the extent that he probably will just ignore all the weird stuff and pretend that everything is fine, nothing is on fire, his life is totally normal.
Beyond that, he’ll probably actually like the place. Occasional torture isn’t a dealbreaker. There’s free booze. There’s free room and board, meaning he doesn’t have to steal anything in order to eat. He doesn’t have to worry about his identity being revealed. He can be a dillweed all he wants, and he won’t even die.
It’ll only be later, when he starts processing his actual emotions, that he realizes how much all of that can actually suck.
Path to Redemption: The Power of Friendship. I’m not even joking. Sinjir needs his optimism and his empathy nurtured, and the way to do that is to make him make friends and allies who are decent people. People he can like, even while he acts like a bag of cats and pretends that he hates everything. People he can trust.
Sinjir knows and comprehends that he is a bad person. And he is willing to try to be a better one. But he’s scared to. It’s terrifying living in a world where everything has sucked for so long, and then realize that there was an alternative option. That you didn’t have to be that terrible of a person, and that you could be better. It involves facing up to actions done under orders, actions taken because they were necessary and part of a culture that required them. He has to take responsibility, but in order to start doing that, he has to be able to handle it.
So.
The Power of Friendship.
Deal: n/a
History: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sinjir_Rath_Velus
Sample Journal Entry: http://tlvgreatesthitsdw.dreamwidth.org/72092.html?thread=13737884#cmt13737884
Sample RP:
Sinjir Rath Velus has reason to believe that beyond this door, there is liquor.
He caught a glimpse. He wasn’t quick enough, and the door closed before he got there. No one’s responded to the knock. And he’s examining it, now, thinking about breaking it down, or attempting to pick the lock, which appears to be disturbingly old and purely mechanical, something that no doubt hides some sort of electronic booby trap.
Is it really worth it to try?
Sinjir sits himself down next to the door, to consider.
So he’s shown up on a strange ship. So he’s reviewed the device found near him, resembling a datapad, and found that there is a lot of network chatter indicating that this is some sort of prison. Not controlled by Imperials, despite the designation of Admiral as the one in command. Not controlled by Rebels, or New Republicans, or whatever they’re called. Independent. Out of time. Strange, and magical.
All right, then. Fine. He can handle that. He can even handle the fact that his room is standard Imperial loyalty officer quarters, as set aboard an ordinary Star Destroyer. It’s fine. It’s fine.
What he couldn’t handle is an absence of intoxicating substances.
There is alcohol in there. He’s sure of it. It was a bar. Bars are universal. They look the same everywhere.
He moves to his feet, and knocks harder.
“Hello?” he calls. “I know there’s alcohol in there. I saw it.” Pounds on the door, fist closed. “Let me in.” Kicks it, once.
A huffed sigh. He crosses his arms, staring at it now, daring it to open and admit him. How did the other person get in, anyway? He saw no key, no flash of a badge, no locking mechanism undone. Is there a password? Is he missing something obvious?
He kicks it again.
“I’m extremely annoyed,” he informs the door. “I can hardly be expected to face a magical prison barge without a bit of brining, can I?”
The door remains, as it has thus far, solid, wood-like, and silent.
“Well,” he says. “Sithspit.”
Special Notes:
User DW: cornichaun
AIM/IM: cornuchaun @ aim, plurk
E-mail: cornichaun @ gmail
Other Characters: Sokolov, Hugh Cambridge
Character Name: Sinjir Rath Velus
Series: Star Wars (new canon, the novels belonging with the upcoming Star Wars movie)
Age: 30s
From When?: During the events of Star Wars: Aftermath, when he’s knocked out after attempting to buy a captured female bounty hunter.
Inmate/Warden: Inmate. Sinjir has been a loyalty officer for the Empire for the duration of his career. That means that he investigates infractions that can be anything from murder and theft to improper thoughts and behavior. Loyalty officers are figures of terror; Sinjir has, without regret, broken the fingers of a cadet who dared to learn an alien language, and tortured a confession out of a gunnery officer who stole a ring. More recently, he’s had some twinges of conscience. Doesn’t mean he’s anywhere near a good person yet.
Item: n/a
Abilities/Powers: Human normal. Sinjir is an Imperial Officer, and therefore has gone through all the training the Imperial Academy has to offer, including advanced combat (even drunk as shit, he takes down a few people who pick a fight with him), generalized knowledge of navigation, starship operations, piloting, etc., and very specialized training in manipulation, lie-detection and behavior. He has no powers.
Personality: For years, Sinjir was the perfect Imperial officer. That’s a loyalty officer, one of the people responsible for maintaining the loyalty and discipline of the officer corps. That means that Sinjir wasn’t just one of the best, brightest, and most well-connected but that he was also cold, detached, and could turn on cruelty without a blink. He tortured, he intimidated, he interrogated.
This isn’t to say he was a true believer in the Empire; to a certain extent, he had to buy their propaganda (the Old Republic was useless and corrupt, the Emperor brought order to the galaxy, to serve the Empire is honorable) but he was never one of the fanatics. He came into contact with too much disloyalty. Sinjir was up close and personal with all of the cracks and flaws in the face of the Empire, aware of them with a keenness that exceeded any other position. No, he wasn’t a fanatic. He just, in large part, didn’t give a damn. He had his empathy, his faith, his optimism turned off. Those weren’t mechanisms for survival. They weren’t helpful, in his situation. Hope was not rewarded. Success was rewarded. Hope was what he was in charge of beating out of people.
Sinjir has always had a conflicted relationship with loyalty and violence. It started with his mother, whom he describes as regularly whipping him with switches she made from a tree in the front yard. He hated her, and he loved and worried for her, all at the same time. Violence was her way of showing concern and affection, and it was her way of ensuring that her boy would be disciplined and successful in the Empire.
And successful he was. Until the battle of Endor.
Endor marked the destruction of the second Death Star, and the death of the Emperor himself. Sinjir was there. He was one of the men down on the surface assigned to defend the shield generator that protected the construction of the second Death Star. The catastrophic nature of the defeat changed him – or, more accurately, it let loose what was inside him and had been suppressed all along.
Sinjir fled, and stole the identity and ship of a dead Rebel. His name was listed among the casualties of the battle. He ran away from the Empire, found planets outside of the Empire’s regular reach, and proceeded to start drinking himself to death.
Sinjir never actually succeeded in eliminating hope. When he sees little hints of Rebel propaganda – the Rebels now in the process of becoming the New Republic – he feels little, entirely unwelcome flickers of optimism, of yearning. He wants there to be something better than what the Empire was. But he acknowledges himself as a bad person, as someone with a great deal of blood on his hands. He’s caught between moving forward and being tied to his past.
“Wait!” he calls, “I’m not a rebel! I’m an Imperial!” He shouts louder: “An ex-Imperial loyalty officer! I stole a rebel’s clothes on Endor! And his…” But she’s gone. Her cage has already stopped swinging. “Identity.” And his life and his ship and apparently his moral center.
Well then.
Outwardly, Sinjir is a sassbasket. His accent is high-class Imperial precision, and he thinks he’s witty, so he tends towards sarcasm and dismissiveness. This can easily and quickly about-face towards maudlin self-hatred, one of his favorite moods. He’s handsome, and he knows it, unfortunately for everyone. He operates with a combination of insight and paranoia, battling between reluctant optimism and the overwhelming certainty that the world is just awful and that everyone probably sucks a lot.
He definitely also has a problem with alcohol, at the moment, but wouldn’t admit it. He doesn’t even describe himself as drunk, just “pickled.” “Brined.” Drunk ish. Like he needs a haze of alcohol to be able to face the world and himself.
Barge Reactions: To be honest, he’s not going to have much of a reaction. He’s used to space, and ships. He’s used to weird stuff happening, given that he’s had some peripheral contact with Vader and some glimpse of the Force. Granted, this is way outside the realm of weird that he’s used to. But Sinjir is purposefully insulating himself from the world to the extent that he probably will just ignore all the weird stuff and pretend that everything is fine, nothing is on fire, his life is totally normal.
Beyond that, he’ll probably actually like the place. Occasional torture isn’t a dealbreaker. There’s free booze. There’s free room and board, meaning he doesn’t have to steal anything in order to eat. He doesn’t have to worry about his identity being revealed. He can be a dillweed all he wants, and he won’t even die.
It’ll only be later, when he starts processing his actual emotions, that he realizes how much all of that can actually suck.
Path to Redemption: The Power of Friendship. I’m not even joking. Sinjir needs his optimism and his empathy nurtured, and the way to do that is to make him make friends and allies who are decent people. People he can like, even while he acts like a bag of cats and pretends that he hates everything. People he can trust.
Sinjir knows and comprehends that he is a bad person. And he is willing to try to be a better one. But he’s scared to. It’s terrifying living in a world where everything has sucked for so long, and then realize that there was an alternative option. That you didn’t have to be that terrible of a person, and that you could be better. It involves facing up to actions done under orders, actions taken because they were necessary and part of a culture that required them. He has to take responsibility, but in order to start doing that, he has to be able to handle it.
So.
The Power of Friendship.
Deal: n/a
History: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sinjir_Rath_Velus
Sample Journal Entry: http://tlvgreatesthitsdw.dreamwidth.org/72092.html?thread=13737884#cmt13737884
Sample RP:
Sinjir Rath Velus has reason to believe that beyond this door, there is liquor.
He caught a glimpse. He wasn’t quick enough, and the door closed before he got there. No one’s responded to the knock. And he’s examining it, now, thinking about breaking it down, or attempting to pick the lock, which appears to be disturbingly old and purely mechanical, something that no doubt hides some sort of electronic booby trap.
Is it really worth it to try?
Sinjir sits himself down next to the door, to consider.
So he’s shown up on a strange ship. So he’s reviewed the device found near him, resembling a datapad, and found that there is a lot of network chatter indicating that this is some sort of prison. Not controlled by Imperials, despite the designation of Admiral as the one in command. Not controlled by Rebels, or New Republicans, or whatever they’re called. Independent. Out of time. Strange, and magical.
All right, then. Fine. He can handle that. He can even handle the fact that his room is standard Imperial loyalty officer quarters, as set aboard an ordinary Star Destroyer. It’s fine. It’s fine.
What he couldn’t handle is an absence of intoxicating substances.
There is alcohol in there. He’s sure of it. It was a bar. Bars are universal. They look the same everywhere.
He moves to his feet, and knocks harder.
“Hello?” he calls. “I know there’s alcohol in there. I saw it.” Pounds on the door, fist closed. “Let me in.” Kicks it, once.
A huffed sigh. He crosses his arms, staring at it now, daring it to open and admit him. How did the other person get in, anyway? He saw no key, no flash of a badge, no locking mechanism undone. Is there a password? Is he missing something obvious?
He kicks it again.
“I’m extremely annoyed,” he informs the door. “I can hardly be expected to face a magical prison barge without a bit of brining, can I?”
The door remains, as it has thus far, solid, wood-like, and silent.
“Well,” he says. “Sithspit.”
Special Notes:
