Work Text:
On Morlana One, outside the entrance to the Corporate Security Headquarters, Deputy Inspector Syril Karn waits.
He waits for the deep breath he’s taken to hurt his lungs so acutely, so insistently, that the choice to stop the pain will be taken away from him.
Because it’s not a procrastination of living if you choose to feel the small paused moments of your existence. It’s not wrong to experience an above average buildup of carbon dioxide in your cells. It’s not wrong to feel your life fight against invisible forces that want to crush you. It’s not a failure to thrive if you rely on your body’s automatic mechanism to expel that buildup of inescapable toxins. It’s not a quiet declaration of defeat if you give in to something more knowing and powerful than you are, so that the pressure behind your heart can once again be temporarily alleviated.
It's a celebration.
It’s a joyous acknowledgement that you are born with a tamper proof release valve, and no matter how much others deprive you of life’s core components – no matter how much you deprive yourself of them – you will not be allowed to fail. There is freedom in submitting.
Syril blinks sweat out of his eyes.
He should have eaten something more substantial than cereal for breakfast. He’s lived and worked on this planet for years, but he’s not yet broken free of all the gravitational chains that wrapped themselves around him decades ago. Time and distance have not weakened them enough.
Yet.
He should have had more to drink. He should have mixed his last rehydration packet into his flask of water and sipped it slowly, even though the ‘plain’ flavour is the worst taste of all.
He shouldn’t have worn his cap. Mornings on Morlana One don’t simultaneously bake and boil you with heat and humidity, and covering his head is doing a better job of trapping his body heat than protecting him from the sun that’s still rising. But it’s part of his uniform. And today he’s wearing all of it.
He’s wearing his freshly tailored uniform for the first time to work, and he will look perfect.
Syril’s lungs ache. They ache like a fresh bruise blossoming over the remains of an old one.
Syril’s hand rests on the building’s door handle. His four fingers are wrapped underneath it while his thumb tap tap taps on top of the handle and he’s not delaying his entrance into work because he’s nervous. He’s not anxious. He’s not scared. What he feels stroking his spine with practiced pity are not the skeletal fingers of fear’s invisible hand, a hand that’s been on his back for so much of his life that it’s practically fused to his vertebrae, it can’t be.
It can’t be and it isn’t.
Syril is merely waiting for the best time to open the door and enter the building. He’s not waiting to start work though, because he is always working, always working always working and the sun at his back is rich and bright and beautiful and-
Syril’s stagnant breath is exhaled for him in a sharp blast.
He forces himself to wait three seconds before he inhales again.
One. Because he can control this.
Two. He can control what he’s allowed to control. He controls the speed of his inhale and the volume of air it contains.
Three.
Three and a half.
Syril increases the speed of his thumb tapping.
Syril’s brain and body work together to increase the speed of his thumb tapping.
Syril’s parasitic hand forces him to increase the speed of his thumb tapping.
Four.
Still no inhale.
Syril’s respiratory system fires a familiar screaming complaint to his brain. His brain acknowledges it and records it and files it away for possible future perusal.
Syril clenches his jaw. He wraps his entire hand around the door handle, his skin sticky. He is in control of this. He is in control of his actions. He is in control of his thoughts. He is in control of how he looks. He is in control of how he presents himself. He is-
-not in control of what others think of you
, the hand on his back taps out in a corrupted version of morse code.
You never will be. And yet you still think you can.
Syril squeezes the door handle hard at the same time as he takes a deep inhalation. The air of this planet is in silent, invisible flux. It’s invigorated with layers of salt from its stunning oceans, and is weighed down with the heavy taint of foreign industry he’s paid to protect.
Syril makes himself stop thinking about rigid hands and broken bones. Instead, he makes himself think about perfectly cut clothes and supple fabrics. He controls his thoughts. He thinks about how he looks in his newly tailored uniform. He thinks about how other people will react to seeing him in it. Because that’s a normal thought to have. Thinking about how others will react in order to preempt them with action or defense is a sensible thought. It’s the thought of a leader. And he can’t just turn being a leader on and off.
Being a leader means being the focus of attention. It means being a spotlight in the dark. And when the people who rely on you for guidance and hope look at you, they deserve to see something worth their while. Something to lift their spirits. Something to steady their nerve. Something to ignite their heartbeat.
Because it’s inevitable that most people will compliment Syril. Yes they’ll be taken slightly aback by the pockets and piping he’s had added, and how crisp his uniform’s tailoring is, and how vibrant the colours of the treated fabric are. But when they express concern for his professional wellbeing and ask him if he's going to get in trouble for breaking the rules by modifying his uniform, Syril will reassure them that he'll be fine. And that’s because there’s no specific rule against modifying a uniform the way he has. He knows every word of the Handbook. He's merely…bending the rules a little bit. Then he’ll wink. This admission will earn him respect. It will create a new bond between him and his subordinates. It will bring him closer to them.
No. Scratch that winking part out. That’s going too far. He doesn’t want to give them the impression he’s seeking to be their friend. He needs to make it clear that he’s a friendly superior. It’s a fine line to walk, but Syril knows he can do it.
Most people will compliment him. Probably everyone will. But. But.
But keep going with this thought,
those metal death fingers tap coldly into his spine in the language they’ve developed together.
A muscle in Syril’s jaw twitches.
But one or two unimpressive workers with disappointingly but unsurprisingly immature attitudes might mock him for daring to improve himself. They might sneer at his dedication to duty. They might look him up and down from head to toe and point and burst out laughing.
There’s a buzzing in Syril’s ears as he looks at his hand upon the door handle. His well worn lungs are starting to hurt again.
“Morning, sir,” an amused voice says from behind him. “Is everything OK? Is the door stuck?”
Syril spasms. He immediately pushes the door open without looking back. He doesn’t want to see who’s been watching him fall apart over nothing.
“Good morning,” Syril says loudly, as he strides across the lobby to the transport lifts, his heart hammering. He hears two more people enter the building behind the person who greeted him. Excellent. That’s now three people who’ve witnessed a stationary object defeat him.
Before Syril can say something to give him back the upper hand, something about testing the door handle’s tensile strength at this time of morning and how he’s going to take regular readings during different weather conditions as part of a research project he’s in charge of, the atmosphere in the lobby changes. It thickens and electrifies. The three people behind him immediately stop chatting to each other. A fourth person has entered the building.
A fourth person has infiltrated it
.
Syril blinks more sweat out of his eyes. He wonders where that lizard brain thought had been hiding.
The back of his neck prickles. He’s not turning around to face what’s behind him, because it’s probably nothing. It’s probably no-one. Because how would he look if he did look around? As if he doesn’t know his own people? As if he’s scared of his own shadow? What are no doubt four subordinates will raise their eyebrows at him. Then they’ll raise their eyebrows at each other. So Syril will continue on his way and won’t look back.
Syril turns a corner and arrives just in time to enter a lift. He’s pleased to see it’s full. He’s only pleased the lift is full of workers because it means most are arriving early to work. And not because there will be more eyes on him than if he took the stairs. Syril slowly stretches out an arm to press the button for the floor the general recreation room is on. It should be busy at this time of morning. His tightly tailored uniform creaks from its new stiffness. It gleams under the florescent strip lights.
The group of Corpos in the lift yawn, chat lightly, read datapads and shovel snacks into their mouths. One of them, her mouth full of something blue, nods a good morning at him.
“Good morning to you, too,” Syril says.
A few heads turn to his direction. The doors close. The lift moves. More eyes swivel towards him. The chattering dies down. Syril can’t help a smile tug at his lips. He knows he looks good, but to render so many speechless at once is outstanding. He puts his hands behind his back, elbows out. He lifts his chin up.
“Uh, sir?” a lanky looking Corpo eventually asks, his face a picture of naked puzzlement.
Syril smiles wider. “Yes?”
Lanky Blue darts looks to the people on either side of him before looking back at Syril. “Uh. Is everything OK?”
Syril’s smile wobbles. It’s not been sixty seconds, and this is the second person who’s asked him if he’s OK.
“Yes, everything is fine,” he says firmly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Lanky Blue looks like he severely regrets opening his mouth. His colleagues have deployed sensible defensive tactics by keeping quiet to allow him to take the heat. Lanky Blue presses forward valiantly. “It’s just…are you giving us new orders? Here?”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ll be at your floor in ten seconds. Will that be long enough?”
“What are you talking about?”
A Corpo quickly covers up their laugh with a cough.
“You’re looking at us like you’re about to launch into a speech,” Lanky Blue says. His trepidation has burned away. His nerves have evaporated. “Do we need to take notes?”
This time a few snickers aren’t covered up.
Syril’s looks at himself from their perspective. And feels heat pour into his face. He’s not facing the doors of a moving lift like normal people do. He’s got his back to the doors and is facing the lifts’ occupants. He’s standing at military attention and looking severe. He does look like he’s about to give a rousing speech before reciting a list of fresh orders that he expects everyone to be motivated by.
No-one looks motivated. They don’t look tense with anticipation as to what he’s going to say. They’re not scared of what he might say. They’re not scared of him. They’re amused by him. They’re tolerating him.
Syril’s stomach feels sour. If he turns around to face the door, he’ll be admitting that he made a mistake. He’ll be signalling that he didn’t know the socially acceptable way to stand in a lift. Maybe he should actually give a speech. That would show them. But he’s never been great with spur of the moment public speaking, and his mind is currently a familiar blank. And he’ll be at his floor soon. What if he’s halfway through his speech and the doors close on him? Or if he ignores his desired floor to ride up further? The other occupants wouldn’t hang around to hear what he has to say – they’ll get off at their floor as intended, which means he’ll have to cut off his speech or give it to an empty space.
The Corpos are looking at him with genuine interest and open amusement now. One of them looks like they want to pat his shoulder. He can’t tell if they want to do it in a condescending or genuine way. No-one’s commented on his uniform.
The lift stops. The door dings open. Syril takes several paces backwards and exits the lift to stand on his floor. As the lift’s doors finish closing, Syril hears muffled laughter.
With his teeth clenched and his face burning, Syril stomps to the break room. He flings the door open. He strides along the floor, his boots squeaking, past tables, chairs, vending machines and abandoned cleaning equipment. A dozen people pause in their eating and drinking to watch him.
Syril grabs a mug from the cupboard and yanks the caf pot out of the machine and starts to pour. Nothing comes out. The pot is empty. No-one’s bothered to make a fresh pot after finishing the last one.
Syril slams the cupboard door closed. He starts refilling the pot. Because of course no-one’s bothered to make a new pot. Because of course it’s been left to him to do it. No-one bothers to do anything worthwhile around here except for him. Once again it’s down to him to keep this place running, to do the work no-one else wants to do, to be the only one who-
The air behind him degrades. It’s infused with foreign material and bloats painfully. Oxygen vents out of the room through hidden breaches.
Like all intelligent prey species, Syril’s body reacts to the approaching danger before his brain can analyze it.
There’s a presence looming at his back. Someone’s approaching him as silently and as inexorably as death. Syril hears the clatter of cutlery, the scraping of chair legs and the thumping of boots. This predator has set their sights on a target, which has given everyone else in the room the chance to evacuate. Cowards. Syril isn’t intimidated by anyone who enters his world. But he does have a lot of work to do, so he should get to his office right now and make a start on it while the caf brews.
“Do pour me a cup, Deputy Inspector,” a dry voice grates. “I’m not at my best without one.”
Syril turns around slowly. And looks up into the sunken eyes of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.
Fan. Tastic. This day just gets better and better. This must be the fourth person who entered the building behind him. Tarkin must have taken another lift. Or sprinted up the stairs. The blade thin Grand Moff exudes an aura of death and defeat. Your death. Your defeat. He stands stiff and cold with eyes that could squeeze your heart until it explodes or shrivels.
Syril wants to ask Tarkin, “Why are you here?” and “When are you leaving?”
But because Syril is blessed with basic survival instincts, what he actually says is, “The, uh, machine is empty, sir. Sorry. I’m filling it now.”
“What a pity,” Tarkin says.
Syril doesn’t move. Tarkin doesn’t move. The caf machine sputters into reluctant life.
Inspiration strikes Syril like a beautiful ray of sunshine. “When it’s brewed I’ll bring you a cup. Where will you be, sir?”
Tarkin’s eyes widen fractionally. “You expect me to disclose my movements to you? How impertinently inappropriate.”
If Syril accidentally grabs a discarded mug full of hot liquid too fast and spills it all over his hand, he can walk quickly to the medical room. But he probably wouldn’t make it more than two steps before Tarkin would lunge at him. He’d grab Syril’s wrist and bring it up to his face so he could sniff the burning flesh. Then he’d dart his tongue out and lick it.
A violent shudder passes through Syril’s entire body.
“Forgive me,” Tarkin says, warming his voice up to -18 degrees. “As I said, I am not at my best without my morning drink.”
Tarkin must think that Syril’s shuddering out of fear that Tarkin will punish him for asking about his movements. Syril won’t lie to a superior officer, and will never lie to someone like Tarkin. But he doesn’t have to offer any information that will make him suffer any more than he already is.
The caf machine hacks out a mechanical cough, as if it’s a lifelong smoker who will spit on anyone who suggests it quits. Syril glances at it, and sees the first trickle of liquid drip into the pot. Syril glances back, and swears on his life that in that split second Tarkin has closed the gap between them.
Tarkin stands as immobile as petrified platinum. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t obviously breathe, because Syril can’t see his chest rise or fall as he takes in Tarkin’s drab military uniform and the pattern of brilliantly colored tiles spattered across his chest. Those twelve square bullet holes he’s fired into himself. Those twelve little windows that permit you a glimpse into the roaring inner life of this living machine whether you want to or not.
Syril’s palms are damp. The shirt underneath his arms is damp. A Finger of Fear from his Hand tickles the caf machine underneath its chin and they both laugh out loud at him.
Now that he’s standing closer, the overhead lights reflect off Tarkin’s spotless rank plaque at an angle that makes Syril squint. Not for the first time, Syril wishes that Pre-Mor had obvious rank designations. At least for the officers. He deserves one. And it would make it easier for people unfamiliar with the hierarchy to identify the chain of command, which is the most important reason of course. His proposals and supporting designs for such a system have been met with indifference, amusement, and suspicion.
Maybe, Syril thinks with a jolt that makes his stomach fizz, he should take advantage of this unexpected horror – this unexpected
opportunity
he hastily corrects himself, because there’s a rumour that Tarkin can read minds – and present his rank system to Tarkin himself right now. Would Tarkin consider it a bold move forward by an up and coming servant dedicated to serving The Empire? Or would he throw him down the stairs for trying to bypass the chain of command he’s arguing should be more widely recognized?
And just as soon as the idea is fully formed, it decays. Syril’s heard plenty of other rumours about Tarkin. Such as when Tarkin was young, he hunted monsters. He made his own traps and tricked them into killing themselves, and after he’d drained a corpse he wore their skin as armour. He has entire wardrobes full of barbaric outfits that he wears when he sleeps.
Tarkin understands the importance of a quality uniform, Syril thinks quickly to avoid lingering on that last thought. Tarkin understands the necessity of advertising your rank and importance and responsibility. Syril’s heard that Tarkin once made his own clothes. That he’s designed iterations of Imperial uniforms; that he has the power to implement them; that he cares about how someone looks because how you look reflects how you feel and bolsters your efforts to change how you feel; that he respects designers and tailors as much, if not more, than soldiers and tacticians and if Syril was living another life he’d be the one to empty a room and rebuild it with nothing more than his presence.
“Did you make it yourself?” Syril blurts out.
Tarkin blinks. This is the equivalent of Tarkin punching Syril in the throat while rolling his eyes. Syril’s airway seizes up.
The caf machine gurgles and rattles as it continues its glacial pace.
Syril’s heard plenty of other rumours about Tarkin. That Tarkin ejected disobedient officers out of an airlock. That a drunk Captain once spilled a drink on Tarkin’s polished boot, and Tarkin made the first officer to gasp out loud carve the Captain up with a dull knife.
Tarkin raises both of his eyebrows a fraction. This is the equivalent of Tarkin whispering
‘Repeat that, please,’
while sliding a knife into one of Syril’s kidneys and rotating the blade to liquify it.
Syril opens and closes his mouth a few times. He clears his throat. “I apologise,” Syril croaks, “I didn’t mean to-”
“That is not what I asked,” Tarkin says, his voice a compressed mat of dead leaves.
“I, uh,” Syril stutters, “was just wondering if- you made it yourself. Your clothes. When you were young. For your hunt.”
Tarkin leans back and somehow stands up even straighter.
“Did you?” Syril presses, apparently reconciled with the fact that he’s torpedoed his career and is compartmentalizing his mental and physical health so they’re easier for Tarkin to flush down the drain. Syril’s never found it easy to let go of something once he’s decided to do it. He sinks his teeth in and pretends not to notice it rot between his lips. Up until this moment he’s considered his tenacity one of his crowning qualities.
And now it’s going to be the reason he’ll be executed in public.
The whole company will be invited to watch the entertainment. Lanky Blue will ask Syril if he has any last words. Chief Inspector Hyne will put his feet up and yawn. His mother will be called and patched through to the building wide broadcast channel, where she’ll waste no time telling Syril that he should be ashamed of himself for wasting the Grand Moff’s precious time by allowing himself to get killed. She’ll finish her call of compassion with a vow that she won’t bankrupt herself by making a special trip to the planet to pick up her ungrateful son’s belongings, and the company can either ship them to her home on Coruscant or throw them in the incinerator.
“Yes,” Tarkin says.
Syril’s eyes widen. Oh, god, Tarkin actually responded. And he doesn’t seem incandescent with silent rage. He almost seems expectant, like he’s waiting for Syril to continue the conversation he’s initiated. Tarkin’s obviously indulging himself with some early morning non-lethal entertainment while he waits for the caf to brew. He’s not yet fully awake, not yet fully himself, and has been caught unaware. He can’t possibly be interested in opening up to Syril and sharing truths about his past with him. Could he?
Syril wishes he had more experience with someone showing interest in him. He’s fought for recognition his entire life, and often gets it through sheer persistence. Now that he’s being offered attention so freely, and by someone of such a stellar rank, Syril’s bank of internal alarms and warnings are activating themselves as fast as they can.
Syril squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, for just a moment, in order to silence them all. This action doesn’t work; his horrible alarms continue to blare and strobe and spit.
With muscles that have been trained since he knew they existed, Syril forces the alarms behind him. They’ll continue to wail and berate and jeer at him, but they can be ignored. Syril’s learnt that opportunities don’t come along only when you want them.
“That, uh,” Syril responds eloquently, “must have taken a while. Did it? For you to make a clothes. To make
clothes.
Or
a
clothe. A
piece
of clothing, for whatever it is you did in it when you were slightly less older.”
If the break room’s singular window wasn’t reinforced with shatter proof plastoid, Syril would throw himself out of it.
“It did,” Tarkin says. “The vest took weeks to design and construct. The number of pockets I assigned it were appropriate. However the quantity of blood and cranial fluids it absorbed before bloating the fabric proved to be something of a mild disappointment.”
Syril scratches his cheek, his neatly trimmed nails raking bluntly along his skin. Maybe Tarkin’s ill. Maybe Tarkin’s only talking to him because he’s suffering from an undiagnosed ailment. If that’s the case, Syril should gently escort him to the medical room. Or pull out a chair and suggest he rest a while. But because Syril doesn’t want either of his arms chewed off, he doesn’t do either.
“What material did you use?” Syril asks.
Because Syril can hold his own in a conversation about tailoring. It’s a safe port in a harbour that’s become infected with things Syril has no experience with or immunity against.
Tarkin tells him. While the caf machine is filled at an excruciatingly slow pace, Tarkin gives a redacted account of his time on the Carrion Plateau. Of the kills he made; the hardships he endured; the injuries he chose to absorb; the way his Uncle laughed when Tarkin’s arm once ballooned with rot and infection. Tarkin’s face is severe. But there’s a tainted warm mist in his eyes.
Syril nods in politeness. And in captivating horror. And in appreciation and dark dry envy.
Tarkin finishes his recollection and blinks for the first time in minutes. The caf pot is about halfway full.
Syril’s heart rate increases again. Because now he’s got to respond to Tarkin’s joyously recounted tales of childhood carnage and slaughter. If he’s not appreciative and deferential and awed and detached enough he’ll have his hands tied behind his back, suffer the pain of watching his meticulously stitched pockets almost rip at the seams from being filled with heavy weights, and be thrown into the ocean. But if he’s too fawning and enthusiastic and gushing and prying, he’ll suffer the same fate.
“Did it?” Syril blurts out.
Tarkin tilts his head in question
and
raises his eyebrows.
Once again, Syril’s compulsion to speak the truth is going to bring him easily avoidable suffering.
“Look better? With blood on it?” Syril continues, before his nerve can finish signing the divorce papers his intellect is holding out. “The vest you made?”
A faintly poisonous smile spreads across Tarkin’s cadaverous face. “No.”
Syril dips his head, relieved the conversation has been ended without him being killed where he stands.
“But it felt better.”
Syril’s eyes snap to attention.
“It became heavier,” Tarkin elaborates, another rare fissure opening up into his past, “and not just with the liquid life force of the justly defeated.”
Syril nods in pretend understanding. There’s a warm light radiating out of Tarkin’s eyes that makes his skin crawl.
“And is that not the point of tailoring oneself?” Tarkin continues, passion and conviction deepening his voice as he leaps out of the closing chasm and faces Syril in the solid present they both inhabit. “The true point?”
“I…think so?”
“
Know
so.”
Syril flinches as if he’s been slapped.
“If a uniform that looks so exquisite it could stop a planet’s rotation makes the wearer wince in discomfort with every step he takes in it, it has failed. Remember what a uniform’s core purpose is, Deputy Inspector.”
This is another instance of Tarkin asking a question without actually asking one. Syril’s heart beats faster. Why do people do this to him?
And then Tarkin shows mercy by answering his own question.
“It is not to administer shock. It is not to generate awe. It is not to engender comradeship. It is not to display rank and achievement. Those are secondary results. So what is the primary?”
Syril hates how pathetically relieved he feels at being force-fed this part-answer. As if Tarkin doesn’t think Syril is capable of answering himself. Syril isn’t, but that’s not the point. Except it is.
Tarkin’s horrible smile blisters across more of his face, as if he’s inside Syril’s mind and is having a rather enjoyable time sifting through the dregs.
Tarkin isn’t showing mercy to Syril by answering his own questions; he’s simply saving his own precious time by doing so.
Syril takes a deep breath. He will not be spoon fed another answer. He will not be a waste of space, he won’t he won’t he won’t.
He stands up as straight as he can, arms behind his back, elbows out at perfect angles, chest pushed out, chin up, eyes forward, and before Tarkin can continue Syril says, “The core purpose of a uniform is its utility.”
An alien light flickers from the depths of Tarkin’s black hole eyes. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
If Syril is going to be considered a five minute amusement by the Grand Moff, he will be an amusement worth remembering.
“A uniform must protect its wearer in battle,” Syril says firmly. “Whatever that battle may be. Whatever that uniform may look like.”
Tarkin’s smile smooths itself out. It doesn’t dissolve. “That was said with conviction.”
Syril nods. “Because I believe it.”
“I believe in baby space unicorns who cry credits.”
“I- what?”
“Which means they must exist and perform that purpose successfully. Or do they not?”
Syril’s got a full blown headache now, a painful thumping above his eyes. Tarkin’s mocking him. But Syril’s been mocked his entire life and is fluent in all the ways that language is delivered, and Tarkin’s tone isn’t contemptuous. It’s questioning.
Tarkin is testing the strength of Syril’s chain of logic. He’s listening to him. He’s interested in the explanation and defence of something Syril’s said.
Syril’s pulse changes rhythm.
“It-“ Syril clears his throat. “That. I see. Yes. But belief is a power all on its own.”
Syril isn’t going to win any literacy or motivational slogan competitions with that one. But at least he’s said something.
“Are you strong enough to wield that power?” Tarkin asks.
Syril opens his mouth and -
- pauses.
He genuinely thinks about the question.
“…I will be,” he finally says.
Tarkin is motionless for a few, long, horrible seconds. And then he nods. It’s the nod of a teacher impressed and relieved that a promising student has finally answered something correctly.
“I agree,” Tarkin says, and Syril feels his soul ascend to heaven.
“Wear your armour,” Tarkin says, his eyes searing Syril’s entire being with a brief glance down and up, “only for yourself. Fit it to who you are. Do not leave space to grow into it. Do not alter it until you are straining against its seams.”
And Syril understands.
“Yes,” he breathes, “yes. That- won’t be easy, I-”
Tarkin’s blank death mask of a face slips back into place. “Stop complaining.”
“Yes sir,” Syril snaps immediately.
“Do the work required.”
“Yes sir.”
“Do not advertise your achievements with the sole aim to solicit someone’s attention and approval.”
“No sir.”
“Do not waste time and energy manipulating someone’s attention so they will give you that approval.”
Syril feels his cheeks burn. “No sir.”
“Approval is misunderstood and overrated.”
Syril nods.
“Do you know what is mistakenly understood and underrated?”
Syril’s really sick and tired of being interviewed like this.
“Uh, no,” Syril says.
“Fear,” Tarkin says simply.
Syril shivers. If Syril could donate an organ in exchange for people fearing him, would he do it? Would the price be fair? Would it work? Could he live with himself? Would he actually want it?
The caf machine hacks out one last hissing cough before collapsing into exhausted silence. A small green light flicks on at the base. With exquisite care, Syril pours Tarkin a mug of hot liquid. And with even greater care, with his entire existence reduced to this narrow action, Syril offers Tarkin the mug.
Tarkin must see Syril’s churning thoughts of desire and resentment and confliction, because that predator’s smile of his has returned. Tarkin takes the mug from Syril without looking at it.
Tarkin should have a drink with that horrible ISB interrogator who visited a month ago to interview a prisoner too sick to leave the planet’s surface. They could swap intimidation and interrogation techniques. Syril shudders as he recalls the man’s smiling face, his bubbly demeanor, and the undiluted love he had for disintegrating someone. His name was something horrible, something like Dr. Gore.
Syril blinks himself back to the present. He nods. Fear. It comes in so many outfits. That’s actually a good line.
“Fear,” Syril tells Tarkin, his voice as firm and steady as he can make it, “comes in many outfits. I will choose one I can wear comfortably.”
Tarkin lifts his mug in a salute.
Syril feels triumphant, elated, and sick to his stomach.
Without breaking eye contact with Syril, Tarkin drinks. Tarkin then lowers his mug and peers into it. “What a terrible blend.”
Tarkin abandons his mug on a table and glides out of the break room.
Syril’s undershirt is plastered to his back. His throat is sandpaper dry. But his case of tachycardia is no longer acute.
Syril pours himself a mug of caf. He sips it. Tarkin was right: the blend is terrible. Syril’s never noticed how bitter things taste around here.
Syril puts his mug down on the table next to Tarkin’s discarded one. He adjusts it until it’s parallel with Tarkin’s mug, and the handle is facing the same direction.
With his head high, his hands behind his back, and his shoulders uncharacteristically buoyant, as if an invisible weight has finally been reassigned to its intended owner, Syril leaves the break room.
Now it’s time for him to start work.