bakerstreet | Florence Nightingale Effect Meme

Florence Nightingale Effect Meme

1. Previously aloof tough character gets injured, lets the love interest treat their injuries, and reveals a newfound trust and intimacy. This might or might not involve the tough person making that hissing sound when the love interest touches their injured face, but not quite pulling away...

2. The love interest gets injured, and the tough character treats them and suddenly reveals a tender side.

It's an old trope, admittedly, but an understandable one. You're hurt - physically or emotionally - and perhaps even on the brink of death. And then, out of the blue, someone saves you and brings you back. They heal you, they feed you, cloth you, wash you. In the human mind, the intimacies can bring up warm feelings, even in the hardest of hearts. Will you fight them or let them grow? And what about when it's time to leave? You may not feel like leaving your angel...

HOW TO PLAY
1. Comment with your character and preferences. Mention if you'd prefer to play the healer or the healed - or both, for greatest versatility!
2. Reply to others.

NOT EXACTLY PROMPTS, BUT IDEAS

- The finding and saving
- The hurt/comfort care process, I.E. cleaning wounds, bathing, wrapping bandages, etc.
- Feeding, finding clothes, etc.
- Mother hen behavior ("you're still hurt, don't do that!")
- Comforting from trauma
- Unwilling patient
- Pulling away, trying to be all aloof
- Realization of growing emotions
- Denial
- Attempts to instigate something more
- Jealousy at seeing your savior with someone else
- Confessions
- Mutual attraction
- First (accidental or no) kiss
- Obligatory sex scene option
- Make your own scene

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Thousands died in the span of a sigh, the feeling rushing past like a terrible wind. For a moment, Miro couldn't breathe past the hard knot in her throat, her vision becoming hazy around the edges. Then, they were gone and the cool emptiness of hyperspace stretched out before her.

The girl put a trembling hand on her droid as the shutters closed. She'd never born witness to this much death at once. Then, Miro stood and made her way to her passenger. He was alive. A tension she hadn't known was there fled from her shoulders, and she went to fetch medical supplies. There was no room for a proper bacta tank, but she had plenty of patches and a few jars of kolto that would speed along his healing, nicely.

Letting him stay seated and hopefully asleep, Miro cut away a patch of his robes and winced at the further damage he'd sustained in the move. To make matters worse, his skin was icy cold and his clothes were soaked. With the blood loss he'd already sustained, Miro would count him lucky if he didn't go into shock. Gingery, she put a hand on his uninjured shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Hey. Wake up."

Moving him to a cot and stripping him out of wet robes was her first priority, slathering him with healing goo and surrounding him with hot packs was her second. It would take days to reach their destination; she wasn't worried about getting interrupted, and she trusted her droid to fly and fly well.

He was bordering on shock, though pale, clammy skin and the way he kept fading in and out of consciousness suggested he was already there.

The next time Ren opened his eyes, he was lying down on a cot in the back of the ship. Warmth had replaced the icy wilderness and disinfectant hung in the air. There were a few vague impressions of how he got off the planet. He vaguely remembered stumbling on someone's shoulder and being strapped into a chair. But how he got from there to here, he had no idea.

For the first time, he was able to actually take in his surroundings. This was definitely not a First Order shuttle - which begged the obvious question, "...where am I?"

It was a whisper, more to himself than anyone else, but then he felt the presence of someone else strong in the force.

Ren shot up, and promptly regretted it. He hissed at the sudden bolt of pain and ended up falling right back onto the cot.

"...Who's there..." he tried again, craning his neck as far as he could. His voice was too weak to be demanding, but he at least masked the panic. "Who are you? Where am I?"

Miro was in deep meditation. A half-dozen force crystals surrounded her, glowing dimly and occasionally pulsing. The man's voice reached her ears and she pulled herself out from the calm and into the waking, live world. She was on her feet immediately, moving towards him and answering his call.

"My name is Miro, and you're on my ship. It's alright; I'm not going to hurt you." Stepping forward so that he could see his rescuer, or was that abductor, Miro looked down and smiled. He shouldn't be doing anything strenuous anytime soon, but his color was far better and the kolto had dried to a sticky consistency on his face and in dabs along his torso where he'd been nicked by a saber. A bacta patch covered his side.

There could be little doubt that Miro was related to the Jedi somehow. Her underclothes were a little more elaborate, but the styling and coloration were characteristic of the Order. Curiosity showed on her face as she mentally checked the look in his eyes against the Sith apprentice she'd met so long ago. They all seemed to have a certain tightness around the edges, a searching something in their gaze. Then again, Miro was a trusting sort and perhaps not the best judge of character. All things considered, it was a trait she recognized in herself but had decided to leave alone. Service to the Ashla, or light side, encouraged optimism.

"How do you feel?"

Her name meant nothing to him. She wasn't of the First Order, she wasn't part of the Resistence and the only Jedi left to hunt down was Luke Skywalker. At least, until there was an awakening. Rey was a name that meant nothing to him either, and now, thoughts of their confrontation played back in his weary, pain-laden mind.

Was Miro like Rey? She cetainly lacked the darkness Ren steeped himself in. That made her dangerous to him and his work. True, she had been merciful so far. Had Miro not arrived when she did, he would be dead. Had she not treated his wounds he'd be dead. But that didn't mean he trusted her.

No Jedi could ever be trusted.

"Where are you taking me?" He avoided her question for a far more important one of his own. He was obviously in too much pain to move, let alone fight another force user, so everything else could wait. "What do you want?"

At his questions, Miro looked a little sheepish around the edges. Her decision to travel to Ord Mantell was mainly out of a desire to modify and upgrade her ship in order to disappear properly. After so long, it was likely that her ship was more than a little out of date, and obtaining the most up-to-date charts and basic information about the current state of the galaxy would be vital to whatever she wished to do here.

"For now, Ord Mantell. I'll need a different transponder, and if the place is anything like it used to be, no one will ask any questions." Giving him a small shrug, Miro continued, unaware of the more vital details of this place and time. "I don't intend to turn you in to the Jedi, if that's what you mean."

There was no room for an autochef, but there was a fair amount of preserved goods, and food was of far less import than good tea. She prepared herself a cup as she spoke, her movements meticulous and careful. "I left the Order years ago. As far as what I want..." The liquid was warm against her lips and she drank while contemplating her answer. "I want to be a servant of .... the Force." Miro decided to keep it straightforward, even if it was an oversimplification to the point of mild inaccuracy.

"But I think you probably mean 'What do I want with you'. In that, I am not sure. By saving your life, I hope to change the course of things. I...I may have already done so, I don't know." Her smile was feint and with a trace of irony. "You see, I'm not exactly from now. I'm not even sure when now is."

The sweet faded on her tongue, and the girl decided on a second cup. "Tea?"

He managed to keep his rage in check as she spoke about her time with the Jedi order. Leaving and hiding would be the easy explanation of why she'd managed to survive. However, he snorted at being turned over to a group that had been all but purged.

And then came the other bombshell.

She wasn't from this time. She wasn't even sure what this time was. He studied her expression, reached out to her through the force. She didn't seem to be lying. (He'd done enough violent force interrogations to get a sense of that.)

"Now... would be about thirty years after the Battle of Endor, thirty years after the fall of the Great Galactic Empire."

Did that answer her question? What was she hoping to change? Was he supposed to die on Starkiller Base? Was that meant to be the final fight of the master of the Knights of Ren?

"The Supreme Leader will have me back." he hissed. Was that even a threat? in what shape did the defeat leave the First Order? If he did return, how would his defeat at the hands of that girl be tolerated? Would Snoke finish what the battle started and take his life right then and there...

He eventually noticed the offered cup. There were so many questions and not nearly enough answers.

Tea.

"... Yes."

An eyebrow quirked at the mention of the Great Galactic Empire, but her face remained otherwise impassive. Apparently, the Republic was either a footnote of history or of far less reach than it once possessed. There was no recognition in her eyes, as her own life began over 2,000 years before the Battle of Yavin, much less Endor. Fortunately for the pair, Miro had set her droid to download the latest star charts from the nearest hyperspace beacon, but the year on the data meant nothing to her without a frame of reference.

This time, two cups of tea received the same ministrations. The liquid was warm and somewhat honeyed, tasting of flowers with an undercurrent of musky, lower things. She treated the leaves with the reverence they were due, but paused and blinked in his direction at what seemed to be an attempt at intimidation.

It was difficult to threaten someone who hadn't any idea why they ought to be frightened. With a little effort, Miro managed not to smile.

The girl decided against sitting on the floor, and as starships rarely had movable chairs, she simply took a spot on the far edge of the bed after handing a lightly steaming cup to her passenger. "If I ask supreme leader of what, I don't think I'd much understand the answer. All I know of you is that your name is Kylo Ren and where to find you. For whatever reason, the moment you were felled was...pivotal."

A sadness crossed her features, but unlike those of the proper Jedi Order, she let the feeling pass over her. "Unfortunately, the messengers failed to tell me why." They'd been cut down with depressing speed. Though she knew in a time well beyond this one, warriors would be needed to defend the whole of the galaxy, from what and how remained an utter mystery. Farseeing was within her skill, but such a far flung future was distant enough to stay a murky blur.

The mourning left her features with a shake of her head, and she gave the raven-haired man an encouraging nod. "Why don't you start at your beginning? What do you want?"

[sorry for the delay! Thought I would have internet connection when I went out of town this weekend, and I was wrong.]

Intimidation was his bread and butter. Kylo Ren wasn't used to being this vulnerable. He left that at the training grounds along with the corpses of every other Padawan there. He left it with his father's body when he pulled his lightsaber free. Or at least, he tried to.

When she spoke of messengers beyond his understanding, most likely from another place and time, he felt even more vulnerable. These were things he could not control. And for a brief moment, he imagined his mother's face atop of Miro's. The light. It was calling to him even here!

He forced himself to sit up, focusing on the pain. The tea was hot, and he gulped down a mouthful to chase that dreaded feeling away.

"I want to finish what my grandfather started." He insisted. "I want power. I want control."

Was it really that simple?

Miro winced at his sudden movement; the minutiae of anatomical healing was somewhat beyond her, but she'd seen enough of his wounds to know what hurt. She was also familiar enough with Sith teachings to recognize his attempt to focus on pain. It had been an interaction with an acolyte, after all, that had altered the course of her life. Without his intervention, she'd be a Jedi through and through, mired with all the hypocrisy it entailed in her time.

Sipping at her cup, Miro listened to Kylo's frank desires in silence. For a Je'daii, it was not enough to know the light; she must feel the tension between the two Forces in herself as well as the universe. There was too much emotion spilling from him for Miro to discern that he was feeling such a conflict, but had she known, she'd have seen it as a good sign. She mulled over his words, then asked him the obvious question: "Why?" Power and control were rarely amassed for their own sake, and she knew nothing of his grandfather or what he'd failed to finish.

The silent reaches of hyperspace stretched out forward and behind, and for now, the two might as well have been the only two people anywhere.

Almost as an aside, Miro gestured to the bacta patch with curled fingers, her blurred beauty revealing her understanding of his choices, even if she could not and would not approve; "You should be careful. If you move too much, you'll keep yourself down for longer." Words were chosen carefully in an attempt to show reason instead of empathy. The Sith had their own motivations, and until she knew Kylo's, there was little chance of finding common ground. They served different and opposing masters.

The pain brought him back to the darkness. It eased the tension between two opposing sides, at least for now. Perhaps, in time, he would learn to harness the tension and appreciate both sides of the force. His grandfather and idol, after all, was prophesied to bring balance to the force. But such teachings were as alien to him as the Galactic Empire was to her.

Ren let out a long sigh, sipping the hot tea instead of gulping it. He wasn't interested in power the same way the Supreme Leader was, and had no real desire to rule. Nor was he interested in control the way General Hux was, though he did value order over the chaos he'd grown up with.

"It's personal." he eventually grunted, and that was the truth.

He wanted control over his own destiny and over his weaknesses. His grandfather was more than just an inspiration. Whereas Anakin Skywalker was weak, Darth Vader was strong. Kylo Ren was also strong - deserving of the respect and fear he was due.

"It's a matter of honor."

Miro watched the man relax and sip his tea more slowly before he effectively shut down her question, closing himself off with only enough information to fill an acorn cup. Her answering smile was somewhat wry, but she did not press the point. Honor was prized among many, though in Miro's experience, it was too often a tool of pride than of real integrity.

At least it was a place to start.

"I can understand honor." It was less important than compassion but integral to being trustworthy. A Je'daii who wasn't trusted by the people was crippled in their work. "Without some measure of it, I would be a poor Je'daii." The pronunciation to the later order was almost identical, though an acute ear would be able to pluck out the difference.

"When you woke, I was just meditating on my possible purpose here, but the will of the...light...is often shown in hindsight." The word still sounded awkward in her mouth, but it was the plainest way to be understood by someone of another order.

"Whatever is wanted of me, I'm glad I was able to help you." Her hand drifted to a pouch on her belt, fingering its contents through the cloth in what was obviously habit. "If you'd like to rest, I can leave you be. It'll take days to reach our destination and sleep can help heal more than you'd think."

Ren didn't catch the slight difference in pronunciation, having only heard it from this strange woman and no one else. However, the he found the hesitance at which she mentioned the light intriguing. He sensed no fear, only a vague unfamiliarity with the word. What kind of jedi was she...

He carefully set the tea aside.

"That will not be necessary." he hissed, clutching his side as he forced himself to his feet. There was no hesitation in his words aside from what was caused by his own aching wounds. "It is the will of darkness that I use this pain to further my power. And my will that I learn what is wanted of you before we reach your destination."

He was weakened, but determined. In the approaching days, he would have both power and control - no matter the cost.

A single brow rose upwards at his movement and at the emphasis of his declaration. She could feel the surge of the Bogan and an expression of mild distaste mingled with mild incredulity before she spoke. The Bogan, or dark side, was offensive on a basic level, but she did her best not to judge Kylo Ren for its use; he had nothing else on which to draw. Despite her best efforts, however, the skin on the back of her neck crawled. Her stomach took the opportunity to curl a bit in odd, hunger-fueled mimicry.

He'd been considerate enough to put aside his cup. Miro mused to herself that what was on the outside seldom reflected what was on the inside.

A few thoughts came to the girl in rapid succession. First, any attempt he made to take control of the ship would likely prove fruitless unless he knew the navigational and communicative controls of a ship so ancient its recently acquired owner had no concept of the most fundamental historical milestones of Kylo's age. Second, whatever comm link he might have once owned, it had likely undergone a one-way metamorphosis into space dust, as there was little in the robes she'd peeled off his skin save blood and snow. It was possible such things had become far easier to conceal, but even then, unless a short range communicator had become capable of a longer range signal, Ren was unlikely to be able to call in the metaphorical troops Finally, whatever his motivation or ability, destiny or power, Miro had to admit the man had a remarkable flair for the dramatic.

The girl looked at her passenger, eyeing the gel on his face and the patch at his side. "We-e-ll," Miro exhaled in a downward grade. "I'd like to know that, too, but it is the will of the Ashla that I find out what is wanted of me when circumstance provides the answer. I have neither the right nor the ability to wrest answers from the universe based merely on my whim." Inly, she hoped Ren did not manage to turn his insides into his outsides, but she supposed she could spare a second patch should the need arise. "It is my will to have something to eat with my tea. Would you care to join me while we wait for the will of the force to reveal itself to us both?"

Her lips curved into a half smile. "Unless you have a more pressing engagement."

Ren's options were, indeed, limited. Already, the deaths of those on Starkiller Base, as well as the ripples in the force caused by its destruction, had faded away into the void. The longer he was on this ship, the farther from the First Order he was being taken.

Part of him was angry, a familiar, comforting feeling. But an equal part of him was curious. Could this have been his fate all along? A decade under the Supreme Leader, and his training was still not complete. Perhaps this girl was meant to finish what Snoke could not. Perhaps he was destined for an even greater power...

"I am no stranger to creating circumstance." he hissed. There was a dangerous glint in his eye, but very little strength at the moment to back it up.

As he clutched his side, his stomach growled like an angry Wookiee.

His voice softened, and a faint blush came over his cheeks. "...I am also famished."

Miro paid no mind to the man's low, angry words, instead focusing on his mention of hunger. She moved with some measure of uncertainty through the short galley, opening and closing cabinets until she found what she'd been looking for; she'd stocked, refueled, and set off on the mission that had ultimately brought her here, but the craft had only been hers for a week or so.

Two partitioned plates clinked softly as she placed them on the counter, each section of the dish filled with bits of this and that. Nuts and dried berries sat next to mixed greens and, finally, a good sized portion of sliced, cured nerf. The meat was quite spicy, the rub she'd used had been applied with an overabundance of enthusiasm. The food was simply prepared, owing to Miro's complete lack of talent in the kitchen rather than any stylistic notion; the more straightforward the food, the less chances she had to muddy something up.

She deposited the plates on a nearby table and nodded in Kylo's direction. The ship was small enough that the seats were only a few steps away, the center of the craft little more than a chunky hallway with all necessary components installed on either side. The refresher was the only thing that merited its own, separate room.

"Blue milk or water?"

It wasn't the processed meals of the First Order, but it was food. He accepted the plate with a grunt that might have even been mistaken for gratitude, if she squinted hard enough.

"Water."

He wasn't a dan of Bantha milk. It was something his grandfather drank during his slavery, during the time before he became the man that Ren sought to emulate. It was a drink of weakness. That, and he really didn't like the taste.

There was silence while they ate, at least for a while. Eventually, though, Ren broke that.

"There's more to you than meets the eye. That much, I know. The big question is how much are you willing to tell me, and how much do I have to force out of you?"

(He wasn't very good at making small talk...)

Miro enjoyed the meal, giving the food the attention it deserved, however simple its presentation. There were many things in which to take joy in the universe, and in Miro's opinion, good food was certainly in the top ten. In fact, she'd taken to differentiating one planet from another by the restaurants therein. After a while, one spaceport looked much like another, but a good steak and glass of Jawa juice was as unique as they came.

Then, Ren spoke in what Miro suspected was his best facsimile of a dinnertime conversation. She chewed, swallowed, and gave him a long look.

"Is that the big question.....the more interesting question to me is why you feel you'd have to force anything from me at all. What is it about pleasant company and a shared meal that compels you to veil threats, I wonder. I'll happily share anything you care to know." Miro took a long drink. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

It was a little difficult to tell what was more out of place - the threat-disguised-as-conversation or the man attempting to start said conversation, especially when Miro's calm answer took him completely by surprise. He was used to resistance, violence, the cutthroat brutality of First Order battalions and the forceful intrusions of his own master.

Ren learned his torture and interrogation methods somewhere, after all.

"Just... like that..."

He was immediately wary. Was this some sort of Jedi mind trick? No, he was better than that. He would have sensed it if it was... He focused on the pain and forcefully composed himself.

"I demand to kn.. I want to know the extent of your power. And what you're capable of."

Miro was the picture of thoughtfulness as she contemplated how best to express the reality of the matter. When she did speak, her words were occasionally punctuated by mild gestures, with or without fork.

"All things considered, I assume you mean considering the force tradition I follow rather than any auxiliary skills I may possess. To answer you properly, you must know something about my tradition. You see, the Je'daii believe that the force is not a singular power. Not a singular entity. Too many Jedi in my own age, and I assume this one, believe that the force is a unified essence. They are mistaken. There are many faces, many sides to the force. I am a steward of only one. You would know it as the 'light side'; in the tradition I follow, it is called the Ashla. A Je'daii does not see the Ashla as a weapon. It is an ally. A mentor. One who protects me when it must."

She ran a hand through her curls and continued. "Your question is a difficult one to answer because by my lights, the power I have is not mine, just as the power you wield is not technically yours. After all, if we clasp hands, who is holding who....By the same token, the only limits to the Ashla's power are the ones I impose on myself, consciously or otherwise. The Ashla is limitless." Chuckling to herself, she took a sip of her drink and leaned back a bit in her chair.

"If you want a litany of all that I have done through the Ashla, it'll take quite some time...though how's this for a start: once, when I was a padawan, soon before I left the Order, I survived a Sith tomb on Korriban, and thanks to a helpful Sith acolyte, I even survived un-scarred."

The ease at which she spoke unnerved him. He wasn't used to it. But he listened, nonetheless, and he picked up on the strange way she said it now - Je'daii, not Jedi. These were different to her, somehow.

"The force is not unified." His corroboration was still grunted, but it wasn't a demand or loosely-veiled threat. There was an unnatural pause, a drink of water, and a long, uneven breath. She chuckled, and he simply glared. "But it is not an ally. The force is conflict. Each side waging war with the other until only one is left."

The ease at which he spoke was beginning to unnerve him too. And her story of the Sith tomb sounded incredibly far-fetched.

"The power I wield is mine. Because I make it mine. If I did not choose, the other side would seduce me and I would falter." he huffed. "There is no escaping un-scarred."

Now, Miro was conversing in earnest, still unnervingly calm about having a dark power in her current living room, but genuinely interested in what Kylo had to say. If he was the center of things, then his perspective mattered, however much she might disagree.

"The Bogan, what you would call the dark side, is not an ally as I would call it....but the Ashla is. I believe your view of the force as being in conflict with itself is only half-true. The Ashla cannot fight; it is not in its nature. Conflict, treachery, violence, hate, these are all the purview of the Bogan, and always it seeks to destroy the Ashla. That is why the Je'daii stand for the Ashla. It cannot stand for itself...but as long as there is life in the galaxy, the Ashla will remain, somewhere."

Memories paraded themselves behind her eyes, and her gaze became somewhat distant. "I did not escape the tomb un-scarred, alone. In point of fact, I became trapped on the second day when I brought the ceiling down on some orbalisks that seemed intent on making me their new host. When I was offered a way out, the price for doing so was too high, and I was...defiant." An expression of rue fell on her features and she shook her head.

"To teach me my place, my skin was torn from me and I was tossed in a stagnant pool. I was able to heal myself enough to survive, but I was young and not yet skilled in the art of healing. By the third day, I managed to find a way out. Which, in the sequence of events, is when I met my Sith acolyte friend. We'd both been sent there to be tested by our respective masters that had better things to do, me on my way out and he on his way in. He was rightly aghast by the sight of me, naked, stinking of dirty water, scarred from head to toe, occasional water-worms still wiggling here and there." She wriggled her own fingers in elucidation before taking another bite of salad.

"Anyway, he and I had a rather long talk about what it meant to be a Jedi. With his help, and quite a bit more pain, I walked away from the temple un-scarred, and he walked in with a better notion of what he'd be up against. Incidentally, that's also when I decided to leave the order and follow another path."

This time, the chuckle was sheepish. "But, I digress to excess. Tell me, if the dark power you wield is yours because you make it so....why are you worried about faltering? If you are the master of your dark side and not the other way around, shouldn't you be able to decide whether to use the dark or the light without consequence?"

"You do not know the light like I know the light!" he hissed. Dishes rattled as his fist struck the table. "It fights! Unrelenting and ferociously. It burns. It withers. It forces its way into the shadows and slowly cuts you apart!"

One look in Ren's eyes, and Miro will find proof that the conflict, the painful struggle he feels, is very real. The power was his because he chose it. Or rather, because if he didn't forcefully choose it, another would choose him. If he didn't consciously assert control, he didn't have it at all.

The more she spoke about Korriban, the more it intrigued him. The agony of such an ordeal would submerge him in darkness. Surely, it would bind it to him permanently, finally ending the daily war that waged in his very soul. Darth Vader was a Dark Lord of the Sith. This power was his to inherit.

Perhaps her finding him was fated after all.

"Take me there." he ordered. He didn't know whether this tomb was even still standing in his time, but if the darkness still lingered, it would be a worthwhile quest regardless. "Get whatever fuel and supplies you need and take me to Korriban. You can stand for whatever you want. But I will purge myself of the light if it is the last thing I do."

Miro jumped at the man's words and the clacking of dishes, and though she did not reach for her stick, one of her hands was half raised before it was clear Ren was not an immediate threat. Pain was raw in his words, an exposed wound along the girl's senses. Whatever had happened to him, poison was in the wound and it had remained ever open.

At first, she looked baffled at his exclamation, then the confusion faded into gentle sympathy. Miro had been steeped in the Ashla as profoundly and constantly as a Sith might dive into the dark for the better part of a decade. Her words carried a quiet certainty that held no judgement; "The Ashla does not give pain, not even to darksiders. It can't. It weakens, it lessens the hold of the Bogan, but it doesn't hurt." Taking a breath, Miro continued; "The pain you feel may be your own."

Kylo Ren's position began to make more sense to the girl. The anger and hate necessary for the Bogan to take hold would, indeed, distract someone from anything else. Unfortunately for the distraught man, pain might be healed or faced, eased or ignored, but it could not be destroyed, and the Bogan could only destroy. "I don't doubt the struggle you feel, but I think the struggle you face may come entirely from within rather than from the conflict of any external forces."

At his order, Miro cocked a brow and shook her head. "I can't take you there, even if I wanted to. It was a planet hidden by the Sith and certainly not on any starchart. If I truly have been gone from the galaxy for so long, stellar drift would make any coordinates I might remember hopelessly out of date." Though, from his outburst, Miro suspected the man wouldn't be able to protect himself from the Sith spirits that waited, patient as their own graves, for the right host to come along.

Whether it stemmed from internal or external forces, it was a fact. Kylo Ren was being torn apart inside. Killing his father was supposed to silence the call of the light, permanently. But it hadn't. Just as Miro said, the Ashla would always remain. The pain and struggle were still there.

It was why her tale of Korriban were so captivating.

Whether Ren could protect himself didn't matter. Only the power did, and if he lost himself in the process, he honestly believed he would be all the better for it. The call of the light would stop. He would finally have peace within darkness.

"Then use the force! Find it and take me there!" he was more insistent this time, up on his feet though leaning against the table. "...Before I take the pain I feel and make it yours!!"

Miro stared at the man evenly, inwardly aghast at his lack of knowledge more than at his temper. Whoever was teaching him had been doing an abysmal job, both in the nuts and bolts of what the force was and how it, or more accurately they, were used. In the span of those few seconds, Miro found herself feeling far older than her passenger, despite their similarity in age.

An eerie echo of Ren's father escaped her lips; "That's not how the force works." She remained cautious of Kylo's power and potential for violence, but she knew a trick or two to keep her risk to a minimum. If things turned sour, he would not be the first darksider she'd faced, though it would be the first such encounter in her own ship. "Anything that is mine to give, you can freely have. Anything you need to know that I understand, I'll happily teach. It is the way of my order to help those in need, and you are clearly a man in need....but no quantity of threats will conjure what I do not have to give."

What kind of Sith was he? How far had the Sith fallen from their origins that this one had so little discipline and such meager understanding? His grasp of the power of the darkside was self evident and impressive, though his assumptions about the finer details of the uses of that power seemed so novice by comparison. His lightsaber had been unusual enough in its design and his presence in the force strong enough that Miro sensed his great potential... but he seemed to lack a comprehension of the larger context into which he fit. And, she realized, he was not so far buried in the dark as he might have liked. Perhaps, she could help him after all. "Lashing out at me might make you feel... powerful... but it will accomplish little else, I'm afraid."

"If... if you don't mind my asking, what, exactly, have you been taught?"

Of course it made him feel powerful. Tapping into his anger and forcefully destroying everything around him always made him feel powerful. But unlike weak-minded stormtroopers, Miro wasn't intimidated by anything he said or did. The confused expression of unease crossed his face once more. He found himself sitting down slowly, wincing from his injuries.

His next words were as obvious as they were quiet.

"...I have not yet completed my training."

He'd learned only the basics in Luke's Academy. They were afraid of him, of what he had the potential to become, the Supreme Leader told him. He knew why. The dark side of the force was his destiny, and Supreme Leader Snoke taught him to wield it with passion. He was especially gifted in the telekinetic aspects, controlling a person's body, ripping through their mind and tearing out their thoughts, manipulating and deflecting anything that tried to stop him... These were qualities that Snoke valued in a Knight of Ren. His ability to cause pain and destruction made him an apt enforcer of the First Order.

Did he understand all of these powers? No. Not really. But that wasn't important, Snoke had said many times. And the Supreme Leader was wise.

"Practical application." he eventually continued, his voice still quiet. "Pain. Combat... I built the lightsaber..."

After waiting for more that never came, Miro nodded slowly. "It's an unusual design. I only ever crafted one before going to this," She gave the hilt of her wooden force weapon a short pat. In truth, she'd made her single lightsaber from scratch, from growing wood for its hilt to cutting down a crystal for its blade. The process had been time consuming, but it had led to an appreciation for the craftsmanship inherent in creating a blade. Robes rustling, Miro rose from her seat and helped herself to another handful of nuts. She was absurdly fond of the things.

"Application without understanding will never lead to mastery." While keeping half an eye on the wound at his side, she continued; "Do you know anything of your history... of our shared history? The birth of our orders are intertwined... one giving rise to the other and leading to its fall, back and forth and more than once. We are bound together, all of us... through our heritage and through the Force." She nodded towards the bacta patch covering his side. "Were you ever taught to heal your own wounds through the force?"

For a Sith in her time, survival was of primary importance and any acolyte who wanted to rise in the ranks of the empire made it a point to learn how to heal the most grievous injuries. Kylo Ren was seemingly unaware how to do this, a fact that said more about his instructor than anything else. Either the young man was being set up for failure and ultimately death....or the Sith of this age were far removed from what they had once been.

Whatever the case, it was clear that he had both great potential and a great deal to learn... but whether he could control himself long enough or even desired to try, was another matter.

He listened surprisingly calmly as Miro spoke about her weapons.

The creation of his blade was a very dangerous labor of passion. The cracked crystal inside, more likely than not, belonged to Darth Vader himself before it was damaged. He did whatever was necessary to make that saber actually work - rewiring the power supply, adding vents for the extra energy. It could have exploded and taken him with it. It could still do that.

"History? What history." He spat softly. "The Jedi are extinct, save one. And thanks to me, the next generation is all but extinct too."

There was pride in his voice, but also a twinge of shame, should Miro listen hard enough. He followed her gaze to the wound on his side. His confused expression suggested that, no, he didn't know one could heal through the force. But he at least considered the possibility before brushing it aside. The Supreme Leader was wise. If healing damage were anywhere near as important as inflicting it, It would have come up. He would have been taught to heal rather letting his injuries fuel him and push through.

"The pain will only make me stronger."

The news of the Jedi was something of a shock to the girl, and she felt her breath go out of her all at once, an honest sadness clenching her stomach and pausing whatever meal remained. So few remained who would steward the Ashla, so few to stand against the darkness that regularly swept through the galaxy... The old duty flared, and the girl inwardly vowed to find herself a handful of apprentices; she'd been the last of her kind in her own time, but however flawed the Jedi might have been, they at least served a much needed purpose in the galaxy.

When she next spoke, her voice was quiet and her tone softened by loss. "Pain, like power, can grow so profound that you become lost in its shadow. And because of that, pain will never make someone into a master. You can learn to grow beyond the limits of your pain; you can become a force so centered, so in control of the moment within and without that no amount of pain could ever bring you a focus greater than that you had already found. The danger of relying on pain, the lure of the trap, is in its other similarity to power... both are fleeting. If I take your pain from you, I take your power. If I heal your wounds and ease your suffering, if you find peace and lay all your demons to rest... you have no power. And power that can be taken from you is no power at all. This is the weakness inherent in the dark side's teachings."

The girl sat staring into the deck plating for a moment, speaking almost to herself, "When one walks the path of destruction and has nothing left to destroy, the rage nothing left to consume, the only victim left becomes the self. Hungry... broken... empty. A life no longer worth fighting to hold onto, loses its meaning..."

Miro sighed, rising to her feet and gathering what remained of her food, putting the leftovers away and placing her dishes aside. Shaking her head, she stepped towards the spot where she'd been meditating earlier, the force crystals she'd used still laying in a rough semi-circle. She held out a hand and used a small telekinetic pull to pluck them from ground, putting them in the pouch at her side along with the others. "As for our traditions, you and I... you were taught the way of the dark side... the teachings of the Sith, presumably. Who in turn, took their teachings from the Jedi Order that they diverged from so long ago. Jedi who, in turn, had once been Je'daii. We share a common ancestry, you and I. All of us. Our pasts, those of our orders, are all a part of one another. A rich history, for good or ill. A history worth learning."

Her words struck a chord, and he felt them deep within. It wasn't like the call of the light - that he knew all too well. This seemed to bubble up from a hidden place in Ren's heart that he didn't even know existed, perhaps because no light had ever escaped from there before. It was a black hole, expansive and inescapable. It was swallowing him. Miro was speaking a great truth.

But Kylo Ren was not so eager to listen to this truth. At least, not yet. He punched his injured side again, just to pull himself back out of the void. When she stood, so did he, shaking with barely-contained rage.

"There is always something to destroy! My father is dead, but Skywalker still lives. I will find him and the girl, kill them both and even the Supreme Leader will be in awe of what I have accomplished!"

The anger was there. The pain was there. But a lot of his words rang hollow. He was convincing himself more than he was convincing her. He wouldn't admit it, but he likely knew it.

"No one will take my destiny from me! Especially not the likes of you!"

Miro had no idea what either of the people Ren mentioned might have done to earn his hate, but in the end, she supposed it didn't matter. Followers of the darkside were not renowned for their solid sense of perspective.

A frown settled on her lips when he hit himself, grasping at the pain to dampen his reason, but she did not stop him; he would probably not manage to kill himself in her presence, and she felt his need to hold on to what he knew. Pain, like anger, had become his companion.

"You're right, I have no desire to take anything from you. I've shared this spot, this food, this time, and I will help you find who you seek. I will not help you kill them, but I will not stand in your way. Go where you will; do what you must. And, when you are finished, when all your enemies are slain and all your rage is spent...when you carry whatever pride or guilt will follow in your wake, I will still be here. Then, if you want it, I will still help you."

The calm melody of her voice haunted him as much as the reality of her words. But he would not let himself be drawn in. He would not be weakened like the light, giving in as his grandfather did in his last moments. He would have power. He would have control. He would have everything Snoke promised him and more, simply because he willed it.

"When you dock for supplies, you're letting me go." Again, he demanded what she would freely give, but it didn't matter. "I will find my own transport back to the First Order and you will consider yourself lucky that I let you live."

[are you opposed to a time skip? Kylo Ren is certainly not in a place to accept her instruction now, but I could see it happening later. I'm enjoying our thread and would like it to continue! Perhaps she finds him at various other points before he finally accepts what she's been telling him all along?]

{Not opposed to a time skip at all. I figure she'll probably go through a ship, get something bigger, and find some students. How far forward were you thinking, and did you have any setups in mind? I can always come up with something if you have no ideas, but brainstorming is a good thing :)

I, too, am enjoying this thread mightily.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Florence Nightingale Effect Meme

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still me. Switching from my voicetesting account to an actual Kylo Ren journal.

Cool

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tl;dr

no such thing. I kind of like where this is going. :)

Me too :) I like their interaction

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OOC