| Changes By Lilith Demodae They’re dead! They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead, they’redead they’redeadtheyredeadtheyredead . . . Samla’s mind gibbered frantically, her thoughts unable to turn from their current course. Only the fact that they tall young woman of nineteen that she had become bore no resemblance to the undersized child she had been had confused the men long enough for her to bolt away before they had opened fire on her. Which was just as well. It had taken nearly all of that startled moment for her brain to process the image of two still bodies on the cold duracrete floor of the docking bay, the ugly beings standing over them, and the import of both on her very next actions. Samla had run. It had been a panicked, unreasoning flight through confusing corridors that she should have recognized instantly from long familiarity. And she wasn’t in much better shape nearly an hour later as she huddled behind a stack of empty cargo crates and hugged her knees into her chest. Moms and Pops are dead! They’re dead. They’re . . . *And would they be so very proud of you now?* a small voice sneered win the back of her mind. *Crying like a helpless child and hiding in a corner wishing the universe would just go away and leave you alone?* The voice wasn’t anything new for Samla. Moms had once told her that all Corellians heard the voice. It was what kept them strong, kept them alive, kept them striving despite the odds. Now it broke her senseless hysteria and calmed her thoughts, bringing them into a more productive line of reasoning. Moms and Pops were dead. Samla knew that she couldn’t do anything about that, but she could avenge them. But revenge was dependent upon survival, and survival was dependent on being found by who ever those creeps were. That meant either hiding, or changing. The Galactic Strider was a horribly obvious place for them to find her, so the only Tragoni left immediately decided that she would have to sell it. The cargo and the droid would have to go, too. That would give her the freedom to move about and the money to do it with. *And what about you?* Lylah Tragoni had managed to convince her tomboy daughter to discard her ragged watch cap and let her hair grow out. For the last three years Samla had been wearing dresses and skirts and the like to please the mother she loved. A recent growth spurt had pushed her wardrobe to the limits, all the hem lines now hit her just below the knees, and both mother and daughter had decided that an overhaul was necessary. But, now Samla had to make it a more drastic overhaul than either of them had ever envisioned. Nidaine and Lylah Tragoni are dead. For her own safety, Samla must die too. Rubbing the last of the frightened tears from her eyes and cheeks, Samla rose from her hiding spot. She could sell off all the family goods along with the cargo. Then, she would go shopping. It was time for a new look. ~~~~~~~ The ‘fresher in the cramped hostel room smelled strongly of bleach with an underlying scent of new clothing, but the occupant ignored it, concentrating on getting her skin tight leather pants on straight. Out in the bedroom a pair of calf high boots leaned drunkenly against a chair leg and a black utility vest was draped over the edge of the sleep couch, weighted down my a belt and holster for a blaster. Muddy grey-green eyes stared into the mirror and wondered at what they beheld. The thick mane of hair no longer glinted back with the color of flame, but that of the sun. It wasn’t held back with clips or braids, but hung around her face in a white cloud. Her face had thinned out, the bones more prominent from lack of food. The clothing was tight, but allowed movement, a stark contrast to the modest, concealing clothing she used to prefer. Everything about this person, even the hardened glint in those eyes was different. A stranger stared at her out of the mirror, a stranger who would survive. |
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