✦ •||• Fateful Meetings

[thenameofscreen]

(ooc: Just a note, I forgot to ask if you had a style preference, but I can match either action spam or prose! My default is action-prose, just because of the time I've spent on DW, but I also do a lot of prose on the side, so let me know which you like better. :) )

[ Most of her life had been spent living under Galra rule. They'd invaded her home world when she was still just a child, bringing the planet under heel through force and technology. Her parents had been among the first to fall, though not before sending her brother away for his protection. Her elder sister had inherited the throne after their deaths, and life as Tamaran once knew it came to an end in short order.

Exotic, deadly, tropical jungle was soon tamed and colonized, Galra structures dotting the landscape of the once savagely beautiful planet. The royal palace that had been her home no longer recognizable with the additions of Galra tech, spires rising from parts of the structure, and flags of the empire being flown where once there was no such heraldry.

The worst blow came, however, shortly after Koriand'r came of age. For the sake of their people, Komand'r had insisted, she had no choice. She had been presented with the ultimatum, her sister or her people. Koriand'r had fallen for the deception easily, and was taken into the custody of the Galra in short order.

Since her enslavement to the Galra she'd been forced to do many things. It largely consisted of fighting on their behalf, but never as an equal or even a soldier. She was treated as a weapon, to be deployed as they saw fit and stored away when not in use. She was never granted the freedom of roaming the ship on which she spent her days when out of combat, nor was she granted any level of respect for her service or skill. Once, the former princess thought that to be the greatest insult she was asked to endure, but she'd never protested such treatment, believing her cooperation to be essential to the survival of her people. She might have continued that life until her dying day, had the Galra not finally asked her to cross a line that she refused to cross.

Planet Atania was a harrowing experience, start to finish, but what stood out as the worst part of the whole ordeal was when the soldiers and sentries had turned their attention on the villagers. Their military forces had already been defeated, and the Galra had set about setting up base as they always did. When villagers were caught stealing supplies, however... she'd been ordered to track down the culprits and deal with them- under strict supervision, as always. Upon finding the thieves she'd been horrified to learn they were mere children, and yet the commanding officer accompanying her still demanded "justice", that they make an example of them for stealing from the empire. "Stealing", he'd said, as though the food they'd stolen hadn't been rightfully theirs to begin with.

There was no choice to be made. Koriand'r had done what she'd done, and the only regret that she had was knowing there was little that she could do to protect the village. In one last ditch effort to shield them she'd returned to the Galra base camp and wrought as much destruction and havoc as she could, to give them somewhere else to focus their anger, and a grand show she'd made of it, too, lest they think it had been anyone else's idea. Afterwards she'd fled in the opposite direction with the hope that they'd give chase, and they did not disappoint. Battered, bruised, and wounded, she'd been forced to take shelter on one of the planet's many moons knowing that it was just a matter of time before they tracked her down.

With Galra ship activity on the defensive anyone with a brain would keep their distance and give the area a wide berth. Neither help nor helpful distraction would not be coming, she's sure, wittingly or not. ]

Comments

this intro got long!

[exiletoempire]

[Exile.

Is it a mercy? His father could easily have killed him, he knows. He had been quite capable of putting an end to Lotor. But as much as Lotor does not want to die, in some ways, this is worse. An entire planet, an entire civilization—which had been entrusted to him, which had been filled with people he had introduced himself to, conversed with, worked in collaboration with—had all been destroyed, as he had watched. They were all gone. And for what purpose? None at all. It hadn't even been for gain. He had had the figures, the hard evidence, to prove that his way was better, in every quantifiable category.

How is he supposed to feel about that? He knows how he does feel. He is shaken. He can't afford to be shaken. There is no time for such an emotional luxury.

Although his father hadn't killed him, he might yet change his mind. Lotor might also be killed by a Galra who has a grudge against him, or some other person who has a grudge against his father. Really, the possibilities for murder are endless. And isn't that the Galra way, after all?

The Galra way is—unpalatable to him at the moment. Unsupportable. Unbearable.

Lotor doesn't like feeling at a loss. He likes to have work to dedicate himself to. A plan. He had hoped that his father would see things his way, because he had been right, but now, his plans have been burned to ash along with the people he had tried to lead into the empire, to create a new way of life. He has nothing. He needs something.

The way out of the empire is a long one, since the empire's influence is so vast. He has not yet reached its shifting borders. He still has far to go. So as he travels in the vessel he was allowed for the purposes of departing, keeping well away from warships, he monitors transmissions. He keeps waiting for the general imperial announcement of his exile and disgrace, but so far, it hasn't come. The order was a final, royal decree, but his father has not yet gone out of his way to inform the rest of the empire. Curious. But then, in so many ways, Lotor does not understand his father. He cannot fathom how he he thinks. Perhaps he has decided the shame of his son will reflect poorly on him. Galra do not admit to weakness.

Instead of a proclamation of his father's disapproval, Lotor picks up a flurry of more localized com chatter. The quickness and urgency of the transmissions, as well as the number of them, catch his attention at once. There's not much that can inspire that kind of reaction from the empire. Lotor listens avidly. They are speaking of a weapon, which increases his interest. More intriguingly, it is referred to as a weapon that escaped. Machines do not run off and escape their makers, unless they are very poorly programmed, so he imagines this is a weapon of a more organic kind.

But what? He knows very well of the kinds of weapons his people use. Some are people themselves, but others would be more correctly described as monsters. He tries to glean the truth of the situation, but there are few details to be found by just monitoring. He has to go in.

He pilots his craft toward the moon that's the source of the distress, and he is met with immediate resistance, a few craft swooping in to demand his identification and motivations. He does as requested, and because his father has delayed in publicly shaming him, he receives a stammering reply telling him Prince Lotor, we didn't realize— What are your order?. Is it that easy? It isn't that easy. He has to continue this charade and order these foolish soldiers, all the while realizing that at any moment, his father's announcement may come.

The announcement doesn't come. The soldiers transmit their information to him, and he scans the data concerning this weapon quickly. He can't afford to deliberate. If he delays, they'll realize his behavior is strange. They'll ask themselves while he's in this quadrant. If they contact headquarters—

He makes his choice. He flies his craft down to the moon, and lands it. The atmosphere is thin, but he disembarks. Is he being irrational? Possibly, he is.]