The Godless Matron is home to many, resembling a micro-society for those who wish to live outside the typical rule of the galaxy. The Lucrehulk-class battleship’s massive hangers have been converted into dwellings as a result. Chute Town is the most notable of these makeshift towns. Many shops and storefronts have been constructed to take advantage of the higher volume of foot traffic. In addition, many ships and crews arrive into Chute Town to sell their “well-earned” commodities, weapons, or artifacts. It is commonplace to find the best and the worst gear the galaxy has to offer — it’s only a matter of how big your pocketbook is. The streets are patrolled regularly by the crew of the Matron itself, leaving would-be miscreants to be more wary, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of a pirate’s sense of justice.
It is built mostly out of spare durasteel panels from derelict ships, dismantled machinery, or any other source or material the pirates could scavenge. It spans the length of the massive portside hangar of the Matron, reaching from its heavily protected reactor — hidden behind triple-reinforced blast doors and a guard retinue — all the way to the hangar entrance where the many incoming ships unload their cargo. It is more than a mile long, over five hundred feet wide and up to three stories tall, covering most of the floor. Chute Town’s streets are a miniature maze, weaving in between buildings on several levels. Verticality is key for the masses of shops and bars to operate without interfering with one another. The main street is nicknamed Murder Alley, mostly because all the weapon shops are prominently opened there.
“Right, here you go, Mr. Sul. You should get a lot more firepower out of this puppy, now.”
The Twi'lek man placed Teon’s Relby V-10 on the table with a loud clank. He took the weapon and secured it to his armor’s harness.
“Thank you, Gasadd,” he answered while presenting his credit chip. Once he charged it and gave the card back, Teon nodded in thanks before turning to leave. “I’ll be seeing you.”
With his business taken care of, Teon found himself with a lot of free time for the rest of the day. There weren’t any missions he was needed for, either for Arcona or for the Royal Guard. So, he decided now would be a good time to try some more of Chute Town’s delicious food. The migration of people from all across the Galaxy had come to the Godless Matron had produced a unique blend of cuisines within the starship-turned combine. And Teon loved food. Making his way down the busy path, he followed the smells of savory food.
<@213338582511779840>
The pungent mix of life, food, and a variety of industrial liquids had burned Shamiir’s nose the first time they found themselves on a sketchy enough gig to end up on The Godless Matron. It wasn’t like the ship offered the only grimy trade hub in the galaxy, but its unique blend of anarchy and forced proximity concentrated it in a way few other places could. In better maintained crap holes, the drunks at least tended to wander off somewhere less crowded to find a corner to piss in, and there was never a chance someone’s welding fumes were gonna vent into your face mid-meal.
They stood next to a noodle vendor, poking through a handful of credits too pitiful to even justify being mugged over. The Echani rarely found themselves in places like this unless they needed the money. Non-stop routes tended to pay better because most people found them unpleasant, but not every port had things worth shipping long distance point to point, and not every job turned a profit.
Occasionally, those long distance runs also ended in the middle of nowhere. A shipment of raw materials or industrial equipment to a world that moved product out at a scale that dwarfed the informal ventures Shamiir was actually qualified for. Some overpriced delivery to a resort world with no exports and a port authority whose attitude suggested they’d sooner shoot you than allow you out of your hanger.
At least in the latter case, the cheap bastards that ran most junky scows didn’t have the leverage necessary to demand fare for the return trip.
And so, Shamiir was here again, in the middle of an insufferably long downtime on a gratingly slow port hopping excursion back towards the galactic core. They patted down pockets under their poncho to no avail. The last gig’s advanced payment had almost entirely gone to cover debts. Everything they had left was just enough for a bowl of mediocre soup and overcooked noodles - judging by the excessive, and obvious, patch jobs on the droid behind the counter.
A glance around revealed no alternatives they could afford, and Shamiir resigned with a sigh. It was probably still a better use of credits than whatever piss scented accommodations they could buy.
“You’d think doing stuff no one wants to do would at least pay enough to not eat rations all the time.” They muttered to themselves, slapping the credits down as they took one of several empty stools.
“They’ll pay you as little as they can get away with paying you,” echoed a voice somewhere from Shamiir’s left. Standing there was a large Gand dressed in a high collared black trench coat over a dark brown armorweave vest. The mechanical hiss of his respirator punctuated the sound of a voice reminiscent of stones grinding against one another. A long, vertical scar ran down his right eye, off center enough that it likely didn’t compromise the figure’s vision.
He leaned forward with his hands in his coat pockets, narrowing his eyes while sizing them up. “If you’re looking to earn some real credits, I’ve got work for you. If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, of course.”
Everything about the man screamed that he was bad company, but his offer seemed genuine enough.
Shamiir poked at the noodles, fishing one out and wrestling its remarkably flavorless form into their mouth before glancing over at the Gand. It wasn’t particularly common that people picked them out of a crowd to approach, but they’d also encountered a few people who interpreted their Echani features as worth a pass.
“Depends on what you mean by dirty.” They said, fishing another noodle out. “And whether the pay matches the meaning.”
Shamiir knew better than to take these types at face value, having been roped into enough garbage freight gigs from a cantina bar stool. Dirty work could mean ‘do the thing that’ll get the heat’, it could also mean ‘you’re the insurance for my bad plan’, or any other variety of nonsense.
More money also didn’t necessarily mean better pay, something these types were fond of ignoring. A couple thousand credits might top a garbage scow gig that paid a week’s worth of living expenses, but if it came with an extended stay room in a backwater jail it might as well be an IOU.
That said, Gand had a bit of a reputation, much like the one Shamiir found themselves dealing with. Excellent trackers and engineers, but notoriously insular as a monolith. In a world of port hopping it wasn’t uncommon to hear stories about all varieties of places, but this served as Shamiir’s first confirmation that at least some of at least one almost certainly exaggerated cantina tale was true.
“Lucky for you, a spot in my crew has just opened up,” replied the man. His leathery skin pulled at the corners of his beady, compound eyes in a way that suggested that he was smiling beneath his mask. “Could use another body to help keep these schuttas down here in line. Collect protection money, move valuables here and there. You know, simple druk like that.”
The Gand lifted its hand and dropped it on Shamiir’s upper back, near their neck. He was sizing them up.
“You interested?”
Two more figures, a slender human female carrying a blaster pistol like it was a toy, and a twi'lek male with an oversized cigaro in his mouth, stepped forward and took their places on either side of Shamiir and the Gand. They watched the former carefully.
It would seem the invitation was more suggestion than request. Shamiir glanced at the two new arrivals and did their best not to openly bristle at the hand on their back. The two thugs the Echani reckoned they could handle, if it was just them. The Gand was less of a caricature and more of a problem, though. Even if the other two went down like a pair of jobbers it would probably still create at least enough cover for him to get off an easy blaster bolt.
“Fine.” They said, pushing the bowl back towards the droid. It wasn’t like they were missing out on much, but the thug had better live up to his end of the bargain with the last non-ration meal Shamiir could afford being scooped up by the stand’s mechanical attendant. And especially when he was asking they twist arms for their pay.
The Echani wasn’t above doing what they needed to do to get by, in this case not get jumped, but a difference of outlook from the galaxy’s more puritanical ideologues didn’t mean they liked squeezing people for scumbags. Sometimes you only had enough money for crap noodles and your bed was a hole in the wall of a ship being actively unloaded, though. Today, apparently, called for the path of least resistance to rectifying both those problems. At the very least they were unlikely to get into more trouble than they could get out of.
A distorted cackle of a laugh echoed out from behind the Gand’s mask. “Good, good. Smart choice, kid. Working with Sar Vithu, you won’t have to worry about eating this slop anymore,” he said while gesturing toward the bowl of noodles they were eating.
He turned and gestured for Shamiir to follow. “Time for your first collection run.”
–
Teon was seated at a wooden table just large enough to accommodate one person when four figures entered the shop. It was a small building, such that it felt noticeably more cramped when the group entered. But he ignored his discomfort; they had as much a right to be there as he did. Besides, he was almost finished, anyway.
As he continued to eat his plate of whirlbat wings, the largest of the group–whom he recognized as a Gand despite having never seen the species with normal sight–stepped toward the counter to address the shop owner.
“Time for your tithe, Cetun.”
Teon felt fear creep into his mind, but it wasn’t his own. It was the old man’s who’d so enthusiastically served him his food. Any trace of that jovial nature had vanished in the wake of … whoever this was.
“Please, I need a little more time,” the man protested, his tone pleading. “Business has been slow recently.”
Sar made a dissatisfied grumble while shaking his head. “No excuses,” he lifted a hand in gesture to Shamiir and his lackeys, “Show our friend here what happens to schuttas who fail to keep their end of the bargain.
The two thugs who accompanied Sar Vithu spread out throughout the shop and started to smash anything they could get their hands on: chairs, tables, decorative ornaments. It didn’t matter what, so long as they did damage.
"No! Please!”
Sar grabbed the man by his collar and produced a blade. That’s when Teon rose to his feet.
Shamiir’s hand slipped to a small dagger inside their poncho as the Gand began shaking down the shop keeper, silver eyes bouncing around the shop with more care for surroundings than the thugs. This had gone south faster than they’d anticipated.
The dagger twirled around their fingers under the cover, effortlessly settling into a reverse grip as the Echani’s expression visibly soured. They’d figured the thugs would be shaking down other lowlifes in a place like this, not barreling headfirst into attempting to extract a pittance from someone who clearly didn’t have anything to get a cut of.
The only people who shook down a place like this did it because it was easy, not lucrative. It’d be a miracle if they came out of this place with enough money to cover Shamiir’s crap lunch. They didn’t even have a plan, or they’d have accounted for the patron in the corner.
A snort of derision escaped their lips as the Gand got physical. Embarrassing. Even without the drumbeat of Echani culture reverberating through their head Shamiir’s blood boiled. Wasting their time, their money, their skill. Repaying them with pocket change.
Piercing eyes darted to the patron as he stood, the smallest of the bunch positioning themselves between him and the Gand. However, Shamiir reacted little other than to look the Miraluka up and down, before casually stepping further into the shop towards the human woman as if inviting Teon to take on infuriating insectoid.
If Sar wanted someone to watch his back, he should’ve asked for it. If he wanted Shamiir to watch his back, he should have made sure he was worth the effort.
Teon hated bullies. Witnessing these thugs destroying the shop and manhandling its owner pulled the Miralukan soldier right back to the halls of the Imperial Remnant facility of his youth, to that bastard Major Riland. Not only was the man responsible for turning him and several other children into weapons, but he made sure to make every day of their lives as torturous as he could in the process. It made his blood boil.
But he kept his cool. Keeping a level head was important, especially in dangerous situations like these. The last thing he wanted was for someone to get hurt because of his own anger-fueled mistakes.
The human woman trained her blaster on Teon when he stood, but he didn’t react to the deadly weapon being pointed at him.
“SIt down, man,” the woman demanded, “Don’t make me karkin’ shoot you.”
If she intended to shoot him, she would have done so already. Teon didn’t even have to look at her while focusing the bulk of his attention on their Gand leader, who erupted in a derisive chuckle while looking at him.
“We got ourselves a hero,” he said while tossing Cetun aside and brandishing his dagger in Teon’s direction. Its faint hum was a clear enough sign that it was a vibroblade. “Let’s dance.”
The Gand lunched forward with his vibrodagger faster than he expected a common thug to move, whipping the oscillating blade through the air to cut something–anything–on him. Teon reached to produce his shield but wasn’t fast enough on the draw. Luckily for him, the painted beskar chestplate of his arm absorbed the blow without issue, producing a high-pitched chime when the two pieces of metal collided.
Meanwhile, the woman holding the blaster looked like she was about to shoot …
Shamiir’s eyes peered back over their shoulder, metallic gaze watching the real thing clash. Interesting. Most people patronizing shops in ports like this sported the type of garbage a vibroblade would shred like cloth.
Likely Sar’s calculus on this. A gun to be seen, a blade for the work his thugs couldn’t be counted on for. The Gand remained impulsive and undisciplined, lucky that this stranger didn’t blow him away with a hold out before he took two steps.
Speaking of, silver eyes shifted back to the human woman with the blaster. She’d handled the weapon as if it were a plaything earlier, and she hesitated here, tunnel visioned and unaware. Unsure of the action she’d take when she pointed the weapon at the Miraluka to begin with. An amateur’s amateur, dressing up and putting on an act.
The knife danced from one hand to the next, as Shamiir stepped, rotated, and drove a fist square into the woman’s jaw with an extraordinary amount of force for someone so small.
The blaster flailed off target as the would-be gunman flopped face first into the opposing wall and then further down into a heap on the floor. The Echani casually kicked the weapon out of arms reach before turning to the remaining thug.
“Might as well come get what you’re about to pay for.” They said, settling into a more ready posture as they shifted the knife back to their strong hand under cover of the poncho. With any luck this lug didn’t bring anything other than the reek stick he’d been sucking on this whole time.
“`The Twi'lek man scoffed. "You land one lucky shot, and you think you’re hot druk? Let’s see if you’re so confident when open you up.”
Without saying another word, he produced a knife and lunged forward with the knife trained at Shamiir’s midsection. Based on the angle and the force of the strike, the thug was serious about cutting him open.“`
–
Meanwhile, Teon traded blows with the Gand leader of the little gang. Although he didn’t acknowledge them in the midst of his own fight, he took note of the other patron who floored the pistol-wielding thug with a single punch and who was now engaged with the Twi'lek.
Gloved hand gripping his shield’s handle tightly, Teon rammed its hardened edge toward the Gand’s face; breaking his mask would bring this fight to a swift, efficient end. But the bastard ducked at the last minute before retaliating out with another slash with his vibroknife.
The unmistakable crack-hiss of a lightsaber filled the room when he activated his light shield, causing the empty spaces within its durasteel frame to fill with the crackling unstable plasma from an embedded kyber crystal. Teon effortlessly batted the offending blade aside with his shield before returning to a defensive posture.
The blade pushed the free-flowing material of Shamiir’s poncho aside as the Twi'lek lunged, cutting nothing as they side stepped. The Echani’s free hand came down on the man’s arm, giving them leverage for rotation and keeping him off balance as their own dagger darted out from under the garment. The short double sided blade drove down into the front of his shoulder to the joint below.
The weapon retracted almost as soon as it entered, a simple motion that would leave him unable to hold the arm up. Shamiir continued the spinning motion for another full rotation as they put some space between themselves and their opponent. There was no quip this time. If the Twi'lek wanted to keep talking he could, they’d get nothing back this time. If he felt like he’d paid enough of a price, he was free to rush the door instead.
<@1056685516441006091>
“`Shamiir’s knife plunged into the flesh of the Twi'lek’s shoulder, lacerating precious muscle and nerve fibers. His arm drooped at his side and although he mainted his grip on his knife, he didn’t attack again. Shooting his free hand up to his injured shoulder to slow the bleeding, he clenched his teeth while his eyes shot back and forth between Shamiir and the two men fighting a few feet from them.
After seeing how that fight was going for his boss, the Twi'lek stepped toward the door while keeping his eyes on the Echani. Once he had stepped far enough away and had an opening, he bolted.”`
–
In the midst of their scuffle, Teon produced an electrobaton from a hidden compartment on his M.A.R.S armor and, after slipping his head just outside another slash meant to cut his face, jammed it into Sar Vithu’s neck. It crackled loudly as electricity surged from its tip, and the Gand went stiff before hitting the ground with a muffled thud.
Once he was sure the threat had been eliminated, Teon put his weapons away. He tucked the baton back into its shadowsheath, causing it to seemingly disappear into his armor itself. The shield’s unstable blue plasma dissipated with a hiss before the durasteel frame collapsed into a more compact form, which he then hung on his utility belt.
Turning just slightly to face Shamiir, Teon nodded in his general direction. “Didn’t expect you to get involved, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”
The shop owner, Cetun, emerged from behind the counter with tentative steps. “Look what they’ve done to my shop … I don’t have anything else,” he bemoaned, reaching out to pick up what remained of an ornament the thugs had smashed.
Teon clicked his teeth and reached down to grab the Gand by his shirt, yanking him up until his face was just a few inches away from his. “Don’t worry, sir,” he announced to Cetun, “This one is going to cover the cost of repairs. I’ll make sure of that.”
Shamiir scoffed as the Twi'lek fled. Hadn’t even incapacitated him and he was running for the hills. Predictable, although the Echani wasn’t one to turn down an easier time. If the coward wanted to run and spare them the chance of a lucky hit breaking a nose or spraining a joint, they’d do nothing to stop it. Besides, the fight was signaled by the Gand’s introduction to the floor, so there wasn’t much left to do here.
“Wasn’t my choice to be here.” Shamiir said, squatting down next to the woman they’d knocked out to start the brawl and fishing through her pockets. “Plus, they ruined my tasteless noodles.”
“Kriffin’ scow slug.” The Echani muttered to no one as their search turned up nothing of value, and they settled for wiping the Twi'lek’s blood off their knife using the human’s jacket. The blade disappeared back under the poncho to wherever it came from, and a hand slipped its way into the woman’s collar.
Despite their small stature, Shamiir lifted the larger woman enough to drag relatively easily - their free hand snatching up the blaster. They laid the weapon on the counter in front of the distraught owner.
“If it’s not fake…” they said, glancing back at the rest of the now disheveled establishment, “well, someone will probably buy it. Or you could just shoot them next time.”
It took a little logistical maneuvering but Shamiir wrestled the now half conscious woman’s dead weight out the door into a heap. With any luck she’d take her coward friend’s cue and flee.
Teon followed Shamiir’s lead, raiding the Gand’s pockets. Normally, he wasn’t the type to steal because he considered it dishonorable; however, in this case, he justified it as repurposing money that would have otherwise been taken from the shop owner due to extensive damage to his business.
After handing Cetun the credit chip, Teon moved to drag Sar Vithu out into the busy breezeway just outside the noodle shop.
“You came in with them. Were they holding you hostage?” he asked.
“No. I just didn’t like the idea of three on one with that Gand in the mix.” They said, watching the woman come to her senses and slowly scramble away into the depths of the Godless Matron. “Probably figured they’d twist my arm and get some easy muscle on account of me being broke.”
The truth was Shamiir didn’t know why they singled them out. Maybe they didn’t actually know who the Echani were and why they did what they did beyond the fighting. Maybe they were just trying to leverage an obvious advantage to their benefit. Wasn’t like a protection racket took effort, maybe they figured they could do even less. Or maybe it was because Shamiir was small, and therefore theoretically vulnerable.
Silver eyes drifted toward Teon. “What about you? Just sit in the corner of shops waiting to play hero?”
Of course not, he was too kitted out for that. Still, why stick your nose in to stop a petty shakedown?
Although Teon was sure he could have handled himself had the Echani chosen not to get involved, he knew better than to look a gift fathier in the mouth “Well, I appreciate you getting involved,” he replied, while standing upright. “If more people chose to stand up for others when di'kute like them.”
His words weren’t short on scorn for the thugs who’d chosen the wrong shop to vandalize. By now, a few people had stopped to regard them both while they spoke, though none did for too long. Most people in the Godless Matron had learned to mind their own business, especially if the situation involved violence. They probably saw situations exactly like this several times a day. Maybe more, given how massive the enclave was.
“I was deciding what I wanted to eat,” he noted, his voice a steady note amidst the discordant voices of countless passersby. “But I’m not going to just sit there while a couple of low-lives try to victimize an innocent man.”
“You in need of work that doesn’t involve shaking down people who just want to make ends meet?”
Shamiir shrugged.
“No offense, but this was more about helping myself. Wasn’t playing hero, least not today.” They said, though not in a dismissive tone. Shamiir was willing to help out those in need, but they also weren’t going to take credit for that here.
They’d acted selfishly, and they were fine with that. If stopping themselves from getting shivved in the back and left for dead in some garbage pile on this ship helped someone else, cool. Would they have attempted what Teon did, though? Not in a million years.
The Miraluka’s question did raise one of its own, however. Shamiir produced a small datapad from under their poncho, swiping at it momentarily before frowning and tucking it away again. The goons had wasted enough time that getting back to the freighter would probably be tight - and no one was waiting around for hired help that wandered off at a smuggler’s port.
“Guess I am.”
“Well, regardless, you handled yourself well,” Teon replied, stepping over to extend his hand to shake. “Always looking for more people who are aren’t afraid of bruising their knuckles a bit. Especially when they’re Force sensitive.”
How the blind man knew that when Shamiir had done nothing nor said anything to allude to their connection to Force was likely a question worthy of note. The best explanation that he was Force sensitive himself, which would certainly explain the unusual lightsaber-adjacent shield he’d used.
Teon waved a hand in gesture for him to follow before stepping into the shifting crowd of people. As they walked, he started to ask them a few questions. “How much do you know about the power structure of the Godless Matron? This your first time here?”
Shamiir took the hand with a look of uncertainty, clearly not quite sure what they should make of this stranger extending any form of pleasantry towards them - or how he purported to know the things he said he knew.
“Not sure I know what this force I’m supposedly sensitive to is.” The Echani said as they acquiesced to Teon’s invitation to follow, doing their best to weave through the crowds after him.
“About as much as I know of any port’s.” Shamiir said, dodging a Rodian who looked annoyed he had to slow down. “Mostly what area’s goons are least likely to stab first, and rob second. Never really stuck around any place long. Never stuck around here at all.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Shamiir had their preferred places to take a break from scow runs when they’d amassed enough to live off for a little bit - mostly mid sized ports where the authorities were just equipped enough to stop the thugs from running the show, but not big enough they could afford to mess with everyone.
Teon resisted the urge to stop in his tracks upon hearing Shamiir’s reply. They had no idea what the Force was? Sure, he knew there were probably tons of people out in the galaxy who’d never heard of the Force, who’d never felt it flowing through them. But he figured in their travels, Shamiir would have heard something about it or the people who wielded it—especially while in Brotherhood territory.
But their subsequent comments cleared it up. They never stayed in one place long, so they likely didn’t stay long enough to have a real opportunity to learn about it.
A chuckle escaped his lips. What he wouldn’t give to relive the moment when he felt the Force within him while truly understanding what it was. “There’s a lot more to this galaxy than you realize,” he announced as they approached his transport shuttle. It was a small thing, something he’d borrowed from his House’s vast selection of starships.
Placing a hand on the panel on the ship’s weathered exterior, he traced along its surface with his fingers until he found the button for the turbolift.
“Have you ever done something that seemed … unusual? Something that you might’ve chalked up to dumb luck at the time?” he asked while waiting for the lift to fully descend. “Ever get a weird feeling before something bad or dangerous came your way? Almost like a whisper at the edge of your mind?”
Shamiir eyed the Miraluka suspiciously when he laughed, although they held their tongue considering work was on the line here. How much of the galaxy did someone who owned their own starship actually know? Many didn’t regard it as out of reach, but for Shamiir it might as well have been on the other side of the void beyond the Outer Rim.
“Lots of people do lots of things I consider unusual.” They replied evasively as the turbo lift seemed to revel in taunting them with the small eternity of its descent.
“Like strongarm recruiting an Echani from a crappy noodle stand. Or arm wrestling Wookie.”
There was a hint of familiarity in Teon’s words, but then the Echani had their reputation for a reason. A people and culture molded by combat and renowned for their prowess. Shamiir knew little of it beyond the trade lanes’ tall tales, which they suspected were mostly false, and the faintest whisp of a childhood memory.
Who was to say what they did was this “force”? Was hiding well, almost suspiciously well, really a sign of that? Or hitting harder than some might expect? Feeling their way through a fight? Jumping further? Moving faster? Or was Shamiir just physically talented?
“What makes my unusual your ‘force’?” They did little to hide their skepticism at the prospect. As far as they were concerned it mattered little. If they’d always had it, then they’d already used it how they’d continue to use it. If it was fiction, at least Teon wasn’t encouraging their employment with a blaster barrel.
Teon tilted his head at their response. That wasn’t an answer, not to the most important parts of his questions. “I suspect you know that I’m not talking about arm wrestling wookies,” he answered.
After stepping onto the turbolift’s metal platform, which produced a hollow rattle when the hardened soles of his shoes impacted it with all his weight and the weight of his beskar'gam. Teon was by no means a teacher of how to use the Force. How could he be when relying upon it was as natural to his species as breathing? As natural to a Nautolan as swimming the vast oceans of Glee Anselm? Still, he had to try something if he was going to convince Shamiir of the potential within them that he perceived as clearly as the sound of their voice.
“Humor me for a moment,” he began again. “Close your eyes and just … feel your surroundings. First, feel your own body standing here, occupying this space. Feel the gentle breeze that rolls against your skin. Feel the warmth of life inside you. And then, reach outward with your awareness. Look for that same warmth all around you. Really focus on it. And tell me what you see with your inner eyes.”
“Obviously.” Shamiir countered towards Teon’s dry assertion that they were dancing around the topic at hand.
The skepticism was evident on their face, but they acquiesced to the request, following the Miraluka’s instructions. What they experienced wasn’t quite as serene as the instructions made it out to be however.
The sensation was almost overwhelming on its own, though Shamiir recognized something in it as the tickle of anxiety in the back of their brain that made them desire a ship floating through space or a small settlement port. It washed over them, an array of sensations churning through the Godless Matron - trickling off but not entirely dissipating beyond it. At once awe inspiring and terrifying. What Teon clearly experienced as warmth, Shamiir felt as heat, radiating throughout, intense in a way they preferred to avoid.
“More than I can make sense of, squeezed into too small a space.” They said, eyes closed, but clearly reacting to the sensation. The demonstration had made its point, though Shamiir was unsure what the broader relevance of this particular experience was.
“And what do you think it is that allows you to do that? Sense all of those people with just a bit of focus?” Teon asked, waiting to see if Shamiir figured it out on their own.