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(( Related: SWTOR Journal (Brembal) Letter to Jacqueline Rees. The following is on my SWTOR smuggler, Captain Jacqueline “Jackie” Rees. ))

Now get lost,” Jacqueline growled.

And he was off. Laden with a 10 million credit voucher, another 250,000 credit chip, and rather choice words snarked at him, Brembal Kybersmith’s courier left with the conscientious speed of someone who had a blaster with an angry trigger finger leveled at them.

She glowered for several more moments, sitting in her captain’s chair. Balling a fist, she dug her knuckles into the padded armrest. “Stupid sonuvabitch,” she grunted moodily. With a kick of her leg, she hopped up, holstered her blaster, and strode straight to the training deck. She breezed past any crew member without a single word, her momentum carrying her directly to the gym area lined with padded dummies. Such equipment was normally reserved for Jedi on the crew with training sabers, but the occasional brawler used them when opportunity arose. Jacqueline strode straight up to one and lunged, landing a punch where the dummy’s assumed face would be.

She continued, her follow-up blows less of an outburst and more a pouring out of frustration. A series of jabs, hooks, and kicks pummeled the dummy, leaving deeper and deeper crevices in the memory padding that couldn’t inflate quick enough before the next blow fell. Sweat slicked down her back and poured down her collarbone. Jacqueline outwardly relished in it, occasionally flashing a grin between blows and even pausing long enough to strip her jacket and resume the onslaught. It was a welcome burst of energy after over a week of forced bedrest. 

Her fury ended with a sidekick that dealt a blow from her heel to the dummy’s dented chest. The dummy reeled backward and rocked back into place. Jacqueline slowly lowered her leg, taking in the damage. Finally left on its own, the dummy slowly regained its pseudo-humanoid shape. Examining her knuckles, she found them raw and red. Sweat licked her brow and plastered the ends of her dark hair to her temples and forehead. The fire that drove her to the training deck still burned, but as if shaped by the very blows she wrought on her training foe, it had changed purpose: A firestorm tamed into a forge, she now churned and hammered through the details of her next moves. A way forward.

Retrieving and tossing her jacket over her sweat-slicked shoulder, Jacqueline muttered, “Sith-damned Kybersmiths” on her way out the door.

Author Ari
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