the imperial agent companions are so funny bc you've got:
1. 30 yr old woman going through her Teenage Dirtbag phase
2. man who is also part bug
3. Amoral scientist grandpa
4. Perfectly nice lady but I forget she exists
5. Skynet
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How to relax after stress
(Brought to you by each SWTOR class' default recharge animation)
Trooper: Examine and optimize your relevant toolkit
Smuggler: Fidget with an interesting trinket
Consular: Calm your surroundings by meditating now
Knight: Make yourself comfortable and then meditate
Bounty Hunter: Declutter your relevant toolkit
Agent: Busy yourself in your work
Inquisitor: Review what happened
Warrior: Scream about what happened
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Break Me Open
"You want to spar? You never want to spar. Planning on defecting from us, Legate?"
"I want you to hurt me,"
"...what?"
"I want you to hurt me--" She's still so angry that she's shaking. And the right thing to do would be to spill the whole story to him, the return to the elevator, the digging, the other files-- the codes that now beyond a doubt weren't even their doing-- she nearly killed him and only to find out that her first recon mission had been right: that HE'D been right: there was no second layer, no true story, they did this to her on purpose, but... "And-- I want to hurt you. I can't-- there's so much and I can't--" Can't cry, can't scream, can't anything because Agents are always quiet, they're calm, and--
It's nice to be understood, even if at the moment, the way she knows Hunter understands what she's trying to say is via his left hook. That's a good start.
It's not enough to break her open-- let everything out so it will stop choking her-- but it feels good not to think about anything but the next few moves. Watch. Touch. Block. Dodge. Focus. Neither one of them is wearing any protective gear, belatedly she thinks she should've let him put some on but kicking against bone and tissue hurts, too, more than if he was wrapped up. They've never fought like this before, not before Quesh and not when she could finally hurt him. Not when she nearly killed him-- even then he went down easier, with that shock device. She can feel bruises forming and while they're not aiming for each other's face or head, accidents happen-- she'll have a black eye by tomorrow and her lip is split, nose bleeding, the blood mixing with sweat... striking and breaking apart again and again. It's so high energy that a stitch aches in her side as if she'd been running. No good, still no good. A few seconds where her eyes mist up or her voice jumps to a little louder than usual, but still...
Finally, both panting and bleeding-- when did she do that to his eye? ouch-- Legate curls in around her side, trying to guard the painful muscle spasm that keeps going every time she moves, and leaves her other side open. He lunges, and they both go down onto the mat, hard, rolling over and over. It's hard to fill her lungs up while being slammed down on her back and twisting around him to gain the upper hand. She didn't prefer either of them to win, not really; as long as they beat the osik out of each other that was fine with her--
But there is a winner, she realizes as his face looms over hers, as his hands clench around her shoulders, pinning her to the mat, locked in place. With some difficulty he frees a hand, shifts his weight,
"Wh-what--"
"Shut up," He moves around her carefully, as if she's the enemy-- isn't she?-- aware that she's still trying to get out of his grip, and suddenly manages to get the right angle to scrub the sharp points of his knuckles against her sternum.
Pain. Pain, and an overwhelming amount of it. She gasps in a breath.
"Hunter--!"
"You wanted me to hurt you." He digs the points deeper, and something breaks-- fortunately, only on the inside of her mind. Of course it's okay for her eyes to water a little. They don't use this trick in interrogations for nothing. Her next gasp comes out broken, a catch and then a rough sob. Her eyes finally brim over and tears spill down onto the mat.
"There you go. Keep going."
She assumes he'll draw back, give her some space, he hates this kind of mushy feelings crap, but he doesn't even move his hand away. He doesn't move it at all, in fact, except to gently rock his knuckles back and forth, watching her face and occasionally telling her she's doing good. He keeps varying where the points are exactly, but holds steady pressure that gives her constant pain-- and a constant reason to be sobbing as he pins her down. It's so bad, rough and dull and like an ache that's on fire, but that means it's a good excuse-- one that doesn't stop until she seems to have run out of tears, exhausted and only feeling half real. He pulls his hand back.
"Better?"
"Y-y-y---" she finally just nods, swallowing hard. He untangles them, stands up. Doesn't offer a hand.
"You good?"
More nodding.
"You're welcome. And Legate?"
She tilts her head at him, still not quite trusting herself to speak.
"Next time it's my turn."
He only waits for one nod before slipping out of the room, leaving her alone-- still sniffling-- in the middle of the mat.
I guess it takes one to know one.
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