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| - With the information in hand, at last, the Imperial fleet moved into position in advance, waiting for the taskforce from Coruscant to come out and try the blockade again. Once the rebel fleet was in place the Imperial taskforce Fleet commenced operations. Broadsword and her squadrons, Prowler and her fighters, sortied forth to take on the A-wings, X-wings, freighters, and vessels of the "New" Republic. In the course of the battle, many freighters were lost, squadrons suffered heavy losses, and the Admiral Rishar, a Carrack-class cruiser, was destroyed. Only a clutch of fighters and the corvette Republic Revenge managed to limp away. The Pillager, remaining in the backdrop to provide secondary sensor readings and tactical assistance, relayed the vid feed to the Broadsword which, in turn, piped the feed into this cell for the viewing pleasure of its occupant. By now, they must've considered her not worth the effort of tying down and forcing her to watch, like they'd done when she was stronger and could resist the images of Brandis being tortured. Now, she's practically listless, doing whatever they make her do without a fuss. Whereas before, she sang and danced to keep her spirits up and her body in tone. Now, all she does is sit there and stare with vacant eyes. How much of that impacts is hard to tell as she lies on her side under the cot that was given her. Any food and drink that have been provided has been more or less ignored, as if perhaps the prisoner doesn't consider herself worthy of eating or drinking. Stinking and disheveled other than when she was forcibly bathed simply to preserve the delicate sensibilities of her captors, Kyrin watches the broadcast almost like the village idiot. The horror on her face seems permanently etched there. The tears fell at first... but then she cried herself out, and the tear tracks have dried on her cheeks. She is, as they say, comfortably numb to it all. Travelling from Level to Level to observe any of the necessary minor repairs needed after the conclusion of the evening's entertainment, Captain Caiton makes her last stop on Level 3. The ebullient attitude of her crew, especially that of her fighter wings lends a bit of bounce to her step, an extra bit of oomph to her own sense of 'rightness' in the universe. And it takes her, at last, to a personal interview with the prisoner. Having reviewed the progress made by Fleming, and responsible for the vid-feed of the battle being piped into the prisoners cell, she nods to the guards, hands over her service blaster as a matter of form, before entering the cell. It takes a few brief seconds to discern the huddled form of the prisoner beneath the cot provided instead of on it. Caiton wrinkles her nose for a moment at the scent in the cell, the air scrubbers doing admirable work, but insufficient for the discourse at hand. Shaking her head, Caiton speaks into her comlink for a moment before moving to the side of the door and leaning one shoulder against the wall. The door opens again and two guards carrying a bucket between them approach the cot and without warning toss the bucket full of shockingly cold water on the prisoner. There's not even enough of Kyrin Sh'vani left to scream at the indignity of it. The croak that emerges from her throat is that of someone who hasn't had a drop to drink in at least a day and a half. Once the involuntary reaction to the water passes, the Republic pilot remains where she is, the water dripping off her blue skin, curled up into a tight ball. The shivering might be from the sudden change in temperature now rather than simple fear... but there is still enough of that present that when she looks at the Imperials, particularly the polite captain, it shows in her grey eyes, and she cringes, scuttling as far back as she can, away, away, until she can go no further, her wings around her like a kind of cloak. And her teeth start chattering. But she doesn't speak. "Bring her out into the light," Captain Caiton instructs the guards, "lets have a good look at the woman who's information proved so helpful in this evenings engagement." She remains in place, her arms folded across her chest, her blue eyes empty and cold as she speaks, "I wonder how many people were on those freighters," musing aloud. "Civilians, most of them. Men, women, perhaps even some children foolishly brought along by parents who couldn't bear to leave their younglings behind?" She laughs then, a quiet breath of a sound before nodding to the guards to do what ever necessary to drag the prisoner out into the light. Kyrin gets hauled out, and other than a weak attempt to stay in the shadows, she's presented to the captain, the Chyleni promptly sinking to all fours, a position easier for her folk than your average human. It's almost like a bow of fealty, but there's no servility there, simply abject defeat. She can't even summon the strength to attack the captain, even if it would mean her own death and thus an end to her suffering. "You..." she whispers, trying to find her voice, "You are a monster, Captain. And you have just answered any questions you might have had as to why there was a Rebellion against the Empire and why we continue to fight monsters like you. You have no heart and no honor." And summoning what spit she can muster, which isn't much more than a drop or two, she spits at the Captain with the most ritually-polite method she can accomplish. Caiton smiles slowly, that eerie empty smile she's started wearing since returning from her own guest stay on the Reprisal. Waving the guards back she allows them to exit the cell after the Chyleni is hauled forth, does her little display of bravado, to which Caiton applauds mockingly, the sound of her clapping a sharp percussive noise. "And you," she replies, stepping forward at last to stare down at the prisoner, "are a conquered people." She examines the prisoner up close, sniffing at the wet odor of sweat, clean water, the stirring of clean air and the stench of fear over it all, "But you do have your uses. After all, you withstood several days of interrogation before breaking like a dry twig in the face of the extermination of your home world. Perhaps some breeding pairs from your home world should be collected, for further study," she muses, circling around the prisoner at a nice slow pace. Kyrin's words were spoken in a monotone. Aside from her one final attempt to resist, all the fight's gone out of her. Her gaze falls to the floor, her wings hang loose on her back, her behavior almost like a wilting of sorts. Powerless. She doesn't ask to be killed again. They'd keep her alive just for their own amusement or because it tickles their fancy to deny her the one thing she craves most of all... oblivion. She can't stop them, and she has no reason to disbelieve the threat, despite the previous threats against her people that proved to be false. The Chyleni's breathing slows down as she slips away into catatonia once more. Even the shivering from her too-cold skin stills itself. If someone pushed her with a finger, she'd topple over like a rag doll. "Ooh no no no, my dear," Caiton murmurs from behind the Chyleni as she see's the prisoners eyes glaze into that distant look of inner focus. "That just won't do at all. I've waited so long, so very long, to have a few minutes of quality time. Can't have you drifting off now," she whispers near the Chyleni's right ear. Striding around the prisoner she calls for a medkit to be brought in and, once provided, sorts through the various stimulative available before selecting one that works swiftly, having the side affects of a faint headache but a restorative to full mental capacity. She administers it without pause, checking the dilation of the prisoner's eyes for progress. <SKILL> Lynae rolls a 22 for her MEDICAL skill. An Excellent roll! Kyrin squints as the meds take effect, and she shakes her head side to side restlessly. Teeth begin chattering once more, and wings lower to provide warmth again like a cloak. The Chyleni hugs herself tightly, trying to keep warm. "I have no more information for you," she manages to say through cracked lips. "Have you not done enough?" "Oh, you look so cold," Captain Caiton replies with a slow shake of her head, "I don't have any questions for you. None at all, in fact." She walks over to the cot and retrieves the thermal blanket provided and drapes it over the shoulders of the prisoner. "There's nothing that I need to know that Fleming hasn't already asked. Nothing that I'm curious about that I don't already have answers to." Continuing to move around the room she fetches a fresh cup of water from the tray provided and sets it down beside the prisoner. Kyrin doesn't even look at the cup of water, and the blanket is ignored. Her shivering might dislodge it in time, but she makes no effort to tuck it in around herself. Once the captain says there's nothing to answer, Kyrin doesn't even bother with the shrugging that she would normally do amongst her friends, a shrug that would have rippled up her shoulders to her wings. Her eyes fall back to the floor and she stares at it. Not catatonic this time, just patient waiting. Even now, there is a sort of mournful dignity to the prisoner's face, something she's not even trying to accomplish. It's just there. The hollows in her cheeks from lack of nourishment, the bags under her eyes, the wrinkles, each of them proclaim her to be aging beyond her years. Kyrin Sh'vani simply waits for the captain to get bored or kick her or whatever. She doesn't seem to care what it might be anymore. "You see, I don't have any questions for you, because we both know that you're of no use to us, tactically speaking, any longer. There is no rescue mission in the works. Anyone who's cared for you, or claimed to care for you, simply can't get to you any easier than my people could get to me. But we also both know that there are little traitorous worms on both sides of the war, so in the event that you somehow get free, I'd like you to carry a message for me." Captain Caiton moves to stand toe to toe with the prisoner, speaking in a clear cold voice. "Carry this message to the Jedi Brandis Finian, for I am sure that he will someday speak to you of this time in captivity, no doubt seeking to cure his wounds and yours. Tell him that his little act of kindness was the final key. And that every Rebel that dies at my hands, dies in his place. Every room that I paint in blood, is a personal message to him." It's indicative of how far gone Kyrin is, that there's not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes at the mention of Brandis. No shift in her body, no telltale inhalation of surprise. Nothing. "But I will never be free again, so you may as well use the information I gave you to send a message directly. It will save you some time and ensure delivery," she replies in a monotone. "I will die far too soon to be your messenger." It's a fatalistic tone now. Resignation. She will die, and she knows it, and she's accepted it. She's only waiting for them to actually execute her and be done with it. With that, she slips off from under the thermal blanket and curls up in the nearest corner, not caring if the deck is wet or not. It no longer matters. Lynae laughs softly, a cold mocking tone of amusement. It doesn't need to be said. There's a fine sort of fatalism in her thoughts as well. Perhaps this one won't be rescued. But perhaps she will. It is enough. For if this messenger fails, then she will send another, and another. Until one gives her message, her gift, to Finian. Turning on her heel she gestures for the door to be opened and walks out. Her mocking laughter fading from the room as she leaves.
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