revivalproject | Open Log

WHO: Cipher Nine & You
WHERE: Around Risa
WHAT: Vacation!
WHEN: During the stay on Risa
WARNINGS: Mentions of drug-use & drug withdrawals.

[A - Markets]

Mysterious spending money and disliking possible puppet masters aside, Aden had already spent quite a lot of time wandering the markets. He'd bought trinkets, supplies, entertainment. Even a stringed instrument and instructions on how to learn to play it. After all, he didn't need the Force to foresee that there would be time to learn to play it in the future.

He'd also bought a collection of knives- just in case. If he had proper ones, he wouldn't need to spend his time scavenging for supplies back on Agra 10, after all, nor possibly having to resort to merely making himself shivs for self-defense.

Today, he was merely looking around- and avoiding certain things that he would eventually need to do.

[B - Nightclubs]

Not so much dancing, not so much joining in, but he did visit the bar of each nightclub he visited, going to a different one each evening and night- for something to drink, while they had access to it. Every night was spent drinking, watching people come and go- and looking for substances a bit stronger than alcohol. After all, he couldn't deny that the spice withdrawals he was going through wasn't affecting how he was relating to other people, his mood often fluctuating- especially with his brain damage, the headaches that wouldn't go away.

Still, either he wasn't looking hard enough, or there wasn't really a market for it on Risa.

So sitting by the bar most of the night it was- not quite inviting others to come chat, but not seeming as though that was something he'd turn down, either.

[C - Beaches]

Swimming wasn't really his thing, but the beaches were nice.

Much like the nightclubs he visited, he couldn't really be found in the thick of things. He didn't swim, or spend his time playing on the beach. Instead he'd found himself a nice spot to sit and watch, beneath a parasol, and with a drink in one hand, a fan in the other, using it to keep himself cool.

He also had a picnic basket with him, full of food that was made with local ingredients- though he'd obviously not bought it prepared the way it was. It seemed more like he'd made the food himself from scratch- it was as close to Chiss cuisine he could get, making things himself.

[D - Wildcard]

(Anything else you might think of! Aden's exploring most of the planet, after all. The glowing gardens, any shop, relaxing in the shade here and there!)

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"I'm sure you can think of a few names to call me, if you put your mind to it."

It was said with another soft huff of laughter, and a shrug of one shoulder.

"Cipher Nine."

It was what he'd been mostly using, since arriving. Cipher Nine to most. Aden to only a few. Still, Cipher Nine was a challenge as much as it was anything else. He was an agent of Imperial Intelligence, after all, showing his face, using the name he'd been given. Should anyone unsavory from his world show they'd know to seek him out before anyone else. Of course, he left all of that unsaid.

"Just Cipher or just Nine will work too."

Jon huffs ever so slightly before concluding "Mister Nine, then." A brief pause follows before he adds flatly "What happened to the other eight?"

Not that he's terribly interested, but people using uninspiring aliases containing numbers feels like something he would expect to encounter in certain pieces of terrible fiction. It may be for the best that he doesn't touch fiction unless it's required for a case.

Though he won't be rude and withhold his own name.

"I'm Jonathan Sims. The Archivist will work too."

Well. Not entirely rude, at least.

"Who knows. Most likely, they've all went and died."

The dissolution of Intelligence, then the war. Maybe some of them had survived. But regardless, they weren't Ciphers any more. If they did survive, they were just people now. Aden couldn't help but wonder how that was going for them.

None of them really knew how to just be people, he imagined. Only disposable assets.

"You do know that that's an invitation to always call you that?" He asked, looking over at him and arching a brow, "As in- 'it's nice to meet you, The Archivist' or 'The Archivist, could you please explain who Jesus Christ is'?"

Even he wasn't that obnoxious, really. Still, one couldn't deny that it was an invitation to do just that.

"And you would be the first to actually require an invitation to do just that." Jon remarks before draining his current drink. And he means it about as blunt as he says it. His title, his... Role... He's gotten used to hear it directed at him wrapped in mockery and death threats.

His eyes drift over to the tape he has retrieved from the recorder and through its transparent plastic shell he can't help but notice that it appears to be half full already. Now that's... Curious. But glancing back to where he has put down the recorder itself only has him met with empty space. Right. These don't stick around long, do they.

Trying not to think about it too much, Jon exhales softly and pulls his attention back to the consumption of alcohol - And Mister Nine. He idly musters the Chiss before pulling up a brow.

"So what are you. Some sort of spy?"

"I was."

Not something he should go admitting so readily perhaps, but he doesn't really care. This place isn't connected to his own world, after all. And he's not exactly sure there's any work left for him to go back to, the way Intelligence had looked. Maybe a better Imperial Intelligence would be built from the ashes, but somehow he doubted it.

It was something he wouldn't worry about until he went home, at any rate.

"... I suppose I'll be calling you Mr. Sims," He said then, shrugging a shoulder, "It's not right to reduce a man down to a title, anyway."

Never mind that that was what had happened to him. No true identity left.

Jon pulls up a brow "How surprisingly observant of you." And yet here he went and reduced himself to basically a number. Curious.

"But you don't happen to be a Sith as well, do you?" He's been wondering that for some time now. If all Chiss are Sith. It could well be possible. It could be a cultural thing - Or genetics. He doesn't fully understand that yet. He has a lot of loose information about the Force, Jedi and the Sith so far, but no clear idea on how to arrange them into a way that makes sense.

At the very least he is sure enough that Mister Nine here and the Emperor are of the same species.

"I take it you know the resident Sith Lord," Aden commented, arching a brow. He'd heard of his presence- though with the question, things that hadn't been narrowed down before very much were- the Sith was a Chiss then. Aden couldn't help that a slight look of pity slipped through, just for a second, then it was gone again.

"I'm no Sith, no. I've worked for the Sith Empire, but... Well, Force-sensitivity is unusual, in my species."

He shrugged a shoulder, "Your Sith friend can't have had an easy life. Chiss consider Force-sensitivity to be impurity. I'm sure you can imagine what happens, when someone is considered impure."

Not that Aden shared in that belief.

The Archivist's eyes narrow at those words. Impure. He doesn't even have to be very imaginative to puzzle the rest together. He's well familiar with the history of Earth and the atrocities humans were capable to inflict on one another. Though maybe a part of him had hoped that an actual alien species would prove to be better than them.

He closes his hand around his newly arrived drink, making a face.

"That's remarkably primitive. Haven't your people already mastered intergalactic travel and interacted with enough other species to have moved past some ill-placed superiority complex?"

There's an edge to Jon's voice then. And for once he doesn't bother to keep his compelling powers checked, causing his words to try and saw their way into Aden's mind.

Thing about Aden's mind was- it was sealed up. Completely immune to such things. His species were already good at keeping people out, and he's even more so, given his rather unique past. Anyone trying to get into his head, anyone trying to get him to do anything, would meet a door they couldn't get past.

It was not as though he wouldn't share it of his own free will, though.

"People are going to be people regardless of where you go. I was born in the Chiss Ascendancy, I grew up there, and I still have some semblance of loyalty toward my species- doesn't mean I don't think they're dumbasses."

Seriously dumbasses, sometimes.

"No one would choose to be a victim. And your Sith buddy very much would have been. The Chiss aren't friendly to Force-sensitives. The Empire isn't friendly to aliens. Double-screwed, in other words. There a reason you haven't asked him these things? You seem curious."

While Jon notices the resistance, he doesn't try to press against it. This hasn't been intended after all, but that is some useful knowledge to gain. Were he trying to force it, he might just end up hurting himself again.

Still, this small piece of additional knowledge is picked up, mentally catalogued and filed away. Then he snarls. It's a little snarl, but a snarl nonetheless.

"It's simply not something anyone with a semblance of common decency would even consider asking someone else where I am from. The mere idea of a person being born worth less is- That's despicable. This entire Empire of yours is a mess!"

Somewhere within that little tirade Jon has managed to empty his drink again and sets the empty glass down before pushing himself back onto hit feet, entirely steady and with no sign of all the alcohol he has just consumed to have any effect at all.

"I'm leaving."

"Ascendancy's a mess. Empire's a mess. Republic's a mess. Your world probably is, too."

Aden couldn't imagine any civilization being perfect. People were people no matter where one went, and people were flawed. Given his own history, believing in the best of anyone was difficult, and there were very few people he actually had any faith in. His faith in the Ascendancy was low, his faith in the Empire didn't exist any more.

"See you around then, Mr. Sims."

He raised a hand in a casual wave, certainly understanding the man's anger, though he was merely too old and jaded now to really feel any of it himself.

Open Log - 001

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