You could feel it in every move he made. It felt like a heater had been turned up to full or you were laid on the Tatooine desert dressed in full winter gear; when he entered the room a slither of sweat would worm its way down your neck and into the...
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You had forgotten how many fights you and Alka had. Five? Seven? Thirty? Perhaps you've already hit the hundreds.
No matter what, they always go the same way. She'd call you reckless, you'd tell her 'this time is different', she'd use a derogatory insult towards your libido, you'd call her a 'stuck up bitch' and Kalea would appear – the angel of reason – to temper the fire.
If no one drew blood, then it was tame.
You always stretched before knocking on the twins door, just in case you've got to swing. The door opens a crack.
"I need to speak–"
It slams shut.
You click your tongue.
"– or not"
Having a door slammed in your face was starting to become the norm.
You check your watch. Five seconds for Alikas door slam. Ten seconds for a hushed discussion between the twins. Another five for Kalea to adjust her snack offering.
Then – as usual – Kalea appears with a beaming smile.
The smell from the room is a mixture of herbal incenses and baked bread, half spiced with citrus. Baking had been Kalea's past time with since she was confined to jobless-ness, meaning she spent more time with the chefs than any of you. It had allowed you to up your carb intake quite significantly.
"Cake? Biscuit?" she offers, eyes bright and a fancy old plate balanced on her forearm.
You shake your head.
"Stop offering her our food" is Alikas brittle reply from somewhere within the cabin.
Your fingers slip a pink cake of the plate, dusted with sugar and marzipan shaped like a duck. She had given it a icing hat painted with the First Order sigil, a perfect mockery of your Lieutenants uniform.
You bite its sucrose hat off as you wander into their space.
Alika's look is downright filthy.
"Changed my mind" you say, taking a comically huge bite.
The harsher twin sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread to take up as if to take up as much room as possible.
She's lost weight – that's your first thought.
The bones on her collarbone more pronounced, hollow dips where meat should be. Dents had formed in her already blade-like face, cutting into her cheeks and jutting her jaw. Her usual skin-tight suit was loose at the waist, hovering an inch out her stomach and hiding the line of her hips.
Her body was shadows and divine violence. Every inch of her moulded by a blacksmith.
She was iron-made and weapon-born. And it was wearing her away.
