Governor of Pageta

Governor Plexus sits at her desk in the Capitol City of Pageta, jewel amongst the Deep Stellar Coalition’s colony worlds, reviewing agricultural reports with her morning caff. The production of food products has recovered to a time before the attack of the Reaper forces but is still not to the levels of production seen during Zakuulan occupation. Perhaps for the best, she thinks. The yield required exhausting the farmers and their workers. It was a time when Pageta was seen by the Galaxy as a breadbasket to help fill the bellies of soldiers as they oppress the masses.

Present day Pageta is allowed to thrive as it never has. Small manufacturing workshops and specialists have popped up, supporting the growing needs of the Coalition’s shipyards in orbit. Fuel processing and storage as an industry has also grown by necessity. As the economy continues to diversify, so too does the nature of the problems coming across Plexus’ desk. Where once the biggest concern was the occasional blighted crop or migrant swarm of caterwasps, now Plexus dealt with smugglers, the threat of pirates raiding trading routes, personnel shortages, and an education system that was focusing too heavily on agriculture.

“Madam Governor,” Plexus’ aide Dahla breaks her concentration on pounds per bushel reporting. “You have a visitor.”

Plexus is elated. It’s not often those she once adventured with grace her doorstep, even if the invitation is explicitly made. Still rarer is it to have Wohnus, the so-called Brute, cease his wandering to come to Pageta. Plexus lured the giant orange skinned Zabrak to her protectorate with the promise of untamed wilderness in the unsettled Southern continent. She spoke of rumors of a giant lizard with three horns atop its head seen in drone holocaptures. As her old friend walks through the doorway of her office, having to duck under the door frame due to his height, Plexus was not able to anticipate her joy at seeing her friend again.

She squeals like a child once more, rushing and leaping at him. The giant does not fail to catch the tiny blue Twi’lek, lifting her towards his chest. It’s as if no time has passed and they are both bright eyed and aspiring apprentices once more. “It’s been too long, big guy.”

“You were missed,” Wohnus emits from his throat, not one for many words. He pats Plexus with gentle hands known to crush enemy skulls.

Gentle Plexus stares up at the giant. Less than half his size, her deep blue skin accented by dark black facial and lekku tattoos contrasting his bright orange skin rife with its own intricate collage of markings. “I bet you came for the chance to hunt.” She hops from his arms, heading to her desk in search of a datapad with the drone data and images captured.

Wohnus grunts in affirmation.

“How’s Grrr?”

He grunts again, the Vorn Tiger is not at his side, likely romping around his oversized shuttle, chasing the ground crew of the hanger. “Healthy. Had many pups. Father, like Wohnus.”

“Father?” Plexus reels from the news, wind taken from her lungs. How? When? Who? So many questions. Feeling suddenly much older than when she leapt into his arms a moment ago, Plexus can only muster, “I never imagined you a father.”

“Nor did I,” the giant responds in earnest.

“Time changes us. Look at you. Capable. Respectable. Governing entire planet. You’ve done well.”

Plexus manages a smile, her cheeks purple rather than the navy blue. “You almost sound proud. Do you think she would be? Our Master?”

Wohnus only nods, his need for nostalgia and remembrance less than hers.

“There was an ulterior motive in my invitation.” Plexus hands him the data on the potential hunt. “I’ve worked with Vincit to understand the trauma done to the Emperor’s Children with his quieting, slumber, release, and so on. I think I can repair your mind we did the others.”

To her shock, he responds with a simple, “No.”

“I don’t understand. It worked for several of the Emperor’s Children who survived. Memories restored rather than in fragments. Full mental capacity. You’ll know who you were before he changed you.”

“No.” The Brute spoke simply.

Plexus presses. “Why no? I can give you peace. Your mind won’t be fragmented any longer. It may even restore your…” She’s not sure how to address his lack of communication and simple syntax. How to bring up that he cannot speak in more than three-word sentences without incurring pain. “Communication?”

“No.” With heavy foot falls, he breaks from her, off to hunt the wilds uncolonized South. This is who Wohnus is. This is who he will remain. Fractured mind, but not spirit. A Brute who know who he is.