Atthilike
| Species: | Imperial Zabrak |
| Age: | 19-20s |
| Homeworld: | [n/a: Imperial space] |
| Pronouns: | [Imperial Strd. 1st pronouns; she/her] |
| Skin: | red, black tattoos |
| Eyes: | orange |
| Weapons: | lightsaber, the Force |
| Position: | Labour Management Researcher in the Sphere of Production and Logistics |
| Likes: | fighting |
| Dislikes: | specism |
Born into Imperial Slavery, Atthilike was discovered by the Sith after Force choking an overseer who was harming her grandfather. Atthilike was Zash's apprentice, but promptly fled after realising Zash wanted to consume her. She made her way to the slave rebellion of the Unfinished Colossus, and eventually used her status as a (runaway) Sith apprentice to gain a meeting with Darth Vowrawn which ended with her being given a research position into labour management (specifically, the logistics of abolition). She initially had an intense rivalry with Qet, as they saw each other as threats to their own goals and position; however, after Darth Baras' moves on the Sphere of Production and Logistics, Vowrawn revealed his plans to them, and they realised their goals had been in alignment all along.
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Their sabers met, and it was blow-for-blow, kicking, punching, Atthilike trying to ram him with her horns.
“Agh! Filthy slave! You’ll never stop Baras!”
Atthilike bit him. Her razor teeth sank through muscle, sheared through tendons, and snapped down on the bone and crushed.
“’Filthy,’” she thought she said, but it came out as a growl, bloodied and raw and furious.
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I don’t know if I believe in rage as something always acting in opposition to tenderness. I believe, more often, in the two as braided together. Two elements of trying to survive in a world once you have an understanding of that world’s capacity for violence. --Hanif Abdurraqib, “Board Up the Doors, Tear Down the Walls,” A Little Devil in America
ANGER is the deepest form of compassion, for another, for the world, for the self, for a life, for the body, for a family and for all our ideals, all vulnerable and all, possibly about to be hurt. Stripped of physical imprisonment and violent reaction, anger is the purest form of care, the internal living flame of anger always illuminates what we belong to, what we wish to protect and what we are willing to hazard ourselves for. What we usually call anger is only what is left of its essence when we are overwhelmed by its accompanying vulnerability, when it reaches the lost surface of our mind or our body’s incapacity to hold it, or when it touches the limits of our understanding. What we name as anger is actually only the incoherent physical incapacity to sustain this deep form of care in our outer daily life; the unwillingness to be large enough and generous enough to hold what we love helplessly in our bodies or our mind with the clarity and breadth of our whole being. --David Whyte, Consolations
She walked quickly through the darkness with the frank stride of someone who was at least certain that the forest, on this damp and windy night, contained strange and terrible things and she was it. --Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters
The new person you become with that first sip of wine was already there. Look at Pentheus twirling around in a dress, so pleased with his girl-guise he’s almost in tears. Are we to believe this desire is new? --Anne Carson, translation note to Euripides’ Bakkhai