Anderson's found a lot of things in other peoples' minds, and this isn't the first time she's found love when she wasn't looking. But she doesn't find it very often while conducting Imperial interrogations, and she's prepared herself emotionally for confronting all sorts of negative emotions without flinching. Empathy isn't just a word; she literally feels what she's listening in on from those around her, and Anderson is used to bracing herself against it.
Love, though. And love of family, in particular, is something that always punctures right through her resistance, unprepared.
Letting out a silent, unsteady breath, Anderson straightens up in her chair, arms falling loose, expression tightened to maintain her professionalism. "My job would be a lot easier if that were true," she replies automatically while her thoughts jump ahead of her.
It's not that this is a big dramatic epiphany - she's felt the unjustness of what the Empire and the Hall of Justice have her do plenty of times before. And it's not that this is the last push over an edge she's been teetering on, though she has been teetering.
Cassandra thinks, hollowly, that she really can't do this one more time. There's finally no other option, no other choices or rationalizations left. She can see it now, where her current path is going to lead her, and there's no room in her soul for abetting turning millions of men into automatons. Not after feeling what that does to them. Suddenly, there's not another step she can take down this path. The bad she'll be doing will outweigh the good. She's made that calculation over and over, a habitual self-soothing ritual, and for the first time the calculation has come out the other way. That's all it takes.
"You know," she says, decision made, getting up to her feet, "I'm only on loan to Imperial service, and they keep underutilizing my skills. Being a Judge isn't just a title or a badge, and it's not about getting information out of political enemies. It's about casting judgment." The Empire has never realized that the first rule of being a Judge is trusting no one else's judgment above your own. Or maybe they have, and they've been waiting for her to break. She'll have to do this carefully.
Anderson walks to the stationed guard. "I need the keys for the prisoner, Private," she says with the implacable steadiness of Judges everywhere. Even Anderson hasn't escaped that part of training, where she can call up an attitude of inevitable obedience.
She's still following the script enough that he hands them over readily. She grabs hold of his wrist instead of taking the code key, throwing him face-first to the floor in a controlled arm-bind. She has to be fast, fast enough that he can't set off a signal on his internal comms, so she grabs the short stun-stick off his belt used for incapacitating prisoners and jams the end between armor panels, setting it off at maximum. The guard seizes violently against her hold and then is out cold on the durasteel floor. Good thing she'd spent all that time studying weak points in stormtrooper armor.
Anderson settles back on her heels with a relieved breath. Then she reaches for the discarded code key.
no subject
Love, though. And love of family, in particular, is something that always punctures right through her resistance, unprepared.
Letting out a silent, unsteady breath, Anderson straightens up in her chair, arms falling loose, expression tightened to maintain her professionalism. "My job would be a lot easier if that were true," she replies automatically while her thoughts jump ahead of her.
It's not that this is a big dramatic epiphany - she's felt the unjustness of what the Empire and the Hall of Justice have her do plenty of times before. And it's not that this is the last push over an edge she's been teetering on, though she has been teetering.
Cassandra thinks, hollowly, that she really can't do this one more time. There's finally no other option, no other choices or rationalizations left. She can see it now, where her current path is going to lead her, and there's no room in her soul for abetting turning millions of men into automatons. Not after feeling what that does to them. Suddenly, there's not another step she can take down this path. The bad she'll be doing will outweigh the good. She's made that calculation over and over, a habitual self-soothing ritual, and for the first time the calculation has come out the other way. That's all it takes.
"You know," she says, decision made, getting up to her feet, "I'm only on loan to Imperial service, and they keep underutilizing my skills. Being a Judge isn't just a title or a badge, and it's not about getting information out of political enemies. It's about casting judgment." The Empire has never realized that the first rule of being a Judge is trusting no one else's judgment above your own. Or maybe they have, and they've been waiting for her to break. She'll have to do this carefully.
Anderson walks to the stationed guard. "I need the keys for the prisoner, Private," she says with the implacable steadiness of Judges everywhere. Even Anderson hasn't escaped that part of training, where she can call up an attitude of inevitable obedience.
She's still following the script enough that he hands them over readily. She grabs hold of his wrist instead of taking the code key, throwing him face-first to the floor in a controlled arm-bind. She has to be fast, fast enough that he can't set off a signal on his internal comms, so she grabs the short stun-stick off his belt used for incapacitating prisoners and jams the end between armor panels, setting it off at maximum. The guard seizes violently against her hold and then is out cold on the durasteel floor. Good thing she'd spent all that time studying weak points in stormtrooper armor.
Anderson settles back on her heels with a relieved breath. Then she reaches for the discarded code key.