"We can't be predictable or we'll never find a good place to stick a knife." —Crow
Ikora Rey squinted upward. The warm sun and birdsong on the air somehow enhanced the sense of foreboding that pervaded the Farm. Across from the Vanguard leader sat a young pilot, fidgeting nervously with the zipper tabs of her flight suit.
"Did they feed you?" Ikora asked, keeping her tone deliberately mild.
"Yes, ma'am," the pilot nodded. "They gave us all a giant bowl of this… brownish slop. Like a trough, really. It smelt like cat food. I guess they expected us all to just eat with our hands? Nobody trusted it, though."
"And how did the prison guards seem to you?" the Warlock continued. "What were they like? Rough, gentle… loud? Did they talk to each other?"
"No, ma'am. They weren't like… anything." The woman furrowed her brow, trying to find the words to express herself. "I've been around Cabal before, both friendlies and hostiles. They're usually pretty boisterous. Tussling, trash-talking… you know, like soldiers do."
Ikora nodded in understanding. She'd found the lower echelons of Caiatl's retinue quite rambunctious in the absence of their empress.
"But the Shadow Legion just seemed… empty," the pilot continued. "Sometimes, an officer would bark orders, but other than that, it was dead quiet. Our cell guards would just stand there, not moving, staring straight ahead, breathing real heavy. Almost… wheezing. They might as well have been frames for all the personality they had."
She was silent for a moment. "I don't know why," she concluded, "but that emptiness scared me more than anything."