Atton Rand & miscellaneous names (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
suitably_heroic) wrote2023-10-13 04:35 pm
suitably_heroic) wrote2023-10-13 04:35 pm
Entry tags:
From Room 412 to Galactica Point, Friday Morning
The power ran through his body, burning through nerve tissue at an overwhelming rate. And yet Atton didn't feel it; he just felt the Force, felt it use him as a vessel. He gave into it.
They were watching him through the glass, their eyes huge with fear and pity. Anakin, Sia, Revan, Lana, Meetra, Sparks-- they were in danger, everyone was, the husk of a planet beyond them burning except there was him, his essence stretched across continents through the Force, pushing it back while the whole of him burned--
Atton woke up. Disoriented, confused, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed for the doorway, intending to push past into the living room ahead. Except there wasn't one, he nearly wacked his own head against the door instead.
Shit.
Poodoo.
He was at the hotel. It wasn't MCA. It was just the hotel. He grabbed hold of the door handle to steady himself, and tried to blink through the haze his mind had cast on him. Not a living room with a kitchen, a hallway, another bedroom-- just a hotel room and a bathroom.
Just a hotel room, and an old dream he'd been having for-- kark it, four years now? He'd long since given up on figuring out if it was a premonition, a weird nightmare clusterfuck, a suicidal dream by a guy who had only recently figured out that maybe wanting to die for someone was still wanting to die. He let his back rest against the door, and blew out a breath.
Steady, steady.
He didn't know why the dreams hit him so much harder, these days. Back before he started getting himself together, they'd been distant. He'd been resigned to them, and they'd mostly just tickled him, every now and again. But for a year or so now, sometimes they were like this, vivid where they had once been muted, terrifying where they'd once been a relief.
Was that what healing felt like? What a sick joke.
---
Atton couldn't get back to sleep after that, so he went out. He tugged on a jacket and stepped out into the crisp air, trying to think about anything else: the upcoming trip, maybe. Getting to be somewhere else, while still in his own skin. His quick jump back to New York this weekend to talk to Jill about percussion. Maybe his next class.
In the end, he found himself humming some bleak tune, walking along the island's outer wall again, back to Galactica Point. Where he always seemed to wind up, somehow. Standing there, face in the wind, staring at the mainland. Thinking.
[[ open. cw for suicidal mentions under the cut ]]
They were watching him through the glass, their eyes huge with fear and pity. Anakin, Sia, Revan, Lana, Meetra, Sparks-- they were in danger, everyone was, the husk of a planet beyond them burning except there was him, his essence stretched across continents through the Force, pushing it back while the whole of him burned--
Atton woke up. Disoriented, confused, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed for the doorway, intending to push past into the living room ahead. Except there wasn't one, he nearly wacked his own head against the door instead.
Shit.
Poodoo.
He was at the hotel. It wasn't MCA. It was just the hotel. He grabbed hold of the door handle to steady himself, and tried to blink through the haze his mind had cast on him. Not a living room with a kitchen, a hallway, another bedroom-- just a hotel room and a bathroom.
Just a hotel room, and an old dream he'd been having for-- kark it, four years now? He'd long since given up on figuring out if it was a premonition, a weird nightmare clusterfuck, a suicidal dream by a guy who had only recently figured out that maybe wanting to die for someone was still wanting to die. He let his back rest against the door, and blew out a breath.
Steady, steady.
He didn't know why the dreams hit him so much harder, these days. Back before he started getting himself together, they'd been distant. He'd been resigned to them, and they'd mostly just tickled him, every now and again. But for a year or so now, sometimes they were like this, vivid where they had once been muted, terrifying where they'd once been a relief.
Was that what healing felt like? What a sick joke.
Atton couldn't get back to sleep after that, so he went out. He tugged on a jacket and stepped out into the crisp air, trying to think about anything else: the upcoming trip, maybe. Getting to be somewhere else, while still in his own skin. His quick jump back to New York this weekend to talk to Jill about percussion. Maybe his next class.
In the end, he found himself humming some bleak tune, walking along the island's outer wall again, back to Galactica Point. Where he always seemed to wind up, somehow. Standing there, face in the wind, staring at the mainland. Thinking.
[[ open. cw for suicidal mentions under the cut ]]