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suitably_heroic“I fucking hate October. Worst month of the year.”
“I thought that was August?”
“October, too. What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault the universe is working its way through every single month until I can’t get up off the floor at all.”
He was falling. He was drowning.
The space around him felt relentless, an endless pressure that crushed his bones and yet somehow helped them hold their shape. It worked its way into his lungs, into his abdomen, into the smallest cavities in the joints of his knees. All the while he kept falling, and falling, and falling.
There was a hum, somewhere in the distance. An approaching storm.
”You… ever wonder just what it would be like if you could figure it out? Who you are? Where you’re meant to be?”
It was dark in here. Somewhere in the middle of all this vertigo, he'd determined that much. Dark, and cold, like the walls had felt in that desolate base out in the sands, the cold steel walls between which Revan’s assassins plied the other half of their trade.
Had she felt like this? Trapped, cold, relentlessly sinking, scraps of memories filtering through her mind like weak sunlight struggling to crack the blinds?
He had made her hurt. And in return, she had pried her fingers between those blinds and pressed them open.
The storm screamed like power.
And every year I light a sparkler in the night
And I stare and scream into the void
Until the fizzle, until the cinders die--
“Do you remember where you are?”
Cold dark. Distant hum. Melody, roaring. And then: reality. His eyes were open, and the dark faded from his sluggish mind, but the cold stayed behind. So did the music. “Yeah,” Atton croaked weakly, and stared into the livid eyes of the girl who’d been trying to torment him these last few months.
Space, she was young, wasn’t she? How had she set all of this up? Did it really matter? Space knew there were enough people out there with old grudges. Atton just wished they’d stop finding him.
(That he’d stop nurturing new ones.)
“Good job,” he added weakly. “You actually got me this time.”
“Honestly, it was easier than I expected,” Asida said, bite in her tone. “It’s like you wanted me to catch you.”
You know? That was fair. He probably did. The sting of reawakened guilt felt fresh in his stomach. Rookie mistake; never head out if you can’t channel that particular disease into something useful.
He thought about her. Not her, or her. But her, that Jedi who had regarded him so calmly with her ancient eyes from this very seat. He’d tortured her for hours, but he could never kill what was in those eyes. It had been–
Unnerving.
“I always knew you were a steaming pile of bantha fodder,” Asida said, “But I didn’t know how bad it was. How do you sleep at night?”
“Poorly,” Atton grunted. Wait. They’d struck him, hadn’t they? His gaze slipped to the part of his body that hurt the most, and something in him relaxed. At least they hadn’t screwed up the stupid tattoo. “So what’s the endgame, here?” he started. “Are you go–”
She hit him in the head so hard that he nearly felt himself sinking again. He blinked rapidly. Oh. Lightsaber. Back of. Right.
“I begged, I pleaded with Master Mical to put you in jail like Atris,” she snapped. “You’re not supposed to be running around with us. You should’ve been jailed years ago. But you murdered your way out, didn’t you?”
“Trust me, I’ve been jailed plenty of times,” Atton said, biting back the taste of blood in his mouth.
Disgusting.
That was a particularly vile Twi’lek curse Asida spat, there. He wondered where she’d learned it. Maybe him? Probably him. “Then how come you keep being let off the hook, huh?”
An unhealthy, bubbling laugh pushed its way through his throat. He tried to move his arms, but the seat wouldn’t budge. “You think I’ve been let off the hook?” he said. “I’m a walking, talking disaster, Asida. Ask anyone. Except you can’t, they’re all dead or gone, because I’m a piece of work, everyone figures that out eventually. Like, I get it, you lost Mira. You think I didn’t? I had one person left in this stupid karking Order who was even remotely like me and she’s dead because she’s a huge karking hero and I’m not.”
“At least you know that,” Asida said. Her face was set into an angry frown, but Atton could see how she was rubbing at her elbow. Unsure, maybe. A little in over her head. “I found the files about her, you know. The Jedi you killed here. She was sent here to see if you could be rescued, and she died for it.”
She had. Atton remembered very well. The way he’d plunged the blade into her heart was etched into a part of his memory he worked desperately to ignore most of the time. The heaviness of it. The way his darkest joy at the thought, the idea of vengeance - always, always vengeance, control, wresting some of it back from all of them - sliding helplessly down into something else. Something terrible, excruciating.
(Love.)
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“You think that’s justified?” she said. “You think that makes sense?”
“No.” He looked up at the girl, the anger that made her jaw tremble, the satisfaction coupled with terror in her eyes. “I never have. I’ve never been able to figure out why she did that for me. For me, of all people. I don’t know why anyone does.”
His therapist would be proud.
“I never have. I can't appreciate it, I can't be thankful for it, it just rolls around in my head kicking up questions I can't answer. It makes more sense when they leave me to rot.”
("I spend a lot of time worrying about if you're coming back or not. But I'm always gonna be here in case you do."
Suppose Sparkle had finally managed to escape that one.)
He could feel the pity in Asida’s eyes without looking at them. But there was also… shock? Horror? Indecision? He still felt too groggy to tell.
“You’re trying to mess with my head,” she said. “You’re good at that. Lying.”
There was another one of those laughs, just waiting to be released. Yeah, Atton was good at lying. He just wasn’t doing it this time. “If that’s what you want to believe,” he said. “You know you’re not going to make me feel guilty for anything I don’t already feel guilty about. And the things I feel guilty about are so much bigger than you can imagine. You’re a kid, Asida. I let my guard down, and you got me. Good job. Now either kill me or go home.”
At least time he expected the blow when it came. And the resulting darkness, well, he welcomed it.
(”And more and more, I'm going to be the dead weight you haul around, that guy who won't get better but still refuses to die, because that's me, it's always been me, the only thing is that unlike just about everyone else I care about you haven't died.”)
Maybe he'd be lucky and she'd kill him. Maybe she'd be lucky and she wouldn't.
The storm rumbled on. He could hear the guitars.
[[ references to death and torture under the cut. nfb due to distance. ]]
“I thought that was August?”
“October, too. What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault the universe is working its way through every single month until I can’t get up off the floor at all.”
He was falling. He was drowning.
The space around him felt relentless, an endless pressure that crushed his bones and yet somehow helped them hold their shape. It worked its way into his lungs, into his abdomen, into the smallest cavities in the joints of his knees. All the while he kept falling, and falling, and falling.
There was a hum, somewhere in the distance. An approaching storm.
”You… ever wonder just what it would be like if you could figure it out? Who you are? Where you’re meant to be?”
It was dark in here. Somewhere in the middle of all this vertigo, he'd determined that much. Dark, and cold, like the walls had felt in that desolate base out in the sands, the cold steel walls between which Revan’s assassins plied the other half of their trade.
Had she felt like this? Trapped, cold, relentlessly sinking, scraps of memories filtering through her mind like weak sunlight struggling to crack the blinds?
He had made her hurt. And in return, she had pried her fingers between those blinds and pressed them open.
The storm screamed like power.
And every year I light a sparkler in the night
And I stare and scream into the void
Until the fizzle, until the cinders die--
“Do you remember where you are?”
Cold dark. Distant hum. Melody, roaring. And then: reality. His eyes were open, and the dark faded from his sluggish mind, but the cold stayed behind. So did the music. “Yeah,” Atton croaked weakly, and stared into the livid eyes of the girl who’d been trying to torment him these last few months.
Space, she was young, wasn’t she? How had she set all of this up? Did it really matter? Space knew there were enough people out there with old grudges. Atton just wished they’d stop finding him.
(That he’d stop nurturing new ones.)
“Good job,” he added weakly. “You actually got me this time.”
“Honestly, it was easier than I expected,” Asida said, bite in her tone. “It’s like you wanted me to catch you.”
You know? That was fair. He probably did. The sting of reawakened guilt felt fresh in his stomach. Rookie mistake; never head out if you can’t channel that particular disease into something useful.
He thought about her. Not her, or her. But her, that Jedi who had regarded him so calmly with her ancient eyes from this very seat. He’d tortured her for hours, but he could never kill what was in those eyes. It had been–
Unnerving.
“I always knew you were a steaming pile of bantha fodder,” Asida said, “But I didn’t know how bad it was. How do you sleep at night?”
“Poorly,” Atton grunted. Wait. They’d struck him, hadn’t they? His gaze slipped to the part of his body that hurt the most, and something in him relaxed. At least they hadn’t screwed up the stupid tattoo. “So what’s the endgame, here?” he started. “Are you go–”
She hit him in the head so hard that he nearly felt himself sinking again. He blinked rapidly. Oh. Lightsaber. Back of. Right.
“I begged, I pleaded with Master Mical to put you in jail like Atris,” she snapped. “You’re not supposed to be running around with us. You should’ve been jailed years ago. But you murdered your way out, didn’t you?”
“Trust me, I’ve been jailed plenty of times,” Atton said, biting back the taste of blood in his mouth.
Disgusting.
That was a particularly vile Twi’lek curse Asida spat, there. He wondered where she’d learned it. Maybe him? Probably him. “Then how come you keep being let off the hook, huh?”
An unhealthy, bubbling laugh pushed its way through his throat. He tried to move his arms, but the seat wouldn’t budge. “You think I’ve been let off the hook?” he said. “I’m a walking, talking disaster, Asida. Ask anyone. Except you can’t, they’re all dead or gone, because I’m a piece of work, everyone figures that out eventually. Like, I get it, you lost Mira. You think I didn’t? I had one person left in this stupid karking Order who was even remotely like me and she’s dead because she’s a huge karking hero and I’m not.”
“At least you know that,” Asida said. Her face was set into an angry frown, but Atton could see how she was rubbing at her elbow. Unsure, maybe. A little in over her head. “I found the files about her, you know. The Jedi you killed here. She was sent here to see if you could be rescued, and she died for it.”
She had. Atton remembered very well. The way he’d plunged the blade into her heart was etched into a part of his memory he worked desperately to ignore most of the time. The heaviness of it. The way his darkest joy at the thought, the idea of vengeance - always, always vengeance, control, wresting some of it back from all of them - sliding helplessly down into something else. Something terrible, excruciating.
(Love.)
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“You think that’s justified?” she said. “You think that makes sense?”
“No.” He looked up at the girl, the anger that made her jaw tremble, the satisfaction coupled with terror in her eyes. “I never have. I’ve never been able to figure out why she did that for me. For me, of all people. I don’t know why anyone does.”
His therapist would be proud.
“I never have. I can't appreciate it, I can't be thankful for it, it just rolls around in my head kicking up questions I can't answer. It makes more sense when they leave me to rot.”
("I spend a lot of time worrying about if you're coming back or not. But I'm always gonna be here in case you do."
Suppose Sparkle had finally managed to escape that one.)
He could feel the pity in Asida’s eyes without looking at them. But there was also… shock? Horror? Indecision? He still felt too groggy to tell.
“You’re trying to mess with my head,” she said. “You’re good at that. Lying.”
There was another one of those laughs, just waiting to be released. Yeah, Atton was good at lying. He just wasn’t doing it this time. “If that’s what you want to believe,” he said. “You know you’re not going to make me feel guilty for anything I don’t already feel guilty about. And the things I feel guilty about are so much bigger than you can imagine. You’re a kid, Asida. I let my guard down, and you got me. Good job. Now either kill me or go home.”
At least time he expected the blow when it came. And the resulting darkness, well, he welcomed it.
(”And more and more, I'm going to be the dead weight you haul around, that guy who won't get better but still refuses to die, because that's me, it's always been me, the only thing is that unlike just about everyone else I care about you haven't died.”)
Maybe he'd be lucky and she'd kill him. Maybe she'd be lucky and she wouldn't.
The storm rumbled on. He could hear the guitars.
[[ references to death and torture under the cut. nfb due to distance. ]]
