I'm good at shooting people, cracking wise, and pretending to know how to fight.

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. )

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 ]]

Atton didn't fall asleep easily. When he did, he dreamed about the cold void of space, Mira's voice in his ears telling him to hold his breath.

It got jumbled up the way only dreams could: Malachor coming apart, Sion's hand at his throat, Meetra's face as she turned and walked into the Hawk. Pain and blood in the mud a thousand years ago and teenage bodies strewn around him, and--

He sat up, the dream bleeding into reality.

( Cut for CW suicidal thoughts. )

He padded out the door in his boots, a simple tunic and his jacket. He wasn't out to jog, didn't want to pretend he was doing anything useful. He just wanted to walk. Maybe get his brain to shut up.

Should've...

Maybe needed a cigarette.

[[ open ]]

Time to go.

Atton hadn't packed much - he was counting on this being a short trip one way or another. Dead men didn't need clothes, and living men who'd be gone for a week didn't need the extra cargo.

Still, he cast one worried glance down at the apartment building before he got on board.

He settled in the Hawk's cockpit. "Right," he muttered, "Let's hope this is over when I get there."

The ship made a streak in the air as it punched through Earth's atmosphere and through its designated portal.

[[ establishy ]]