Kylo "Hunky" Ren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
narcissithstic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
station722016-08-03 02:32 pm
narcissithstic) wrote in station722016-08-03 02:32 pm
I know what you'd say to me, exactly what you'd say to me— I still hang on every word:
CHARACTERS: Ren and you
WHERE: Bearings, Concordia proper
WHEN: 025 onward
SUMMARY: Ren wakes up and instantly regrets it
WARNINGS: discussions of violence, will update as necessary
CLOSED: to hux
[He wakes to nausea. To stiffness in his bones and a dryness on his tongue that refuses to be scraped away or swallowed down. It feels like a different life somehow— like shaking off a long dream, still half-cocooned in someone else's hopes, their fears and overwhelming loss. For a moment (staring blearily at the pale ceiling overhead, soft blankets clinging to his aching shoulders) none of it seems real. That Anakin Skywalker isn't dead from something so human as a flipped switch, that he hadn't gone mad with grief in the aftermath of it. None of them had.
But the bruised, bandaged contours of his own swollen fingers tell a different story. His left shoulder pinches, strained by nothing more than the struggle of a single exhale where exhausted nerves would rather see him back under again. Ren winces, breath hitching in his lungs. He has no idea where he's been left or who's been taking care of him in the interim (it looks like his designated apartment and yet there's something off about it— the scent, the arrangement—) or how long of an interim it's been. Part of him, already steeped in deep regret, isn't eager to find out.]
I: OPEN - concordia
[Continuing the tradition of shut doors and open windows, what follows in the wake of Castor's— and Concordia's— tragedy isn't entirely crushing. News sites and businesses alike have taken to catering to the public's insatiable thirst for drama (a public so generally removed from the loss they often times view the differences between real and fictional struggles are slim at most) and a cadre of reporters now seem to be working around the clock to overturn every figurative stone and pebble within reach. 'Love on the Battlefield' one particularly tasteless headline reads, slapped down over a collage of images of Ilde and Ren from Bout it Out, the article flickering alongside a number of others in storefront glass not far from Bearings. Some of the faces he recognizes: a few heroic shots of the Darkling with his chin held high in the seconds before the bombing took hold, the shadowed outlines of Lexa and Sam as they withdrew from the chaos, a heavily damaged mobile photo of Steve Rogers and the woman that'd seen to him initially— some of the articles even feature artful backstage images of various fighters, hoping to pry something more inspiring from overwhelming fear.
Nearly three minutes pass before Ren realizes he's stopped walking to skim those holographic tabloids, frozen in place, searching without meaning to. Each word, each list of names, even the dimly lit photographs too heavily obscured to properly take in.
Anakin isn't there.
And he knows, reasonably, it's an overly (senselessly) sentimental urge that has him grasping for even the slightest glimpse of what was once his broodmate, but no matter how Ren internally chastises himself, he's still there. Still staring. Feet planted, chin raised and obscured beneath the high collar of his heavy coat where it's draped over his shoulders to avoid agitating the sling that holds his left arm in place. Crowds mill past, some stare, others pause briefly to take part in scanning the news before returning to their own routine. The sky dims, city lights rise.
Ren stays.]
II: OPEN - bearings
[Avoid strain. That's what he's been told by the doctor assigned to him by the agency (admittedly unorthodox, but since Ren is both their newest client and a survivor of the attack on Bout it Out, it's considered a 'charitable investment' on their part) which, coincidentally, is exactly what Ren has opted not to do.
The rooftop is high enough to be freezing cold where wind cuts across in occasional gusts, chilling glass and metal and any living soul unfortunate enough to be standing there at the Bearing's peak. In spite of that fact, it's clearly a space that's been cared for with as much attention as the rest of the Benna Building itself: a little older, some of the core structure shows through in corners where circuitry sits clustered in its own nested wiring, but there's no trash to be found, no wayward paint or signs of life. At the farthest end of the balcony is a secure maintenance shed, thick exterior paneling chosen for its ability to keep heavier equipment secure— and at the moment for its ability to withstand thrown jabs from Ren's right arm. Metal to bone, to skin, to the wrappings that barely keep his knuckles from splitting as the reverberations dully echo. It keeps the worst at bay. The aggression, the anger, the urge to act without any amount of direction to guide his hand. Bang bang bang— nerves singing, mind empty and filled to the brim with nothing but absent, abstract sensation.
Better than the alternative.]
III: WILDCARD
[ooc: something else you want to happen? another setting you'd like to use? hit me up and we'll make it so. Ren's staying close to Bearings while he shakes off his injuries and misery, but he still wanders off out of necessity every now and then.]
WHERE: Bearings, Concordia proper
WHEN: 025 onward
SUMMARY: Ren wakes up and instantly regrets it
WARNINGS: discussions of violence, will update as necessary
CLOSED: to hux
[He wakes to nausea. To stiffness in his bones and a dryness on his tongue that refuses to be scraped away or swallowed down. It feels like a different life somehow— like shaking off a long dream, still half-cocooned in someone else's hopes, their fears and overwhelming loss. For a moment (staring blearily at the pale ceiling overhead, soft blankets clinging to his aching shoulders) none of it seems real. That Anakin Skywalker isn't dead from something so human as a flipped switch, that he hadn't gone mad with grief in the aftermath of it. None of them had.
But the bruised, bandaged contours of his own swollen fingers tell a different story. His left shoulder pinches, strained by nothing more than the struggle of a single exhale where exhausted nerves would rather see him back under again. Ren winces, breath hitching in his lungs. He has no idea where he's been left or who's been taking care of him in the interim (it looks like his designated apartment and yet there's something off about it— the scent, the arrangement—) or how long of an interim it's been. Part of him, already steeped in deep regret, isn't eager to find out.]
I: OPEN - concordia
[Continuing the tradition of shut doors and open windows, what follows in the wake of Castor's— and Concordia's— tragedy isn't entirely crushing. News sites and businesses alike have taken to catering to the public's insatiable thirst for drama (a public so generally removed from the loss they often times view the differences between real and fictional struggles are slim at most) and a cadre of reporters now seem to be working around the clock to overturn every figurative stone and pebble within reach. 'Love on the Battlefield' one particularly tasteless headline reads, slapped down over a collage of images of Ilde and Ren from Bout it Out, the article flickering alongside a number of others in storefront glass not far from Bearings. Some of the faces he recognizes: a few heroic shots of the Darkling with his chin held high in the seconds before the bombing took hold, the shadowed outlines of Lexa and Sam as they withdrew from the chaos, a heavily damaged mobile photo of Steve Rogers and the woman that'd seen to him initially— some of the articles even feature artful backstage images of various fighters, hoping to pry something more inspiring from overwhelming fear.
Nearly three minutes pass before Ren realizes he's stopped walking to skim those holographic tabloids, frozen in place, searching without meaning to. Each word, each list of names, even the dimly lit photographs too heavily obscured to properly take in.
Anakin isn't there.
And he knows, reasonably, it's an overly (senselessly) sentimental urge that has him grasping for even the slightest glimpse of what was once his broodmate, but no matter how Ren internally chastises himself, he's still there. Still staring. Feet planted, chin raised and obscured beneath the high collar of his heavy coat where it's draped over his shoulders to avoid agitating the sling that holds his left arm in place. Crowds mill past, some stare, others pause briefly to take part in scanning the news before returning to their own routine. The sky dims, city lights rise.
Ren stays.]
II: OPEN - bearings
[Avoid strain. That's what he's been told by the doctor assigned to him by the agency (admittedly unorthodox, but since Ren is both their newest client and a survivor of the attack on Bout it Out, it's considered a 'charitable investment' on their part) which, coincidentally, is exactly what Ren has opted not to do.
The rooftop is high enough to be freezing cold where wind cuts across in occasional gusts, chilling glass and metal and any living soul unfortunate enough to be standing there at the Bearing's peak. In spite of that fact, it's clearly a space that's been cared for with as much attention as the rest of the Benna Building itself: a little older, some of the core structure shows through in corners where circuitry sits clustered in its own nested wiring, but there's no trash to be found, no wayward paint or signs of life. At the farthest end of the balcony is a secure maintenance shed, thick exterior paneling chosen for its ability to keep heavier equipment secure— and at the moment for its ability to withstand thrown jabs from Ren's right arm. Metal to bone, to skin, to the wrappings that barely keep his knuckles from splitting as the reverberations dully echo. It keeps the worst at bay. The aggression, the anger, the urge to act without any amount of direction to guide his hand. Bang bang bang— nerves singing, mind empty and filled to the brim with nothing but absent, abstract sensation.
Better than the alternative.]
III: WILDCARD
[ooc: something else you want to happen? another setting you'd like to use? hit me up and we'll make it so. Ren's staying close to Bearings while he shakes off his injuries and misery, but he still wanders off out of necessity every now and then.]
no subject
But even with the luxury of conversation between them, for a long minute or two Ren stays silent. His dark hair pulled back to expose the arches of his features, punctuating the fact that his eyes are still fixed firmly ahead at the edges of his own reflection where it bleeds into flickering images.]
Be grateful they weren't part of your brood.
[A tactless response, but an honest one— a sincere one, feeling the rot of his loss right down to the marrow of his bones. A hollowed out abscess, made all the more clear when he adds, listlessly:] He was my grandfather.
[If anyone here is capable of so much as grazing an understanding of what that confession means, however hollow, Ren imagines it's the man who sought to reach for him in the darkness.]
no subject
Of Castor. And of blood. What a connection to lose -- ]
My mother.
[ Dead before his arrival, brought with him and interred within the station. The way others, connected via symbiote, were. He grazes that understanding indeed, cautious and sympathetic - without pitying him; blood but not brood. Blood and brood, in Ren's case. And yet? ]
And yet, more to you than symbiotic connection and a bloodline.
no subject
The truth, he likes less.]
The galaxy feared him. Knew him. [For Ren, who still stands immobile in the shadow cast by his grandfather, there's so much to be admired in that. Not love or compassion or familial bonds, but the knowledge that they were— regardless of everything else— cut from the same cloth.]
Had he lived long enough, this world would have seen it, too.
no subject
Anakin was a faint presence upon him. One more host among the many, who he had not gotten to know outside of he was here, now he's gone. But he meant something, more than brood, more than blood, to Kylo Ren. And that is why he's come to stand here, under these god-forsaken neon lights to hear his words. ]
Does that... fall to you now?
[ He doesn't pull his punches. Not in combat, not in conversation. ]
no subject
The tightness at the corners of his mouth deepens; even steeling himself is a tell, much as he dislikes being so utterly transparent.]
I suppose it does.
[It was his to bear before, the burden of his legacy. Perhaps remains the only constant he's ever truly known.]
no subject
And that tended to be what made him dangerous.
He folds his arms around himself, tucked under the folds of his kefta ( a little tired, of wearing something that is not his, perhaps ) and he steps closer. The casual shift of his weight that places him closer to Ren, leaned in conspiratorially, though his silence is telling in and of itself. He's not one for empty condolences, or platitudes. A soft sound, a sigh maybe - and with it: ] My grandfather was a madman, and a martyr. His legacy was hunger - vicious, bold words in his journals - about the things he did. I followed them to the letter. I sought what he had sought. Answers, to the question that still plagues men like you and I: why am I alone?
[ It's a lot, and it may not help at all. ] I don't doubt you.
no subject
Or perhaps he's so unmoored that even the slightest glimpse of matching contours has him gripping the rails. How much did he see of himself in the scavenger? How much more in Cathaway, Ilde or Hux?]
What did you find?
[Nothing, he thinks absently, bitterly against the grain. He'll have found nothing. As much as the urge to hope wells up in his veins, he's too petty to think someone else might have succeeded where he failed, after all. ]
no subject
His brow knits, smile gracing his face - and it's apologetic, as though upset that he could not give more by way of explanation. There are no others like us, and no amount of sharing among the minds of the nest would soothe that knowledge. They are among newfound connections, but the isolation of the heart is not so easily -- alleviated. Especially not his own. He has been isolated, all his life. ]
I don't know if it is the answer for you, but it's the one I know of. There are no others, not truly, and so - we are alone.
no subject
Fortunately for the Nest, Anakin's death wasn't met with an empty bottle.
But he still bears the memory of it. More than the misery or the illness of that night, he remembers what it was to be reassured by sincerity rather than hollow platitudes. To hear— within the depths of his mind— that he was not alone; to feel it without cynicism and bitterness worming under his skin. For a little while, he was better. Acted without aggravating either his brood or the Nest, supporting their wants and needs to the best of his ability.
And yet now, here they stand.
Rogers steeled against him, Anders saturated with concern— Ren knows the looks his presence warrants from the rest of the Nest, how much a liability they think his strength. Who else stands for him but Ilde? Hux? What weight does their opinion hold without either authority or pressure? His fingertips cinch tighter by degrees, buried against the seamline of his coat pocket. As much as he had ever believed Anders in the moment, he now fully anchors himself to the only relatable truth left.
They are alone.]
no subject
Ren gives himself up to his silence, and his thoughts. Respectfully, he will leave Ren to them. It'd be - unfair, to look in upon his mind and know what has not been freely shared with him. He is a dark creature, but he is absolutely not without tact, after all. ]
I'll leave you be. [ Small mercies, maybe. Ren knows how to find him, if he chooses to seek him out. There is, after all, no rush. No crooked finger, no demand.
He would much rather be freely sought after, than to, well, divest someone of that freedom. He's not going anywhere. ]