station72 | I know what you'd say to me, exactly what you'd say to me

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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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Small as he is— young as he is— it might be easy to assume his thoughts are equally as minuscule. That somehow by merit of having less years under his belt Sam suffers less, cares less. But for Ren, who spent the entirety of his young life staring into the breathing, whispering darkness far beyond his parent's reach, he knows better than anyone how untrue that is.

The currents whipping across the rooftop are alive with tangible thoughts and sensations, needs and sorrows, but it isn't until Sam edges close enough to tip the balance that Ren's feverish pace starts to slow. Stop. Reluctantly disturbed, panting heavily, he lifts his chin, glancing upwards towards the sky overhead as exhausted breaths rasp out from between his teeth.] It helps.

[Ren pauses for a moment to swallow down the dryness on his tongue. To finally level his stare at the now-familiar teenager standing just across the way.] It kills the fear, the restlessness.

[Another beat, and then, returning to the hammering repetition of his punches:] —for a little while.

Yeah...I know.

[ He's been there, kind of. Not the same kind of loss, but it was only weeks ago that the shit completely hit the fan back home, before he came here, and he remembers how it felt to punch that impostor wearing his father's face. It had felt good. Or maybe not good, but while it was happening, it stopped feeling bad, and it wasn't until the dust settled that he was able to think about anything else. About feeling betrayed, about worrying about where his real father was and whether he was alive, about whether he could've, should've, figured out what was happening before then. ]

But you can't do it forever.

[ It's a general you more than a specific one; not a commentary on Ren's dedication to making that wall regret its existence.

I couldn't do it forever, is what's a layer under those words. Can anyone do it forever? a layer under that. ]

[To that, there's only silence. The slowly waning thudding of Ren's knuckles against cold metal. Eventually— and this time permamently— he comes to a halt. Like this, with both their minds so committed to the idea of racing, there's not enough focus left in him to drown it out.

So instead he opts for the easier route: changing the subject.]

You left with him, didn't you? The champion. [Too much went wrong that day, but the idea that someone might have managed to glean at least some information in the process at least gives Anakin's death more purpose.] I saw images of what happened.

[The press have plastered themselves across every possible outlet, after all. He'd have to have been blind not to see it.]

[ A subject change sounds pretty good, to be honest. ]

Yeah.

[ The press. Ugh. But it'd fit right in with the person he'd presented himself as, at the fight. Just some kid who was a big fan of Kun-Kun and completely nonthreatening. Getting the hell out of there with his supposed idol wouldn't look weird.

Which is good, because who knows how long they're going to be stuck still working this problem? Why can't there just be something he can blow up and they're done. ]

We're gonna meet him again later. It wasn't exactly a great time to talk.

[Understandable. Injured or not, there was no doubt in Ren's mind that whatever damage wasn't done by the blast was carried out by a panicked, incensed crowd. Lingering anywhere for the sake of conversation would've been a poor decision on their part.

Still...

Ren pauses, turning over the wrappings across his fingers, winding them tighter with methodical devotion.] I want to be with you when you do.

[ He wasn't expecting that.

Okay, he knows Lexa wasn't the only one with at least some interest in being present for the meeting, to be fair, but nobody else had been so vocal about it. He definitely doesn't remember Ren showing that kind of interest in the planning stages. Sure, circumstances change, opinions change, but -

- well, the most obvious thing that changed, uh. ]

You're not gonna flip and try to hurt people again, are you?

[It shouldn't upset him: there's no arguing that he didn't break when he awoke to the gutting emptiness of Anakin's loss, or that he hadn't intended to violently lash out in response to it. But for a split second Ren's features cinch tighter by degrees, pulse ticking upwards— and then ebbing off once again.

He's too tired, drawn down to the bone, to adhere to his own demanding nature.]

Anakin Skywalker was my blood. My family. [More than just the bond between broodmates, they were one and the same. That Anakin died without that knowledge does nothing to detract from the fact in Ren's eyes.]

I know what the others think of me. That they fear me. [If not overtly, then what he's capable of.] But I was denied my vengeance for it.

I don't intend to let that happen again.

[ It's not quite as accusatory as it could've been, really - especially not once that revelation comes into play. There's a mix of sympathy and understanding rolling off of Sam, even if he does think it was a boneheaded thing to do.

It's the same kind of boneheaded thing he would probably do, for one. Sam's got a hair-trigger temper when it comes to defending his own family, and he knows this has to be so much worse. No matter how screwed up things have been for him lately, there's still hope that his father is alive - and if he is dead, at least Sam definitely didn't have to feel him die like that. ]

Sorry. I get it. I mean, I don't get it get it, but.

[ And that's genuine, even if he follows it up with - ]

But this guy's not who you should take it out on.

[ And if Ren just means that he wants to be there because that's the first step to tracking down who he should be taking it out on, well. Sam still has his doubts that having someone there giving off I am super gonna kill people vibes is going to be a great argument for them as reliable allies in all of this. ]

I don't mean to take him on. [Even tempered by Sam's gentler emotions, irritation prickles high across the back of Ren's neck, along the set of his shoulders. Much as he knows there's no twisting the knife to get what he wants, there's an instinctive frustration festering under his skin— made infinitely worse by the thought that he might be refused an opportunity to act.

His teeth set against one another, gritted while he works his jaw to reel in any apparent frustration. It isn't a subtle gesture.]

What do you know of the Force?

[ Aw, hell.

This is so not how he wanted his day to go. ]

I've heard of it.

[ Which is perfectly true, if a bit of an understatement. Sam definitely had the Darth Vader bedsheets when he was like, six. (In his venerable old age of fifteen, on the other hand, he's found himself gravitating much more strongly to Luke, because kid from a dead-end town in the desert, thrust out into a dangerous galaxy to try and take up his father's legacy? More relatable than he ever thought it would be.) ]

It's like...an energy field, right? Surrounds us, penetrates us, binds the galaxy together?

[ Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi. ]

[There was a time when Ren would've balked at that explanation. Now, weathered by time, loss and intergalactic isolation, it's enough to give him pause: his eyebrows lift, mouth thinned out into a rigid line as his head cants in a mild, accepting nod.

He had no idea you were from his part of the galaxy, Sam.]

My connection to it is somewhat diminished by the symbiote. Reaching out across a substantial distance is...taxing. [And he's found more recently that just because he can doesn't mean that he should.] The closer I am when you speak to him, the better our chances are of uncovering anything he or his contacts might be hiding.

[Hence:] Negotiate all you like. Tell him I'm present as a bodyguard, a fellow competitor or a survivor of the attack— I don't care— all I need is proximity.

[ ...okay, fair point. As long as Ren's back to being in control and not in crazy cut-a-bitch mode, his talents could be pretty useful, especially considering - ]

I think I can tell if he's lying. But...I'm not so sure if it's just lying by omission.

[ He doesn't have a great mental picture of what his symbiote is doing to him, not yet. But he's picking things up here and there - small moments when someone says something, or he overhears snatches of another conversation, and his stomach churns and something in the back of his mind says that's not true, like a gut feeling but far more clear and insistent than anything he's ever chalked up to gut feelings before.

If anyone starts trying to feed them bullshit, he's pretty sure he'll catch it, but if they simply don't say everything they should, he's less certain. ]

[It prompts a careful, searching glance from Ren at least. Yes, the symbiote could have a great deal to do with the ability to act as a living, breathing lie detector— and what's more likely than any other option is that Sam is, at the heart of it all, simply more perceptive than the average human— but there's something to be said for someone who holds knowledge of the Force's existence showing signs of startling intuition.]

Explain.

[ Ren has a really uncomfortable something when he looks interested, doesn't he?

But Sam ignores it and just arches an eyebrow for a moment, because seriously, dude? ]

"Please." Still not gonna kill you.

[ But he doesn't actually expect that to sink in, so he just moves on ahead and explains. ]

I keep getting this...feeling? Like every now and then somebody says something and something in the back of my mind is like, hey, that's a bunch of crap. And every time it happens - every time - for a minute I feel like I'm gonna throw up.

[ It's the nausea that really clinches it, to him. Without that, it'd be easy to think that he just decided someone was full of shit, but Sam's never exactly been shy about calling bullshit when he sees it, and the feeling he's been getting now is completely new. ]

[Interesting. Enough that Ren fully ignores Sam's chiding suggestion, opting instead to say nothing for a few moments longer - the silence a promise that he's mulling over it all with dedicated consideration.]

All the more reason to combine our strengths.

[If the boy is truly Force-sensitive, it might be best to leave the subject off-table for now: there's no telling who might invest in him if they learned of it, or how they might think to try and stop Ren from expanding Sam's understanding of his own abilities. Ahsoka especially would take notice, and she— devoted to interfering with Ren's every action— would never grant him even the smallest opportunity to share his knowledge, not to mention those linked to her mind, her thoughts, her wants.

Better to say nothing.]

[ That, admittedly, is a pretty fair point. Twice the chance of figuring out any bullshit, and it's not like anything should be happening at the meeting that would get...that reaction, again. Sam can hardly judge someone for losing their shit when their family is hurt; he's pretty good at that himself. ]

I don't have a problem with it, but Lexa's the one who has big plans for how this goes.

[ Sam's mostly just along for the ride, because he doesn't know how else to be useful. ]

Speak with her, then. [Coersion and charm: never his strengths, despite being the son of a diplomat— and a smuggler. Where others found their calling in words, action makes up almost the entirety of his forte. And Lexa wants little to do with him, this he already knows.

Between the both of them, Sam could do better.]

[ Flat stare. ]

Have you ever asked for anything nicely in your life?

What benefit is there to being kind. [The word sticks to Ren's tongue, lip curling back in contempt.] I offer what I offer for the good of the Nest.

If you don't want it, refuse. [Go on, Sam. Go right ahead.]

I dunno, what benefit is there to acting like a total douchebag? [ He ain't impressed by this EVIL BADASSES CAN'T SAY PLEASE routine, bro. ] 'Cause you know, that's the kind of thing that tends to make people not want to work with you.

[ ...regardless. ]

Didn't say I wouldn't talk to her, but dude, your people skills suck.

[There's a weighted pause and then, without pretense (not to mention flatly), Ren adds:] I don't speak to them often.

[People, that is. You can probably imagine why, Sam.]

Yeah, I can tell.

[ Though he doesn't sound all that judgmental about it. More like quietly resigned to the fact that, okay, Ren is a hot mess, but clearly that's just going to be part of dealing with him, in the same way that if you're tripping around the galaxy with Rocket Raccoon then you'd better be used to guns. ]

But coordinated action is a lot easier with people who don't want to toss each other out windows.

[His brow creases sharply; head tilting downwards towards his shoulder:] I have no desire to throw anyone out a window aside from our enemies.

[At least not currently, anyway. Seasons change, stars burn out, etc etc.]

Figure of speech.

...usually.

[ Sam's wanted to throw a few people who weren't technically enemies out the window here and there, after all. ]

But the window part kinda isn't the point. The point is just... [ He shrugs. ] Why make things harder?

I do as I'm ordered. As is necessary. [Whatever cooperation might be required, he'll bend to it (in theory, at least) without wounding or inhibiting his allies in the process— or with them. Whatever is required.] That should make it less difficult.

[In fact:] The only one making this more difficult is you.

I know what you'd say to me, exactly what you'd say to me— I still hang on every word:

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