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
Even if Ren's first volley lands hard. Bellamy absorbs it with a grunt, mind scrabbling for purchase against the feedback-static of Ren's thoughts as Bellamy slugs him. This isn't the same as fighting Lincoln. There's no finesse. He fights the way Bellamy had, the way Bellamy still does: wild and unchecked, all furious motion. Even down one arm, Ren's fist connects, inevitably patterning bruises along Bellamy's ribs as he shoves him back, swings wildly at his head.
Is this allowed? The inter-nest rules are discovered as he goes along, and for all Bellamy's assurances to the contrary, he still isn't sure what they're doing is permissible or that it will be well-received by the rest of his brood. But for the moment, the foremost emotion is exhilaration, radiating loudly in spite of the undercurrent of pain. ]
no subject
Only when Bellamy strikes a solid hit to his face (left entirely guarded, a thin spatter of blood staining the ground beneath their feet) does Ren stumble backwards in his steps, heavy shoulders swaying from strained balance. His forearm goes to his nose, bright red already staining his features as it trails down to the underside of his lip.]
Good. [Breathless, nodding with a spent glance downwards.] Very good.
no subject
He coughs, spits blood onto the rooftop before he laughs wetly. Lincoln's very present in his thoughts, guilt edging along the throbbing of newly-gifted bruises. Bellamy takes a deep breath as his hands settle on his hips, parsing the praise. ]
I got lucky, [ He deflects. ] And no one's come to break us up yet.
[ Yet. ]
You through?
[ Or sated, momentarily. Bellamy doubts a single round is enough to take the edge off the grief of loss, but he can give Ren the opportunity to save face. ]
no subject
For now.
[Given time— enough of it to breathe— he'll find the will to fight again. He always does.] We haven't met.
no subject
I'm Bellamy Blake.
[ He steps up to the railing, leans a hip against the barrier. For now feels promising. ]
I know who you are.
[ Because why pretend otherwise? ]
no subject
Do you really?
no subject
[ Lexa's summation of Ren had not been particularly favorable, but that's not necessary to share. And now Bellamy has something else to layer over Lexa's words. Ren's grief and anger, the familiarity of that reaction coupled with the way he fights all coalesce. It's a foundation, at the very least, haphazardly laid out, but there's room to improve upon it. ]
I could...feel you, [ He admits, the most honest explanation Bellamy has. ] One of my broodmates was at the parlor with you.
[ The Darkling somehow easier to reference than Lexa. Permanently set to It's Complicated status even in casual conversation. ]
no subject
A shame you came to the Nest so late: it wasn't always this chaotic, coexistence. [No less painful for him, but he knows that it has little to do with the symbiote, and much, much more to do with the Force and its divisive grip.
A long-standing constant, as far as Ren is concerned.]
no subject
What was it like?
[ Had there ever just been one person, alone? Bellamy woke with several others, plunged immediately into the strangeness of people hooking into his head, strange thoughts crowding up against his own. The idea of lacking that, as much as Bellamy misses it, is slowly becoming difficult to imagine. ]
Quieter, I'm assuming.
[ The compliment is noted, but left untouched. Bellamy isn't sure how to respond, and these days, compliments often feel undeserved. His instincts had led him far astray at home. Bellamy never forgets that. ]
no subject
[Not for more life, but for the lack of control: they were squalling infants, alone and afraid and committed to their screaming demands. Newer Hosts are no less capable (or more) yet they have a means to find guidance in the eyes of those who've existed like this for longer.]
But we were united in our lack of understanding. Drawn to coexistence, rather than... [Friction. Like shifting plates they grind against one another where their personalities meet, attempting to force one another into submission.
Even aware of the fact— or of its futility— Ren has no desire to submit. A stubbornness that can't be blamed on Steve Rogers alone.] conflict.
no subject
It felt loud when I arrived.
[ Bellamy takes a step back, wiping the sweat from his brow before sitting on the edge of the roof. ]
Conflict?
[ This is most likely a question he'll regret asking. In the midst of his symbiote induced misery, Bellamy had missed most of what had gone on at the parlor, and the Darkling hadn't seen fit to share it with him. ]