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
[How else would he describe the pinnacle of his lineage? The galaxy's greatest terror— the secret his mother kept from him until it was ripped from her hands on the Senate floor, spat out from someone else's lips; the promise that in spite of all his pain, his rejection and turmoil as the Force gripped him with divisive hunger, he was bound to a far greater destiny. His broodmate, his blood, the Force—
—and now, nothing.
His voice is hoarse with that overwhelming emptiness, stare unfixed.]
He was my grandfather, though he never knew it.
no subject
But then and now, it had been a show, something she unleashed within herself, and she binds it up as quickly as possible, stuffing it down quickly.
Thinking of the bond of the Nest, she wonders how he could keep that a secret.]
It makes sense, then, that he is everything to you. [And not Cathaway.] If you could keep that a secret, then you must be strong in his stead. I know that he was a great warrior. [Discerned from details from Ahsoka, but some part of this feels like a chance to try to infuse Kylo Ren with strength. He cannot break down yet again, and cannot become the same feral animal she distantly sensed while speaking to Kun-Kun.]
no subject
What did you know of him? [The question is sharp, but not purposefully (not directly) so: to call Darth Vader a great warrior is to say the sun is warm, the ocean damp— a reminder that here, he died as little more than a brittle cocoon. His uninjured arm lifts, its hand buried against his face as Ren scrubs tiredly at his own skin. Even to his own brood, Anakin was a difficult man to reach.
Now that he's gone, it seems likely all that he was remains out of the Nest's collective grasp. The thought grates. Digs under his skin like a maddening itch, something to lament and hate in equal parts.]
no subject
From there, I've drawn my own conclusions. I hoped to know him better. [Or to have a better hold on him, mentally, because it seemed like so much of Ahsoka's life was in his hands.]
Now I can't. Now we can't. We can't lose ourselves in what we can no longer accomplish. Only what we can gain moving forward. [Her hand motions to where he's been punching.] You gain nothing from this.
no subject
And what else would you have me do?
[Rogers stood in his way, Anders anchored him, the city— hungry for attention in the wake of tragedy— clamors at his heels and there's a claustrophobia to how boxed-in he is from without and within, incapable of committing to action as he otherwise would be.]
no subject
She cannot fault Cathaway for seeing him in the same way, but she now believes that it's a calculating move on the woman's part. (She is unaware of the actual tension there, having no reason to believe that things are any different.)
Lexa recalls her conversation with Aoba, her talks with Ilde, and her moments with Bellamy just hours before the Bout it Out tournament where they went separate ways. Facing everything is what's necessary, and doing it efficiently has always been her goal.]
What can you do? In order to bring retribution to those who deserve it, you'll need to utilize your strengths. What are they? [Directing his power feels necessary, and she assumes from the mess she could hear in the back of her mind after the bombing that he has some power, albeit she doesn't know what it is.
(And she's still without a real knowledge of the Force. That's what happens when you condescend to people who will provide the answers you want: you sometimes don't get those answers.)]
no subject
It wouldn't be the first time he's laid out his saber for an ally of the First Order, rather than its networked ranks.
His eyes fall on scattered city lights, voice absent, stare unfixed.] I can scour the city for a single sign of life without leaving this building; I can lift starships, crush metal, shatter bone— pick apart someone's mind like a toy. Without the symbiote, I can sense...everything.
[And with it, less— and more— it is a learning process that he struggles to control.]
I only need a target, and the means to recognize their thoughts.
no subject
Yet again: there is opportunity. It is a matter of making herself useful, or perhaps making others useful. Even if she could utilize her powers, she would never be subtle enough. What they require is slight of hand, tricks and manipulation, things that can't be found on camera. Fire always will be visible.
And so, there is some genuine interest in helping herself in guiding him. Yes, it's opportunistic, but more than that, he is better for this task than her. Even if she's a diplomat and capable of seeking the meaning between lines, her world has never trained her in the niceties present in others. That will always be a point where she stumbles. But she is a tactician.]
We will find your target. [There are suspects, but depending on what Angel finds in the core, depending on what comes out via the news, depending ... on a lot of things, he may be better utilized with some than others. And since he can mess with minds, they don't need to utilize Aoba (or Petre, should it come to that). Yes, she can see herself delegating them to take on different tasks with different people, becoming less suspicious all the while.
It's almost in respect to him that she hides little of this way, showing that she does have some competence and plans moving. It is not all about getting the Flame in one place, but she is better sitting in the shadows and pointing people places. While she is a trained warrior, it is her mind and ruthlessness that others in her world value.]
Are you able to do this from a distance? [She pauses for a moment, realizing that's not a very clear inquiry about his limitations.] More precisely: what are the limitations of what you can do to someone's mind? There are others who can act in similar ways, but I would prefer that all of you are correctly positioned. [She does intend to send him after whoever was behind the bombing, but the how still needs to be figured out.
(Send. As if she's giving orders. Lexa falls into it without noticing.)]
no subject
He exhales wearily, shuts his eyes and leaves the rippling discomfort to fall away.]
Close proximity makes it easier, nothing more. [The closer he is, the more precise the pain, the pressure; the less energy he expends in the process.] I can torture without physical contact for information and inspect their memories as necessary— and if I must, I can bend the weak-willed.
[A beat, tension wound throughout his shoulders:] Nothing will keep me from the vengeance I'm owed. [Not fear, not mercy.]
no subject
Then again, they all seemed to be gathered around one individual: him. It occurs to her that she may need to see how others perceived that course of events.]
Jus drein, jus daun. [A beat and there's a distant stirring in her mind of approval. The Commanders of her past hope to remind her of her roots.
Though, here, she brings it up to appeal to him. Still, it may be necessary to kill anyone who stands in their way, especially if there is no other choice when it comes to improving this world. Their Enemy has too much of an advantage.]
It means: blood must have blood. I understand. But your grandfather was not just killed by someone here. He is a part of a greater conspiracy. The Enemy we face is far-reaching. You will have to take your vengeance as far as you can. [He cannot only have his use here, but down the line. That much is apparent to her.]
no subject
[The imprint left on him by Cathaway's vision still burns white-hot against his neck like a brand. Were he weaker, prone to buckling, that knowledge would cripple him with fear—
Instead he knows those malignant, malformed cracks to be his purpose. His target.
But however far-reaching that end goal remains, it doesn't change the fact that the humans in this world directly responsible for Anakin's death still carry a debt to be paid in full.]
Find me my target, Lexa.
[And who knows: should you follow through, he might even call you 'commander' for it.]
no subject
Fear and strength and everything in-between comes in one package. She would be foolish to believe otherwise.
For now, she takes a step back, nodding ever so slightly toward his hand.]
Keep yourself in one piece. [He may heal—they may heal—but they are better without their blemishes.]