gonna wash that man right outta my hair.

[snaphiss]

CHARACTERS: Little Jacen narcissithstic & Aunt Mara snaphiss
WHERE: Bearings roof.
WHEN: the asscrack of dawn, d44.
SUMMARY: Mara brings a lightsaber to a knife fight.
WARNINGS: namecalling, hair-pulling, kinkshaming, violence, will update as necessary.

Mara waits. Waiting is what wins battles, wars, everything. She agreed with Thrawn on very few matters, but his methods were ones she could approve of, if only in their abstract strategic brilliance. Rushing in hot was satisfying, but would kill you sooner than it rewarded you. Mara waits.

She knows Kylo Ren, the man who was once Jacen. But even that infant deserved to know the extent of his errors. There could be no alliance between them, if he thought his trespasses were just. There could be no future for him at all, if he truly believed the end of his will was the way forward. Who would want such a walking death?

Mara waits, and she plans. He likes the roof-- often, she can feel him there in the Force. So Mara makes contacts, asks questions, and gets to work. Electromines, the size of her thumb and flat as flimsi, are easily attached and painted the color of the floor. She sets them up around the roof in a general pattern clustering mostly by the sides and entrance, better to block his escape. She only needs him stunned for a moment, two, before she can disappear into darkness. She has an entire childhood of running around in megacities like this; she's more than sure she can evade him.

She carefully rewires the lights to the bearings roof, connecting the switch to a transmitter in her glove. That transmitter, nested with the one that activates the electromines, waits to be activated in the soft fabric of her thumb. Everything lies dormant, waiting.

Once, she could cloak herself entirely in the Force. It's been harder and harder since the Emperor- since the Symbiote. But she tries anyway; she's been meditating for days, doing her utmost to make a wall around herself, a null presence in the Force and the Nest. She can't wait any longer.

Kylo Ren comes here often. She dims the lights, finds a place to hide in shadow, and she waits.

Comments

[snaphiss]

So you give up? [She spits the words out, as angry as him but twice as still. Rage animates Kylo Ren, but it freezes Mara in time, makes her think faster, sharper, more keenly. She has the advantage, here, and by her estimate he's only a fledgling dark Jedi, nothing compared to Vader.]

[So she decides to dig in her advantage. Goading him isn't her objective, but if that's the result, what's the loss? She's prepared for a fight.]

You roll over and let yourself be used, because it's an easy road to power. I shouldn't have expected any different of a Skywalker.

[narcissithstic]

[Twice. Twice now she's dared to call him by name. His blood is boiling, bound fingers flexing at his side as though he's near to succumbing to darker urges. Let her say he's Ben Solo, then, while she's too broken to stand.]

Call me that again, and I'll show you power.

[The kind that's been won from Cathaway's favor and not the Force alone. Proof that however much she might let fear rule her, he isn't limited by the allegiance he's forged.]

[snaphiss]

I don't need to repeat myself. You obviously don't need to be reminded. [It's curt and cutting, with her long harbored instinct for knowing how to land an insult. This is obviously a raw subject. Mara makes it rawer.]

[She realizes she does want a fight. She wants to prove that she can't be defeated and molded into someone else's idea of who she is, what she should be. She won't be someone's pet, someone's project. The idea of attacking Jacen unprovoked is detestable, but the idea of fighting off Kylo Ren's opening salvo is survivable, beneficial, even.]

[He'll make the first move. Dark Jedi always do.]

[So she says her piece and turns, leaving an opening for him if he wants to take it. Walks toward the door, trying to keep her own readiness hidden.]

[narcissithstic]

[They're both predictable: cut from the rough composite of their collective pasts and shared present, Ren knows what she digs for just as keenly as she knows he'll leap all too eagerly at an opportunity to provide it. In a way, that in and of itself is a bizarre comfort compared to how his simpering uncle had fled from conflict — how his mother and father did the same, incapable of stomaching the idea of his wrath.

Whatever their immediate confrontation means for them, he admires it, her boldness. Her contempt.

Which is why he holds nothing back when he plays into it, palm upturned and flat, lurching forward with a guttural snarl to throw her back against her own momentum as he'd done to the Scavenger twice before. Only this time, there's more weight to it in his palm; the Force comes more easily— more readily. There's no static interference, the symbiote bends to his will rather than fighting it.

Is this Cathaway's doing?

(— or has he simply managed to bond more closely with the creature under his skin?)]

[snaphiss]

[Mara takes the fall, and rolls into it, dropping to the ground. In a moment, she's ready, twisting back to face him, her hand on the lightsaber at her side. The only true companion, something that can be counted on at times like this: a gift from a friend.]

You don't want to fight me.

[She knows he does. But it's worthwhile to warn him, even if it's in the most gnomic way possible. Holding Skywalker's lightsaber in her hand, she remembers his brave words in Jabba's den, and how foolish they'd seemed then.]

[In the middle of a fight, for once in her life, it's almost like she isn't alone.]

[narcissithstic]

[And then she ruined it, that moment of admiration. Of kinship.

Clutching the cold metal of Skywalker's saber, she sounds so much like him that Ren almost tastes the salt air of a foreign planet, the stench of decay and fear. His features twist, expression dark, hateful beyond reason— ugly, the line of his scar. Marred. Damaged.

He reaches for the saber at his hilt without hesitation, sparking it to life in an instant and stalking towards her to close the distance, granting ample opportunity to guard herself (and she will).]

Yes, [Ren growls, air catching the edges of his teeth, cutting into every word.] I do.

[snaphiss]

[She ignites her blade only after he does. In the end, she's not enough like Skywalker to count. With a cocky shrug, she says,] If you insist.

[It's easy, then, to cede ground. The sort of thing a Dark Jedi, a Sith-- she's still not sure which he is-- would take as a victory. Mara, always longing to be underestimated, hopes to give him that feeling of victory. She backs slowly away, out of the electromine field, hoping he'll follow.]

[narcissithstic]

[ Too readily, he does: the moment her blade is ignited, his heavy footsteps turn into a lunge forward, eagerly carrying his full weight into a brutal downward swing aimed ever-so-viciously at the space she's currently inhabiting. Long arms, the advantage of height, all of it means he spends little effort on anything but his actual attacks.

Still, he cares for her, in his own way.

He also trusts her to block— and likely stagger under the fury of his blows. She might have trained beneath the Emperor, but she is not Darth Vader, that much he's certain of.]

[snaphiss]

[And she does block, meeting his strikes readily. She's used to fighting taller, stronger men, and this is no different. The people she trained with, on, were more controlled, surgical with their strikes, always prying for weaknesses and foibles. Fighting Kylo Ren is a different thing entirely.]

[Once she's clear of the mines, she tries to push him back with the Force. As always, her strike is weaker than she'd like. Once, she was strong, under the Empire, unbeatable. Now, she's a shadow of herself. All the more reason to plan. Finally, Mara moves past her defense, strikes toward him, aiming brutally for his shoulder. If the blow landed, it would be immobilizing, but not fatal. It could heal in a few days.]

[She might even be able to heal it.]

[But that's only if the blow lands.]

[narcissithstic]

[His heels dig in against her shove, resolute; it keeps his balance rooted firmly in place, but leaves him completely open for—

—there's a hissing array of sparks, the scent of scorched flesh (that will heal) he snarls in time with it and reels back only for an instant, having clumsily measured the ferocity of her strikes. Her defenses.

And then he recalibrates. Turns on his heel to hunt her, hound her, just as he'd done to the scavenger, the traitor before her - a merciless series of swings designed to drive Mara Jade back on her heels, ever closer to the railing, aiming to pin her there by sheer Force of will.

By fear, naturally.]

FINALLY

[snaphiss]

[He doesn't remind her of his father or his mother, he never had. More and more lately, he reminds her of C'boath. It's no compliment.]

[If anything, it's worrying; she killed C'boath. She doesn't want to kill him. She's already retreating from the idea that she's wounded him. No, she's drawing this out too much, taking too many risks. Time to end it.]

[He bears down on her, all angry weight, and she's small and quick and slips away. It's a gap that can't last more than a moment, but that's all she needs it to last. She's far enough away that she can press her fingers together and let the mines react.]

[Electricity shoots from the ground, and it reaches out to Kylo Ren for a conduit.]

TOUCHGOAL

[narcissithstic]

[There's a flicker of hesitation; he can feel it, assumes (selfishly) that it's the same apprehension he's faced a thousand times before as an immediate response to his unrestrained fury. It comes as a taste of satisfaction when he's already been soaked through with bitterness.

Even her deft retreat has him eager, fixated and focused. He won't kill her, not even with the Nest as a buffer against that level of retaliation, but to see her relent. Run, without a choice—

His eyes are narrowed, lips peeled back in a hungry scowl as his saber skirts the railing, twisting to give chase. A single breath, the start of his pursuit and something....pinches along his spine. Small, cold, sharp - it lasts a millisecond before blossoming outward: a blinding, piercing flash. Ren isn't even aware of the fact that he stumbles for it, or the sound of his saber clattering to the ground, skidding noisily across the rooftop. All he's dimly aware of is an overhead view of the skyline above when he falls, consciousness flickering like a spent bulb.]

[snaphiss]

[Despite herself, despite the necessity of the action, her heart still lurches to see Jacen hurt. When she walks over to him, it's not with the angry prowl of a victor. She kneels down next to him, and reaches out with an almost maternal gentleness.]

[Almost maternal. She wouldn't let herself be so openly caring, if she only knew what 'maternal' looked like. She just can't let herself be the master reaching for its pet.]

I've killed stronger men than you. [She says it calmly, with lingering kindness in her voice.] You're strong because you want to be. I'm strong because I have to be. And I've never failed, because I'm not dead.

[She touches his shoulder with gentleness and care.] Remember that.

stop hurting me with tags thx

[narcissithstic]

[His response is guttural. Tensed by spasming muscles as he strains to lift his own hand, fingers clawed as they reach, trembling, for hers. He's an inch or two shy of the mark when he exhales too-sharply between his teeth and falls back.]

You weren't there— [It's not what he wants to say, only what comes out as the numbness starts to fade, leaving his thoughts frustratingly intact.] Why...weren't you there, when he—

—when Luke Skywalker killed him.

[If she thinks herself so cunning, so strong; if she survived the collapse of the Empire long enough to know better, to carry Luke Skywalker's saber - there's only one logical conclusion to draw.]

nah.

[snaphiss]

[Keenly aimed, Kylo Ren's aim is true, and it hits its target better than his blade ever could have. Mara's gone through it a thousand times herself, Why wasn't I there? Why couldn't I protect him? She has a thousand answers, but none are ever sufficient.]

[For the first time, that doesn't cause her the usual anguish. Anger, frustration, yes, those emotions flare through the Force and their bond like surging pulse, but for once, there's no sadness, no mourning for the man.]

[As ever, she forces the emotions down, ignoring them, boxing them up for later. She'll need them some day, but not now. Still, when she speaks, it's strained with the effort of her calm.] Because I was carrying out his will elsewhere. I pick my battles; do you really think I could have stood up against both Skywalkers?

[Maybe, with the Emperor by her side, but he hated direct combat when he could have a champion dance for him. No, they'd all have died.]

[narcissithstic]

[It's not a satisfying answer. But then, he never imagined it would be.

Ren rolls onto his side, away from her gentle grip, his back set to her as he breathes.]

Then pick your battles more carefully this time.

[It's a frigid statement, cold enough to freeze the air between them— and then it does, somehow. When he's upright, on his heels and facing her, ragged at the seams. A mental connection that's so physical he can feel it, the instant it closes around her like a vice. Like the Force - only this time, it costs him nothing. No distant channeling, no pain; he doesn't even notice that his nose bleeds for it.

Ren leans in, voice low.] You can't beat her.

[Neither of them can as they are now. A simple, cutting truth.

And then he retreats— and she's as she was— when he sluggishly moves to retrieve his saber from the far end of the rooftop. No speeches, no seething hatred, just...bone-deep fatigue, the scent of scorched ozone and flesh.]

[snaphiss]

[He moves too fast, so fast it gives her chills. She doesn't like being at anyone's mercy, and being at a loss, being for a moment confused, is essentially the same. A chill runs up her spine as she stands, watching him go.]

[Despite her fear, she has to say it. The reason she's here:] And you can't beat me.

[narcissithstic]

[For that, he stops— just for a moment. It lets in the noise of the city, the hum of a thousand lives so near that either Mara or Ren could reach out and take hold of any single mind in an instant; fledgling hosts, their loneliness, their distress.

The empty space where Anakin Skywalker had once been.]

No, I can't.

[He's lost too much already, and Mara Jade— in spite of every disagreement, every ounce of resentment that might exist between them— is the closest thing to family he has left. Closer than his own had ever dared to be. To best her would mean killing her, spending every ounce of his cruelty and strength rather than holding back.

For now, as long as he remains wholly himself, he won't.

So he leaves.]