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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I hope this is sort of what you were looking for, anon.

...

1.

Here are several useful lessons Ren has learned, though too late as usual:

While bleeding from the nose, you must always tilt your head forward rather than backward. Blood running down into the throat leads, rather predictably, to vomiting, an unproductive activity when your meals are being so economically rationed. A grating, crackling sound from the chest always accompanies broken ribs. A single unresponsive pupil indicates hemorrhaging, or else a subdural hematoma in the brain. A rip in the sphincter muscle makes sitting for any length of time deeply impossible, so pacing is usually a better option.

And names are important, of course, which is why they took his away and left this breakable, vile body behind.

But this is just as well, Ren reasons to himself. Perhaps this is even for the better. He wasn’t doing anything worthwhile with either of them.

2.

Although it certainly would be a bit better, Ren must admit, if he could not read their thoughts, or feel their rage and their disgust and their pristine white apathy going through him like threads through the eye of a needle.

There may be a way to shut such things out, to be allowed at least some retreat into the final sanctuary of his own mind, but Ren never learned how to do it. That was a later lesson in his uncle’s training.

Or it would have been, rather.

So.

3.

As a child, his hair was in a near-permanent state of dishevelment. No comb could keep it in place, no trim seemed to tame it for more than a week. It grew like the briers of a summer thicket. He would arrive home with twigs and leaves all tangled up inside it, and then sit with a small, solemn patience while Leia removed each one.

This is usually what Ren is thinking of as Hux takes a great fistful of his hair by the roots and jerks his head back until their gazes meet.

Ren’s expression does not change.

“Quite astonishing, really,” Hux observes, still winded. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his chest and pooled in the hollow of his throat. “Would that my soldiers were half so impassive. Tell me, what goes on inside that lauded mind of yours? What do you imagine?”

“Dying,” Ren answers, flatly.

“Oh, come now, that’s not terribly creative. You’ve already done that.” His voice raises, swings around, and he swings Ren’s head around as well until they are both facing the holorecorder. “Wouldn't you say so, General?”

4.

Despite burdensome evidence to the contrary – according to his father, anyhow – Ren is an excellent listener. He remembers every word they tell him.

Presented, as evidence:

“And do you know what happens then?” a captain asks. This is the one who enjoys tightening a rope around Ren’s throat, until his vision turns black at its edges, so he assumes these questions are more of a sportive rhetorical exercise. “I discover the whole munitions factory has been bombed. Who do you suppose was responsible for that? We – ”

“ – Lost an perfectly serviceable venator-class destroyer to one of your bitch mother’s squadrons today,” says a sergeant, although the flourishing way in which he wields the slender monochord whip bespeaks some prior experience in the Outer Rim’s slave pens. “It will take months to assess the total losses. I suppose my sole consolation has to be in the fact that she and everyone else realizes –”

“—What a twisted sense of humor the Supreme Leader has,” a major observes, readjusting his coat and belt while he turns to his companion. “There’s a word for that, isn’t there? People who, well, you know, with corpses? I can’t remember what letter it starts with, but with him it’s practically–”

5.

There is a recording device about the size of Ren’s thumbnail suspended from the ceiling of his containment cell. He stares at this often, whenever he reemerges from some memory of his former life and realizes that he is weeping.

(He would like a bath with real soap. He would like an apple, the crisp kind from Corellia. He would like to have his fingers properly splinted, although one would need to be re-broken first because it is already healing at a crooked angle. He would like to apologize.

All of these desires are equally impossible.)

Then he imagines how this must sound from the other end, his sobs and dry retching made faintly absurd when layered over with the pins-and-needles noise of static feedback, and usually this helps him to stop.

6.

Ren must look three times before he can be certain he is not imagining that girl there in the doorway, because she is clothed in the robes of a master and she carries his grandfather’s lightsaber in one hand.

Fifteen minutes ago – he’s kept count, one-two-three in time with his stuttering pulse – the bright, staring lights in his containment cell had gone out. The darkness carried sounds of shouting to him, the tramp of feet and the staccato of blaster-fire and the glass-thin scream of someone who sounded very much like his prison guard. The girl takes a step towards Ren and he flinches, so hard his head cracks against the wall he has backed himself up against.

He staggers once.

In three more business-like steps, the girl has let her saber drop with a sparking clatter and reached out to catch him while he falls. She braces her knees and does not fold beneath the sagging weight of his body. Her fingers curl hesitatingly against his back, so carefully that he almost does not feel them.

“Um,” she says. “Hello. My name is Rey. Your mother sent me here to rescue you. I was hoping I wouldn’t be too late – you’re Ben Solo, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Ben answers. “I am.”
…

BEAMING WITH BLISS. YES. I ACCEPT THIS AS AN ALTERNATE CANON TIMELINE.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhnoooo

I'm so glad this had a rescue at the end. That was so sadgood especially how they take out their hate of the resistance on him.

PROMPT POST #4

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Crepitus (1/1)

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Re: Crepitus (1/1)