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Don't Repeat It

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Sarge Potteiger

Sarge Potteiger

    Half-Glimpsed Dreamings

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Omega Tower

Fondor

Medbay Room S16-H/R

 

 

He'd been injured a lot over the years. He had the scars to prove it. Standing in the small bathroom of his medical suite, he found himself running the fingers of his right hand down over his cheek, feeling the various bumps and gouges that remained from shrapnel wound twenty five years ago. A quarter of a century; another lifetime, it seemed. In truth, it was. He was actually over four hundred, but cryosleep played havoc on biological time.

 

The image was as clear as it had been even then - a Witch of Dathomir, hatred in her eyes, exploding a tree he was running past in his trip to fresh cover, sending splinters of wood and bark deep into his face. It'd been removed.

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.

 

Lifting his chin, he took sight of the burn scarring left over his throat. A remnant from a too-close lightsaber when a Sith had disguised herself as his CO and held him hostage. The containment field had met his skin, but the pressure had been precise. His throat was mangled, but salvageable. 

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.

 

Adjusting the olive drab shirt clinging to his body, he smoothed it out, frowning as he looked into the bottomless depths of his eyes. Eye he'd not been born with. Eyes he'd not asked for, nor wanted. A remnant of the Dark Harvest, like his Force Sensitivity, or his inability to use telepathy or sense. A reminder of the black tar that had turned corpses into walking, ravenous beasts, and turned the Iron Regiment of HK's into a memory.

 

He'd taken up their dog tags, having been left behind for months on Dagobah. It was his living among the ruins that had given him the eyes. One by one, he'd taken the tags to the families of the fallen, giving them some measure of closure, he hoped. Some visits had reopened old wounds, others had simply aided the healing process. But the eyes... no one was ever comfortable with the eyes.

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.

 

Taking a deep breath, he went back out into his room, eyeing the holonet as news reports ticked across the screen on the wall opposite his bed. Sitting down on the edge, he looked to the datapad set on the bedside table, the utilitarian atmosphere one he purposefully cultivated. This was a mercenary outfit, not a civilian one; their hospitals weren't designed to look good. They were designed for function, and ease of repair.

 

Right now, he wished it had been designed by someone with an eye for style. Perhaps he'd have someone look into remodeling. It was past time for that. 

 

His hand flexed, and the vague whirr of servos made him look down. Half of his palm was flesh, the other a dark, obsidian-like metal. His metal fingers were almost skeletal in appearance, but bore the bulk of tactical design so commonplace among the Pyre. They may be thin, but they were armored, and he could punch his hand clean through a door if he needed to. Not that he wanted to.

 

Anaya had forced his hand, and in doing so, taken a part of it. 

 

It was the scars that remained. Always the scars.


Edited by Sarge Potteiger, 12 August 2017 - 10:40 PM.

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