First Reply Dirt

[Fenn Stag]

AND YET I FIGHT


DURO

PUBLIC PARK

2348 LOCAL TIME


​

Over his life, he had held a lot of them.

Some smaller, some larger. Some more deadly than others. But they all weren't as heavy as the one in his hands.

Not as loud, when it would go off.
​

Not as dangerous, when it was left unattended.

Not as vile as whoever would have to be there.
​

He came to Duro to find work, but- life as a mercenary was hollow. It felt empty. He hardly felt like himself. He hardly felt like anyone. A hollow, vapid shell of his former self. Everything in his life, the things he strived for, the things he wanted, fell away, buried, dead, gone. By his own hand or by the actions, or inactions, of others. But in the end, he was left with himself. He took his armor off, dressed in the garb of a spacer. It didn't feel right to be here, to be thinking of what he was, of what he might do, to wear it. He never felt like he could forgive himself, if he wore it now- even in the throes of hell.

​

He hated what they did to him.

He hated what they told him. The Republic, the Jedi, the Mandalorians, the- everyone.

He hated how he felt.
​

He hated how he woke up each morning, or night- with not a hope in the galaxy.

He hated how he went to sleep, hoping that each morning would be different. That something would change.

Nothing ever did.

He had not lived in years.

He just survived.

He just pressed on.

For what?

For who?

For himself?

For the Mandalorians?

For money?

For fame?

For happiness?

A chance at a family?

A chance at redemption?

A chance to make it all right, for all the wrong he had done?
​

He was a bad man.

He tried to be good, but he was just born bad.

He was born broken, maybe, even.

Something was off, something never quite sat right in his mind, in his soul. A restless feeling, an unending feeling of never belonging, never being able to cling to hope for more than a split second. Every bit of hope that he ever faced, ever held onto, washed away. Washed away and he was left with nothing, nothing but the finality of choice- the choice of the abyss, or the perseverance in spite of it all, to hope, and to dream of a future that had not materialized, and maybe never would. If he ended it now, he made his own choice, and no one else's. No one else could make it for him.

He felt the Reaper on his shoulder, the ever-looming presence of the void, the abyss. He felt it when he awoke. He had killed so many, hurt so many. It was surely going to be his time sometime soon, if not later. Recompense had to come, and maybe it was smarter to beat everyone to the punch.

Or he lived for spite.

He stared down at the ground, the darkness of the night concealing his eyes. His hair fell around his face, tired bags around his blue eyes. He looked at his shoes, his legs, his armor-less body, wondering.

He blinked.

He closed his eyes.

And he began to count.

​

OOC Note:

Sometimes writing is cathartic. I'm okay.

​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Fenn Stag //:

The Sith had plans.

They were looking for routes through trade and the like. For almost a millennia, the Corellian routes were considered the best. Quinn had begun her search and climb through the Empire's political routes. Ties to the Imperial family helped, but she had always wanted to make a name for herself. Conversations with Malum, among others, always made her question her status. She was an estranged Princess. Going home felt impossible, especially with the Alliance's grip on Eshan and her older sister.

Thoughts of home always brought her mood down, souring it for a brief moment till something else decided to interrupt her day. Quinn had come to Duro to investigate further along the Corellian trade routes. Despite Duro's decent economy, the pollution was enough to scare anyone away. It made the young Echani woman regret every moment on the planet's surface. Over her face, she wore a simple purifier; at least she would be able to take full, complete breaths without wondering if there was more tar in the air than oxygen.

Her journey was coming to a close; she would luckily be leaving soon, and it was at least prosperous. Information had been gathered along with contacts; hopefully, they would bring some favor from the Council. Smiling, Quinn continued through the dark park; the midnight hour drew closer, and Quinn knew it was safer if she got home sooner. She paused as she crossed through the dimly lit park, seeing a figure hunched over. She would have kept walking if she was smart, but something called to her.

His misery was familiar; the pain he felt was pain she had felt before as well. Empathy was her strength and weakness. Quinn moved closer, cautiously out of concern for her own safety. She paused a few feet from the man and lowered her mask, clearing her throat. "Hey," she started, taking a step forward. The woman could protect herself if necessary, and she hoped she wouldn't have to.

"Are you okay? Do you need…any help?"

 

[Fenn Stag]

BURIED IN PAIN, COVERED IN DIRT


DURO

PUBLIC PARK

2349 LOCAL TIME



​

He looked up at the night sky, feeling a sense of.... being small. He stopped counting. He didn't need to anymore. He thought of the things he didn't do, he failed to do, his hateful words, his hateful way of life. Perhaps he should've been a better man. Perhaps better choices. Perhaps kinder words.

Perhaps kinder actions.

But he was a broken piece of shit, a man with too many tally marks, a clock that had been reset too many times. He was just tired of fighting the urge to not to, so why bother anymore?

But then again, he hadn't yet.

So-

Wouldn't that mean, part of him didn't want to? A large part of him, perhaps quieter than the others. But the very thought of not wanting to kill himself, hesitation, or counting meant that part of him, some buried, deep part of his soul or subconscious, wanted to live, wanted to persevere. A dueling set of dragons, wolves, or whatever metaphorical animal you wanted to use.

His eyes, cast downward. He was glad he was alone. He felt a great amount of shame.

The loudest silence in his life was broken by a soft voice.

A woman's. He didn't recognize it.

He processed her words, indicated by when Fenn turned his head. His eyes, blue, hateful, sorrowful, disjointed, unhappy fixated themselves on the woman. For a moment, he thought of something else to say. But perhaps by providence, or by honesty at the end of the line, he made a simple, powerful statement.

"No."

No, Fenn was not okay.

Fenn had not been 'okay' in a long time.


​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Fenn Stag //:

His answer was straightforward, honest, and held more meaning than anything else he could have said. Even if he had given her a long story about his life, it wouldn't have carried the same weight as his simple 'no.' Quinn hesitated before proceeding. The man could be dangerous; he could turn on her anytime. Despite the danger, Quinn did know a soul in need when she saw one.

Quinn stood there, conflicted. The Sith didn't care with compassion, didn't reach out to help someone, and would have taken advantage of this man. He was weakened and beaten down by something more than the galaxy. It was as if he carried the weight of every soul on his back. Her heart broke from him the more she watched his tormented soul.

Against her best judgment, Quinn stepped forward, almost standing next to him. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, but she needed to protect herself for the time being until she could properly gauge the situation.

Softly, Quinn smiled as she looked into his sunken and darkened eyes. "It's okay. Life isn't the easiest." Another step, close enough to him, they could reach out and touch. "My name is Quinn. It feels like you need someone who could be a friend." Quinn offered her hand, "Do you want to talk?" She did her best to convey her genuineness. "If only for tonight, I can be someone to lean on - let me help you."

 

[Fenn Stag]

BURIED IN PAIN, COVERED IN DIRT


DURO

PUBLIC PARK

2351 LOCAL TIME



​

He took a while to answer. His eyes cast downward, tired, heavy. More baggage than a man at his age should have. He however, narrowed his eyes. Fenn wasn't the most trusting of men, and the sting of a pistol in the roof of his mouth sounded a bit better than talking it out with a stranger.

But maybe that was part of the problem.

"Spare me the niceties and persona if you're genuine."

The Force moved darkly around him, oily shadows resonating off of him. Guilt, anger, hate, sadness. It came off of him in waves, an ocean of it beneath the surface. He didn't like being pandered to or talked down to, like a child- but she seemed genuine.

"My name is Fenn. Fenn Stag." Maybe she heard the name before, maybe she didn't. It didn't matter in the end.

"I don't really want to talk. But I should."

He leaned back on the bench, looking up at the night sky. He spoke without looking at her.

"What do you go on for? What keeps you going, Quinn?"

Quinn Varanin

​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Fenn Stag //:

His initial response made her uncomfortable and almost embarrassed, so she attempted to contact him. Maybe she should have been like the rest of the galaxy and continued walking. Despite her alignment with the Force, if she had seen his face on the news and heard that he had bloodied the pavement with his own life - guilt would have driven her mad.

She could feel it—everything that he was holding onto. It took a lot out of the empath to protect herself from the hatred and turmoil around him. The weight of it all slumped his shoulders, and the woman wondered if he was aware of it. Quinn continued to smile. "I apologize if I was too forward with my kindness; I didn't mean to offend." She nodded and stepped closer to him. Despite the bench being enough space for two, Quinn remained standing.

"Pleasure is mine, Fenn," Quinn said, remaining polite. Maybe it was her upbringing or her attempt to stay calm around him. It would be a lie to say that she wasn't scared. She is potentially in a dangerous situation in a dark park with only dim lights and moonlight to illuminate the area. In Times like this, she wished she had traveled more with Alina Tremiru at her side. Still, she couldn't always drag the Sangnir everywhere, especially to boring conferences like the ones she had just attended.

Fenn continued to talk. He was aware of what he needed to do despite not wanting to. At least there was hope that maybe he could leave here potentially feeling better—or at least heard. Quinn could glean from his posture and words that maybe there weren't enough people in this galaxy who would listen to him.

His question was interesting, and Quinn paused for a moment to think. Her eyes trailed his line of sight to see what had captured his attention. The sky was massive, only making her feel small.

"My dreams," she started, more honest than she had expected. I want to live my life—not one guided by what and who my parents were." It was true. Quinn couldn't wait to change her last name despite the strength behind it. On occasion, she wanted to be someone else.

"The things that I desire, my dreams, my potential. Of course, those things keep me going the even more cliche answer about continuing because of the people I care for and who care for me." Quinn chuckled slightly, trying to keep light of her answer. She feared asking him, but she did anyway.

"What about you, Fenn? What has kept you going? I have a feeling something might have changed, and that's why you're here, talking with me in the middle of the night."

 

[Fenn Stag]

BURIED IN PAIN, COVERED IN DIRT


DURO

PUBLIC PARK

2354 LOCAL TIME


He didn't speak for a while.
​

He showed her the pistol. Not as a threat, not as a manner of anything other than he was showing her the reality of why he was here. He looked up at her finally, his loose, jet-black hair falling over his face. His cold, mostly dead eyes, met hers.

"I had a lot keeping me going. I thought, at least. I left it, hoping for something better. I moved to a great place, to great people- and then it fell apart. And then what I wanted, fell apart. So now, I'm left with this."

He looked ahead, away from her.

"I think about it every day. I think about doing it, every day. Sometimes a thought, sometimes a serious, long-conversation with myself. And I'm getting tired of finding a reason to say no, every day. Do you know what that's like? To want to do it, every day. To want to end it, every day. To find a reason to live, to not do it, every day. I'm running out of reasons to say no, Quinn."

He looked down at the ground, laying the pistol on the bench.

"I'm not getting tired of living. I'm getting tired of fighting."

Quinn Varanin

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