Private On Rage And Dying Light

[Dresden Verbrennung]

A dead man sat at a bar.

The skin on his face was stretch tight over his skull, with little subcutaneous fat to cushion it against cheekbones thrown into stark relief. His eyes were sunken into dark pits, from which little light managed to escape in the hazy dimness. Once a powerfully built man, he sat hunched, his ill-fitting jacket wrapped tightly against his emaciated frame in a desperate attempt to hold onto what few scraps of warmth remained. Pain was etched into every motion: his hands trembled has he reached for his pint glass, his brow twitching and writhing as though it had a mind of its own with every change in air current.

The other patrons treated him with a mix of deference and pity. Even in his current state, the dead man was still deadly. In return for drinks, the only painkillers left to him that had any effect, he sat quietly in his corner, night after night. The seedy spaceport district was rife with wannabe thugs and gangsters, looking to extort protection money from the proprietors who served the wretched, the scum, and the villains who inevitably made their home around spaceports. This one, however, was one of the few that stood immune to casual graft. Though he might not be able to heft a blaster, there was nothing wrong with the dead man's mind. Anyone looking for trouble would find it, but they'd never see what killed them.

"Do you need anything else, dear?" the bartender asked.

She was an intensely maternal woman of upper middle age. Her iron-grey hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun. Despite the squalor of the street outside, the bar itself was spotless, as was her pristine, starched apron. She was big and soft and, in another life, perhaps, would have been perfectly suited to spoiling grandchildren. In a perfect world, a blaster bolt wouldn't have erased her ability to have a family not long after her 18th birthday. Like many, she was a veteran of one of the countless wars that raged across the galaxy. She had done her part for king and country as a medic, but stray blaster bolts never seemed to care about one's status as a noncombatant.

The bartender had seen the dead man's like before. Radiation bombs were a nasty thing. They killed the body at the cellular level. An infusion of bacta and a bone marrow transplant could, for a time, stave off the end, but without a constant supply of costly medication, the bomb would claim its victim within a decade. Her eye told her that this one was near his end. Tumors ate away at his organs, his skin and bones. There were no over the counter painkillers strong enough to hold the agony at bay, and precious few others could be obtained, legally or illegally, without far more credits than either of them had on hand. Most took their own lives well before they got this bad, but this one stubbornly clung to life. Though the easy thing to do would be to lay down and die, there was a fire in his rheumy eyes that spoke of a hidden purpose.

Hope, perhaps? It wasn't out of the question that he could be saved. Even as ill as he was, mere cancer was an inconvenience, at best, for advanced medicine. His mental faculties were still intact, if the devious traps he sketched on the back of napkins were anything to go by. So long as the brain remained untouched, salvation was just a few million credits away.

"The usual, please," he rasped.

The bartender nodded, and dutifully filled a glass from the draught. If he saw the drops of cloudy opioid she slipped into the glass, he didn't care. The stuff was addictive, and in the long run nearly as harmful as the cancers that ate his body, but they would help the alcohol numb his mind enough to ease his suffering. It was a byproduct of an illicit distillation process that produced one of the more popular street drugs, too dangerous for anyone sane to consider worthwhile, but a ready succor for those too far gone
to care.

The dead man's trembling fingers lifted the glass to his lips as carefully as they could, spilling only a little down the front of his shirt, oversized and worn, but neatly cared for.

It wasn't hope, she thought, that kept him going. It was rage. But what could anyone possibly hate so much that they would endure that sort of living hell?

 

[The Major]

Theme: A Shell in the Pit | Dresden Verbrennung​

So much matter accumulated in the vastness of space and time. Specifically, the trash. It had a way of enduring past want and use, sticky like grease and mite spit painted over the corner walls of the galaxy. Everything breaks down eventually, from blasters to sacred texts, but beings, sentient beings, tend to melt and ripple when broken -like so much refuse floating in a septic tank before bacteria and chemicals tears them apart completely.

It stinks. Yet they had to endure for as long as possible. The void, while attractive, was as much an alternative and nonanswer as a shrug.

Why Sybil ruminated on ruination and garbage while in moods so blank and hollow they made the discharge from louses seem grandiose in comparison she could not explain. Working recently was a good distraction, and enabled her to focus on accomplishing tasks -even it was a step above police sleuthing and glorified wetwork. Relative bliss it was while on shift; better it was than gnawing abyss. Something had to fill the emptiness. So here she was at the Dead End Bar at the End of the Line, one amongst the old, broken tools that filled the galaxy, searching for glasses.

The door was heavy, but had a familiar heft that the once crafty, world spinning janitor found satisfying. Gritty and steady, it gave the passerby ample time to shamble in and cross its threshold. Shepard would have been dressed strangely for a bar outing, but somehow her attire fit the bill of the room: a dirty white tuxedo jacket and vest freckled with tiny blood droplets, black trousers and shoes, and a bowtie hanging lopsided as though it was yanked down. It was difficult to ascertain if while coming here the entrant had failed to rob a bank, fell into a dumpster, and got into a fistfight; in fact, probably all three.

Dust and smoke smog now baked into the space immediately tickled the contacts in her eyes, making them itch. She had to sit. Adjust the damned things before they began to make her tear up. Instinct stayed her impulse, an echo warning that pushing through like she owned the place would be a bad move. Instead, she lifted a hand and slowly pointed to the bartender.

“May I come in?” Asked Sybil tentatively, as though she expected to be turned away.

 

[Helena]

It reminded her of home.

The dirty squalor of the street, the ever present grime of the gutter permeating each and every alleyway - this place wasn't so bad though. A hole in the wall though it was, it was a clean one, a well cared for one. It spoke to investment, a sense of ownership in the place. Not some chain venue where corners were cut, profits were the only goal. No, this had an almost homey feel to it. That gave the woman at a table near the back a quiet chuckle. As if I know what home is. A sarcastic tone accompanied her internal sarcasm. Back to the task at hand.

Helena's fingers moved rapidly at the small datapad, a remote keyboard connected for easier and faster use. Of course, at this point she really should have invested in a neuro-link to cut out the middle man and the archaic method of typing. Somehow it felt more honest. That thought made her crack another smirk. Honesty? In my line of work? The mere thought of it sent her head gently shaking from side to side. Her fingers resting a moment, she took a sip of the mug next to her datapad, the carbonated golden liquid inside refreshingly crisp and light. Finishing the small flagon, she caught the attention of one of the staff. "Another, if you would." She had to admit, the local brews were better than most she'd experienced so far, though nothing beat the ale on Corellia.

Dresden Verbrennung | The Major​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

"Yes, of course," the bartender said, motioning for The Major to have a seat at the bar, well away from the dead man.

It wasn't at all unusual to see strangers come through looking like they'd ventured a little too close to an abattoir. Blood was an all too common sight in the poorer districts, though typically not spattered across expensive-looking tuxedos. That was an aesthetic one didn't often see, this far from the polite portions of civilization. She glanced nervously towards the dead man; as near as she could tell, he was mostly blind by now, but still had an acute sense of danger. She suspected he might be one of those Force sensitives that were always on the news, but he'd always denied it.

Much to her surprise, there was the ghost of a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. The hesitant, skittering motion suggested that he hadn't smiled in so long, he was struggling to remember how. Despite the obvious pain it caused him, there was something congenial about the expression, and the perpetually tense set of his shoulders seemed to relax.

Oh, kark.

The bar was mostly empty that evening, which was a blessing. The dead man only reacted to newcomers when there was going to be trouble, and the fewer bystanders to potentially get caught in a cataclysm, the better. She herself would be safe, minus the occasional stray blaster bolt. The designs the dead man had offered up in exchange for a steady stream of poison made the area behind the bar a safe zone. Everyone else would do well to avoid looking like a threat.

The bartender's hand slowly moved towards the control pad on her belt, just in case, but the dead man shook his head.

"Save it," he mouthed. Reading his lips was difficult, but the bartender knew how thanks to a couple of years without hearing in her service days, and it was easier on him than speaking aloud.

"My problem," he continued. "Whatever happens next... my problem."

Frozen lead settled in the pit of her stomach. Whatever happened next, she realized, her bar was about to lose its most valuable piece of decor.

She swallowed, and forced down the oddly possessive thought. She was grateful to the dead man for helping her stake her claim, but it wasn't like they were friends. She didn't really see him as a person, not anymore. He was a hole in the wall into which she poured beer and drugs, and occasionally received advance notice of potential danger. If he died here today, it was no skin off her nose, she only hoped he wouldn't make too much of a mess doing it.

With that lie firmly in mind to cage any notions of thrilling heroics, the bartender padded over to the newcomer.

"What'll it be, darling?" she asked, maternal mode on full display. "Just drink, or would you like to see a menu?"

Helena

 

[The Major]

Helena | Dresden Verbrennung​

A smile spread widely upon the entrant’s face, relieved that her assumption was proven false. It had been another wretched day thus far, so this was, in her book, as close as it was going to get to a stroke of good fortune. Sybil obliged the master of ceremony and took the stool that was indicated. Even better, the barkeep was polite enough to ask what exactly was wanted.

“If you said you had gin and seltzer, then I’d have a gin and seltzer -please.” Chirped Shepard.

While that was being prepared the auburn topped woman began to look around the room. There was an older gentleman who appeared to be excited. This was her target, only she wasn’t aware of that just yet. Behind him and stowed in a corner was the outline of another woman. Maybe it was the shadow, but the vibe of it all drew her attention.

She stared.

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

The bartender did, in fact, have gin. Raw spirits weren't at all hard to acquire in this neck of the woods, and so long as you were willing to put in the effort to test for methanol or other contaminants, they were mostly fit for use. She was a hobbyist when it came to making refined liquors, but she did make some of the more highly regarded house blends in town. Which is to say, they were palatable, and wouldn't poison you any more than normal alcohol. She dutifully mixed the drink, and passed it over to the newcomer.

It was hard not to be wary. The dead man's instincts were good when it came to danger. He denied any latent Force sensitivity. According to him, the loss of vision had somewhat heightened his remaining senses, most notably, his sense of smell. Gun oil, blood, and ozone were a sure sign that a tough customer had just walked through the door. There was more to it than that, she assumed, as that could describe roughly half of her regulars, but she wasn't willing to pry. Let the damned keep their secrets. It was just about all he had left to his name, anyway.

There was something curious about this one, though. Both the way she carried herself and the way the dead man reacted to her struck her as extremely odd.

The woman had an awkward gentility about her, a noblewoman out of place and time. No haughty princess, this one, but a warrior, a knight, moving through a world she didn't understand, shielded by a wall of polite deference that few could take offense to. The set of her shoulders and the scars on her face spoke of a will to battle, but here, she seemed inert. If it wasn't for the blood on her clothes, the bartender might have mistaken her for a travelling athlete, out for a night on the wild side.

The dead man, meanwhile, seemed positively, well, alive. It had been so long since she thought of him as anything other than a corpse too stubborn to realize he was dead, she had forgotten about the brilliant, eccentric mind that resided behind those milky cataracts. Night after night, he'd resided on his customary stool, slowly sipping away at his last comfort with barely a word, or a motion beyond the nervous tics, only really moving when danger presented itself, and even then just enough to get out of the way of security system. Now, his breathing steadied, his tremors all but ceased, and the light in his eyes kindled once more.

He was, she realized, saving his strength for a moment quite like this. One way or another, his vigil had drawn to a close.

The dead man rose from his stool and shuffled over towards the newcomer, hoisting himself, with some difficulty, one remove away. He left a polite stool's gap between them.

"Hallo, Miss S," he rasped, unused to speaking above a whisper. "I heard you were dead."

The Major

 

[The Major]

Dresden Verbrennung​

Maiden Barkeep proved to be fleet with the drink, distracting Sybil from her cog machine mind before it could go full whirligig on whatever deep seated emotions guided her instincts and caused her to be the sort of hooligan which honed in on strange women draped in even stranger shadows. Such would save everyone in the bar a little more time, precious for some in fact. Profound satisfaction spread across her face from mouth corners to eyes, gratitude on display and derived from the pointed pleasure one can enjoy when a fine spirit was being imbibed.

Thirst quenching, indeed.

Shepard was in many ways diminished; one could say in every way. Nevertheless, she possessed a keen enough sense of situational awareness to notice the old timer creaking his way closer. Dozens of details flowed in from her observations of his plight. It was clear, even in this light, that his body moved tensed in pain. Despite what might be great discomfort that was slowly flaking away as inner spirit burnt those annoying throbs, he moved carefully and with purpose.

His approach was no mistake. Driven with strength, he was; it was growing yet stronger.​

Her mission. Yes. ​

No slicing preternatural sense gave her the impression that the target meant to bestow violence. She would not be so brash to assume he was entirely incapable, however. There was nothing for her to do but wait, so clearly the correct thing to do was drink. As he spoke out his opener, she took a long quaff of the gin cocktail, placing the glass down gently once the mystery man was done with his greeting. As with everything else in her life, every stimulus only dragged up further questions. This clearly was an acquaintance at least, and that had to be good news.

“Everybody knows except me. Problem, that. Makes me feel like a ghost.” Sybil murmured in reply, lifting a hand in front of her face and flexing it twice -testing if it wouldn’t suddenly fade from view. “. . .but, I take it your lack of grimace or reaching for a blaster under your shirt means we were friendly enough once. If that’s so, then I say, ‘It’s good to see you again,’ even if I don’t know or remember you.” She pushed on. “Please take no offence. This apparently broke. . .” Said Sybil while tapping her temple with that supposed ghost hand from before. “. . . and was put back together.”

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

"That is a problem," the dead man said. "Once upon a time, you and I were... comrades in arms, you could say. We spent a lot of time doing bad things to bad people. And some who were not so bad, if I'm honest."

He tried to frown, but his muscles weren't quite willing to cooperate, and the expression came out jerky and distorted. The entire left side of his face seemed to fail for several long moments, the nerve endings creaking back to life with obvious reluctance. He carefully dabbed at a drop of spittle that had escaped from his temporarily drooping lip with a bar napkin. He tried to focus his eyes on her face, to search for any familiar signs, but they were too unused to even that little bit of work to cooperate. Everything was light and shadow, with no discernible form.

"I won't bore you with the details. If you're interested in our past escapades, I kept a diary, of sorts. I can't say I anticipated you, personally, showing up to do the deed, but you might be able to glean some useful details about who you were."

With as much care as he could manage, he extracted a datapad from the voluminous folks of his jacket and set it on the bar between them. It was an older model, well used, but clearly cared for. There were professional soldiers who didn't lavish the time and attention spent on the maintenance of their rifles as someone, the dead man, presumably, had spent on this datapad. Even a casual observer could tell that it meant a lot to him, that he kept it for some great purpose that he didn't expect to be able to fulfill himself.

"I've been waiting a long time for this day, and even if you don't remember who I am or who you were, I can say, I'm glad it's you they sent to do the deed. I can't think of anyone better."

A thought suddenly occurred to the dead man, and this time, he managed to frown properly.

"You, uh, you are here to kill me, right?"

The Major

 

[Helena]

She hadn't been eavesdropping exactly - in fact, she highly doubted there were any eaves in this building the way it was constructed. What that didn't mean however is that she hadn't heard snippets of conversation from across the room. Her enhanced auditory implants had given her just enough to pique her interest - though the two seemed like old friends, rivals maybe? There was an uncomfortable stuffiness about the room despite the music playing softly and the general ambiance of the establishment. Mistakenly she keyed in an incorrect sequence of letters and numbers in the code she was working at, a subtle beep indicating an error. Crap.

It took her a moment to correct the error, the one mistype causing a small cascade of further errors in computation but once she was fairly confident it had been resolved she went back to... eavesdropping. It was particularly interesting, she thought, one seemed to remember and the other - amnesia of sorts? Carbonite Sickness? Neurodegenerative disease? Could have been anything - the man she was speaking to however was another matter entirely. She'd seen others from time to time with similar appearances. Helena wasn't a scientist however, so again it could have been near anything. Her money was on some type of radiation exposure.

An uncoaxed expression of surprise stretched across her features as the man asked his question, her hand unconsciously slipping below the table towards her thigh. If things were about to go sideways she was sure not going to be caught off guard.

The Major | Dresden Verbrennung​

 

[The Major]

Dresden Verbrennung | Helena​

A wealth of information was passed whether the dead man intended it or not. Most likely so, since someone experiencing so much pain just to breathe had to be doing everything with purpose. The cost for wheeling and dealing in a merry-go-shout had to be too dear for the likes of him. It made his words honest, and in her short experience Sybil had found that a lot of what people had to say had more to do with making oneself perceivably trustworthy. In this case, like the gin drink, it was surprisingly refreshing for the time, atmosphere, and place.

She listened closely, occasionally sipping from her glass and enjoying the piece of ice jig-jogging across her tongue.

So they were co-operators at one point, and their work involved standard workaday gray-to-black operations. Comforting. So she was a bad person. Well. That much was probably obvious from the marathon debriefings she had to endure after being dug out of Hoth. Not to mention her affinity for violent solutions. Whatever happened to that mining despot fellow she beat to unconsciousness with a stun baton back on Tholon? Those rent-a-cop security guards she crushed with blaster stock checks on Alpinn? Hells, what about her journey from the spaceport to this bar? Maybe that was less of an “on the job” necessity and more of Sybil acting in the old methods made infamous by this “Major” she had the unfortunate joy of working under. As. In the shadow of. The question now was if in her past she managed to eliminate anyone who would oppose her return from Netherworld Vacation.

Time would tell. Maybe another gin cocktail would as well.

A potential breakthrough was presented with this supposed diary that this old partner claimed to have. If he would provide that at some point then no doubt the insight provided could further contextualize the kind of harm her old self was apparently accustomed with.

A cool calm night seemed to be in order. Dark maybe, but calm discovery nonetheless. She took another finger of cocktail when the Target mentioned that he effectively expected Sybil to flatline him.

!COUGH!​

She spat up some on the counter and hacked up a little more, sudden terror ripping across her face and destroying any allure of competence.

“M-me? Kill you? Stars above! Below! Around! I was the kind of person that would blast an old friend? Dram and glitter, that’s gross.” Shepard put down the now empty glass and flipped over her datapad to show him contact file with a picture, of which Dresden V. was highlighted by her thumb. Might hurt to see a photo of himself when things were going. . . better for him.

“No. I’m not here to single you out. Well, I am. But not for that! Got my hands on this old datapad and I’ve been going through the contacts one by one. From the Supreme Leader herself down to you. It’s been a trip: trying to find everyone left from the heydays. See if they are kicking. Square debts. That sort of thing.” Sybil seemed quite disturbed by the notion of being a bonafide death dealer, but having confronted larger issues upon her journey of discovery was a little more composed than to let an emotional spike ruin the night.

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

"Oh."

That one syllable managed to convey a wealth of emotions: relief, disappointment, curiosity, weariness, and perhaps, just a dash of hope.

The dead man knew that, one day, his past would catch up to him. The First Order had gone through numerous changes over the intervening years, but there were some constants as sure as the inky blackness of space in their line of work. Loose ends were not to be tolerated. One way or another, they had to be tied up. Or, more often, trimmed from the surface of the cloth altogether.

Agents rarely made it out of their line of work alive, in other words. It happened, on occasion. Some were allowed to retire peacefully, after an especially fruitful career, or perhaps after an especially traumatic incident that made them unable to continue. Those who were allowed to take that route were, to a man (or woman), exceedingly trustworthy. Usually, that meant that they were fanatically loyal, or else, stubborn to the point of foolhardiness. They would not talk, could not be made to talk, and were content to live out their days in peace and solitude, comforted by the knowledge of a job well done. Aside from constant surveillance, they were left alone.

The dead man (he hadn't called himself by his given name since his assassination) hadn't left under those cheery circumstances. Someone had tried to kill him, and had killed an awful lot of others to make it happen. The radiation bomb that had fried him on a cellular level had been made to look like a terrorist attack by pro-Alliance partisans operating in First Order space. A few groups had even tried to take credit for it. The only problem with that particular theory was the timing. There were no VIPs in the embassy at the time. Had they waited a week, hell, had they waited until the next day, several high level officials would have been present. That was why Dresden was there in the first place. His talents at planning and troubleshooting had, at the time, been in high demand. If you absolutely, positively needed an area secure as humanly possible, you sent in the very best.

There had been no VIPs present when the rad bomb went off. The only person in the embassy worth assassinating was, well, him. The Ambassador hadn't even been home when the bomb went off; she was in orbit, awaiting the arrival of the delegation. The skeleton crew left at the embassy had all been vetted by the FOSB, and Dresden had no need to doubt their work, so he turned his attention outward. Right up until the moment when the embassy was irradiated, everything was going swimmingly. It was only by sheer dumb luck that he survived at all, both the poisoning and the kill teams that moved through moments later, wearing no insignia but broadcasting their allegiance with their training. They knew exactly how many bodies to expect, and who those bodies were supposed to belong to.

From that moment on, Dresden became the dead man. He had no hope, no prospects, and no allies, none that he could trust. He might have been able to stave off the effects of the radiation for a few short years, but sooner or later, he was dead without advanced medical care. Care that he couldn't get without exposing himself to his would-be assassin again, and that simply wouldn't do. The datapad contained everything he'd uncovered in his investigation, along with personal notes from his years as a loyal servant of the First Order, in the hopes that someone would expose the murderer of himself and a dozen of his best agents.

Miss S, the spider woman whose web encircled and ensnared so much of the FO, was the perfect choice. The dead man was sure she wasn't the traitor; if she wanted him dead, she'd have done it herself, in person, and no one would have questioned her for it. The fact that she had shown up to tie up his loose end was only right and natural. If anyone was going to finish him off before the cancer did its work, it had to be her.

But now that wasn't the case. Miss S was gone, and now a stranger wore her face. She wasn't here to kill him. She wouldn't be the one to avenge him, either.

For the first time in his adult life, the dead man, Dresden, was without a plan.

"Well, kark," he swore. "I'll be happy to help you as much as you can, but I'm not sure how much help I can give. As near as I can figure, I'm due to keel over any day now."

The Major | Helena

 

[The Major]

Dresden Verbrennung | Helena​

She tilted her head quizzically, unable to pierce the veil of Mr. V's thoughts. If she only could, they more fleetly they could cut to the quick and make some deft strides in figuring out their respective places in the Galaxy. Alas, perhaps with training one day. First she would have to discover she could even call upon the Force to assist her in everyday mind sleuthing. Nevertheless, there was an echo of emotion that she could feel just past his blind eyes. Namely, disappointment and something akin to hope. She knew that feeling and could empathize. However, Sybil was also keenly aware of how addicting the feeling of being eternally removed was. It felt easier and a lot more clean to just be terminated when looking across a yearning abyss named Uncertainty. Shepard wasn't here to jostle him out of his current life. Only to understand and attempt as best she could, within her limited means thanks to the reset memory banks, assist.

"Aren't you listening? I'm here to square away anything I might owe you. Make rights out of wrongs, if they exist. You don't need to do anything for me. Just talking? That's incredibly valuable. Help? Seems you given it. As for the past, I'm not exactly rushing to reclaim my former glory -if you can call it that. Especially if I'm a murderer extraordinaire."

What once called herself the Major calmly began to wipe up the counter with a spare napkin within reach while motioning for the barkeep to bring her another drink.

"Tell me about you. What are you facing? How are you feeling?"

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

The dead man laughed, or tried to. The chuckle gave way to violent, wracking coughs that doubled him over for several long, agonizing moments. By the time he managed to right himself, what little color had been in his face was completely gone, and his hands trembled violently as he tried to clean himself up.

"I'm facing a score of cancers in everything from my bones to my lungs. My body is literally eating itself from the inside out. Short of massive medical intervention and a couple of miracles, I'll be dead within the next month, probably sooner. The only reason I've held on this long is because I've been waiting for this moment. Only, it's here, and I've no idea just what the hell to do. You're here, but you're not...you."

Now desperation tinged the dead man's dry rasp.

"Murderer? Sure, we both were. Comes with the territory. But you were so much more. The Sybil I knew saved entire planets. She was a surgeon, cutting away tumors before they could eat the host, wielding a scalpel when most of the First Order only knew how to swing a hammer. Those Ren bastards weren't fit to lick the mud from her boots, the arrogant pricks. It was all I could do to keep up with her when she got going, and by the Force, it was...she was..."

He seemed to shrink in on himself even more, the shell of his former self collapsing around the void that took the place of his heart. When he regained his composure, his voice was flat, emotionless.

"She owed me nothing. If anything, I was in her debt. You've inherited no obligation towards the likes of me from your past self. If I could help you find your way, I would, but I can't help anyone anymore. I would wish you good luck. But there is none around me, and besides, I wouldn't mean it..."

Those last words came of their own accord, from a place inside that the dead man didn't know and didn't understand. They seemed to come from another place, another time, another life, another person, as if someone else was speaking through his lips.

Great, the dead man thought. I'm disassociating. Not long now, I suppose.

The Major | Helena

 

[The Major]

Dresden Verbrennung | Helena​

Target V. may have looked like a decaying man in senses both literal and physical, but her request to have him simply speak proved that he had something sharp inside. A longing for things to be different, maybe, but there was likely no being in the galaxy which didn’t have their fair share of misgivings on how their lives turned out. Most didn’t even have that luxury; most were probably buried in a mountain of ship junk or spaced and floating between heaven and a black hole. He looked especially hideous, but only insomuch that he was a man taken by an illness and rotting against his will. Seemed a waste.

His utterances were like a roller coaster of living experience, significant, and sad in the most tragic of ways. She listened carefully. Wondering what made him decide on standing down in this place; wondering what compelled him to think the way he did about what Shepard once was. Maybe her current state was equally hideous, insomuch that she was a woman ripped from her time and spat out without consent. Maybe, she was a waste in this form.

Dresden journeyed, but then said this phrase:

I would wish you good luck. But there is none around me, and besides, I wouldn't mean it…​

When he spoke it she saw his drying mouth form the words, but the sound was not correct. They warped around her ears, echoing deeper down and shifting -a neon bolt of light lazily sliding behind a dirty glass. A code word? A relapsed memory? It was cold and foul as it went from the sides of her head down the center of chest, an ice spike edging across her stomach and intestines. She was momentarily horrified, because in that moment she knew for a fact that something essential to her essence had been forgotten. Something critical to her being was lost.

Well, like the ashes from the flags of the old First Order vaporized -motes floating in burning skies for one moment, then lost to time forever. The nation was built anew. So would she. Ice be damned. She had to continue. Maybe Dresden should try it as well, thought Sybil.

“Maybe I can’t save planets and deal in fates, but I can at least tell you this: rotting in a Dead End bar may be quiet, may be peaceful, but it isn’t fulfilling, Friend. Death may seem like the end, but trust me, it isn’t. You leave a shell behind -like it or not. Best you get that memory in some form you’ll appreciate. You’ll sleep easier.”

She produced some contact information for Mr. V and placed it down in front of him for his use.

“Don’t have titles or a command. Don’t really have a home either, mind you. Doesn’t matter. Come to Avalonia. If they can put me back together, what you have will be a milk run. Mind you, I’m not saying it’ll be quick or cheap, but the doctors there will make sure you get on the right track. Considering your past work I’d even wager they might actually owe it to you as a favor. That, or you can stay here, drink what you got left, and melt away. My way, however, you might get to die with your boots on and blaster in hand.”

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

"That's the dream, ain't it?" the dead man mumbled weakly, feebly.

He had expended far too much of his precious remaining strength in that last tirade. Darkness swirled on the edges of the battleship grey that made up his vision. It would be so easy to pass out, to allow the darkness to swallow him. Something told him, however, that if he closed his eyes now, it would be for good. Teetering on the brink between life and death, there was a decision to be made.

Death was inevitable. Sooner or later, it would come for him. Statistically speaking, it already should have, many times over. The question was, would now be the time when he finally succumbed to its cold embrace? Or would he do what he'd always done: get up, grab a gun, and take the chance that his next breath wouldn't be his last?

The unused synapses responsible for humor, long dormant in the dead man's mind, sparked to life for a brief instant. What if Death was getting as tired of its near-Dresden experiences as Dresden was of near Death ones? Perhaps he brought a book. He couldn't help it. Dresden chuckled. The sound was low at first, almost a sob, but the bubbling laughter built in his chest until it took on a life and light of its own. Warmth spread out from his chest, out into limbs long used to nothing but the chill of mortality. It was a cleansing heat, almost to the point of burning, but where it passed, life ensued.

Dresden, no longer the dead man, was surprised to find a stim pen in his hand, the point against his heart. That was the source of the fire spreading through his veins. He'd kept the pen as a last resort, a last reservoir of strength for when his body failed him at last. He'd always been determined not to let his main ailments kill him. The dream of dying with his boots on and a blaster in hand, that wasn't a metaphor. One last burst of strength, perhaps enough for three hours before his complete collapse, that was to be enough to buy him time to go out on his own terms. Not by his own hand; there were plenty enough in this hellhole of a city willing to do the job, but with a semblance of dignity that his ailing body denied him.

But now, there was hope. There was a chance. He'd thought Miss S, the closest he had to a friend in the First Order, long dead. And perhaps she still was. But. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he could feel something of the old spymaster in response to the odd words that had sprang to his tongue unasked and unbidden. He'd never placed any great store in the Force or all that Jedi and Sith nonsense, but maybe something had plans for the both of them. There were a lot of ifs and maybes hedging that hope, but what the hell. He'd taken longer odds.

Maybe it was the cocktail of epinephrine and atropine, maybe it was sheer giddiness, but Dresden's body felt lighter than it had in ages. He stood, for once without the help of his cane, and faced towards the source of the familiar voice that belonged to a stranger.

"Might just take you up on that. Any chance you've got a ship? I, uh, don't think I'm in much shape to hitch my own ride."

The Major | Helena