RECKONING

dreadxreckoning​:

Oh. If that doesn’t hurt, that little heartbreaking sound that he makes as his grip tightens on her sleeves, on her. She brings him just a little closer, holds him just a little more snug, hoping that won’t upset. As tight as he’s holding to her, she doesn’t seem to think that it will, but it’s always hard to tell with these things.

But this,––him starting to recognize her, him acknowledging her presence if only enough to cling  and to attempt her name––this is good, even that doesn’t seem the right term for it. It’s progress, at least, a step in the right-ish direction.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s me. It’s Issa. You’re alright. You’re safe. I promise.” 

More earnest reassurances even as fingers gently stroke along his cheek, trying to soothe. 

“If you can, I want you to focus on my breathing and on my heartbeat, okay? I want you to try to match them so we can get yours leveled out. Can you breathe with me?” she questions, making certain her own breathing is good and square for him to––hopefully––start to mirror. 

Migs let out an attempted slow, wavering breath as he tried to focus on Issa’s own breathing. The breath catching briefly in his throat as she stroked his cheek.

 His head tilted forward as he tried his best to concentrate on her breathing and heartbeat. Forehead touching and then resting against her shoulder. His fingers still grasping onto her shirt.

Migs was slowly drawing back into the real world. He knew that he was when thoughts of how he stupid he must seem to have to be comforted after a nightmare.

He shook slightly at the thought and his breath caught again. Thoughts of the nightmare returning a little stronger as Mayfeld fought to push them back.

“Iss…” he began before cursing at himself. Shaking his head as his mind returned to the real world even more.

“Hey, yeah. It’s me, It’s okay,” she reassures, making no attempt to break the contact or to pull away from him, even when she hears him curse. Yeah, she suspected that might be the reaction once he was a little more aware. She’s had the same reaction on more than a few occasions, and how long it had taken her to stop feeling as though she should be ashamed, as though such terrors were the same as monsters under beds or utter darkness without end.

People like them have worse things of which to be afraid.

[ Harsh hands. Binders. Needles. Cold fire. So much pain. ]

As Issa spoke to him, Migs hands shifted until they were on her arms. They didn’t push her off but instead gripped onto them as if they were some kind lifeline to him. As if she were the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the hell he had found himself within.

His breathing was rapid and slightly erratic but it caught in his throat as her hand came to his cheek. Mayfeld closed his eyes tight whilst trying as hard as he could to focus on anything. His fingers curled in the sleeves of her shirt and an almost whimper left his lips (though he would completely deny it if it was mentioned later).

“I… Iss…” Migs tried to say through his struggle to calm himself. Fingers holding tighter onto her than he would care to admit.

Oh. If that doesn’t hurt, that little heartbreaking sound that he makes as his grip tightens on her sleeves, on her. She brings him just a little closer, holds him just a little more snug, hoping that won’t upset. As tight as he’s holding to her, she doesn’t think that it will, but it’s always hard to tell with these things.

But this—him starting to hear her, recognize her, him acknowledging her presence if only enough to cling  and to attempt her name—this is good, even if that doesn’t seem the right term for it.

It’s progress, at least, a step in the right-ish direction.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s me. It’s Issa. You’re alright. You’re safe. I promise.” 

More earnest reassurances even as fingers gently stroke along his cheek, trying to soothe. 

Shifting again for a few moments, Migs slowly looked up from Issa’s hand on his knee to watch her as she continued to speak.

He breathed in deeply when she spoke about how he had helped both her and Gav stay alive more than once. Mayfeld knew that it was true, but it didn’t make it any less difficult to hear.

“I hear ya, Iss, I do. I just…” Migs gave a frustrated sigh towards himself. Shaking his head. “I can’t lose anyone again. I… I can’t.” He swallowed. Closing his eyes for a few moments before looking ahead of himself. Staring at a random spot on the floor.

“Take my advice an’ don’t get yourself too close to me. It just ain’t worth the risk.”

It’s a difficult concept to accept, she knows. Even more so when someone has spent an extended period of time expecting otherwise. It doesn’t surprise her in the least when he says what he does. When he tries to warn her away again regardless. 

But it won’t stop her from trying.

“Hate to tell you this, Migs, but whether you are or aren’t worth it to me is my choice,” she answers, not even missing a beat. 

“And the fact of the matter is, we’re a little past that point by now, and I’ve already made my decision. Why else would I be sitting here if I didn’t think you––and being here for you––were worth whatever supposed risk was involved? I’ve done a lot of risky things in my life for a hell of a lot less. I’m not going to shy from this one.” 

FROM THE MEME ABYSS

@weallneedtosleep

“… You’re not wrong,” Gav says at last, nodding a couple of times in agreement. 

Another few moments pass, however, before he chooses to continue, to perhaps crack open his shell a little, if only because the topic seems to weigh heavy on the other.

Maul could have rolled his eyes into his skull so far they could have got stuck once he heard the woman started to talk about the cartels. He knew exactly where this was going. Reaching out with the force Maul started to focus on getting the binders keeping his arms in place to open up. “Kids sell better because they are cheaper and low risk. Smuggle spice and you are in prison for at least 20 years; smuggle people and no one care.” He pointed out with a bored look to his face.  “I’m fully aware. It’s good business.”

There’s that old anger again. Or rather, that same anger that always seems to be roiling just below the surface, ready to be pried up by exactly this kind of shit. There’s a flare of it, scorching and consuming and dangerous, and it’s all she can do to restrain her first impulse, the though to take a swing with her fists and just keep swinging. 

It isn’t any concern for him that stays her hand, that forces her to breathe, to focus. No, it’s the damn Code.

[ THE FIFTH TENET: IN THE HUNT, ONE CAPTURES OR KILLS, NEVER BOTH. ]

Migs stilled instantly the moment that Gav entered the room. He glanced over at Issa as the other man walked in and sat down and had to stop himself from grinning in response at the look she gave him. Swallowing it down when she winked.

“Yeah, we’re gettin’ so bored of ourselves on here. It’s like… you guys are alright, but there’s only so much time before you get bored of yourself, ya know.”

“Getting stir crazy then, hm?” Gav questions, perhaps the slightest bit of amusement to his eyes and the barest upturn to the corners of his mouth. “Can’t say that I can blame either of you if that’s the case.”

“It has been a minute since we stopped over anywhere…” Issa says before she grins, sharp and darkly amused. 

“Well. Anywhere that wasn’t a hit it and quit it kind of operation.” 

[ It still amazes her how much more efficient and effective their raids against the Imperial remnants are with Gav’s tactical mind and with someone who actually knows how things work by experience rather than research. ]

“We can fix that. Stop somewhere. Restock. Stretch our legs.” Gav looks between the two of them, one eyebrow raised. “Any suggestions for a location?”

Issa simply shrugs. “You know my one rule.”

“Not Coruscant.”

When Issa began to tell him about just how she got the scars, Migs swallowed and turned his head to look in her direction but not quite at her. His fingers curled into fists at the thought of what she had been put through. Hearing that a drug cartel had experimented on her and other…. kids.

Kriff…. kids….

The idea that someone could do such a thing had Mayfeld clenching his jaw and swallowing down to stop bile rising in his throat. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the images the thought of it all conjured. The thoughts of her being hurt in such a way.

Her attempt at levity in the situation did little to quell the anger he felt within him but something in him shifted and began to rise. He turned his head to face the wall. Flexing his fingers open and closed as they shook. 

It only took him a few moments before he knew what it was.

Two words he had tried his best to evade for years.

Two words that he had only uttered once since it had happened. Spoken to the person who had been the cause of it all, the words were almost forcing themselves to the surface despite Migs’ efforts to stop himself.

“Burnin Konn….”

In the silence that follows her explanation, she cannot help but wonder if perhaps she had not played it off so well as she had hoped, that perhaps––though she has moved largely beyond it––it is still too much for someone without the years to process it, to accept it.

When at last he speaks, however, she realizes that perhaps his silence was something more or, at least, it was compounded by this new introduction to their conversation.

She doesn’t recognize it. A name, clearly, but she doesn’t know to who, or what, it belongs. It could as easily be a person as a planet in this great big galaxy and she hasn’t the slightest clue. Maybe Gav would but Gav isn’t here, and she wouldn’t feel right asking him later with even the potential of revealing something that is clearly difficult for the other to say. 

Neither does she feel right asking him who or what it is when even the name seems heavy in the air.

Only then does she look at him, risking that perhaps she might be breaking her word but relieved when she finds that she isn’t. 

For a moment, she simply stares at him, trying to gage, to measure… She can see the tension, the slight tremor to his hands. It’s a gamble, a precarious situation that could go toward help or harm… but he’d said it and if he can manage to do that, she certainly won’t ignore it or what it took to say it.

He tensed when she spoke, saying it didn’t look like nothing. Migs knew she was right. He’d never been able to get a full look at the scarring on his back but he knew that it pretty much covered the entire area.

When Issa spoke again, Migs groaned and shook his head. Psyching himself up to remove his shirt again for a few moments before beginning to pull it up and over his head.

Once he had it off, Mayfeld rolled his neck and shoulders and caught something out of the corner of his eye. He stilled, lips parting when he saw the scars on Issa’s back. His eyes widened as his mind began to try and think just what she could have gone through to get them. 

He turned himself around, shaking his head and feeling sick to his stomach that Issa had suffered… anything. Migs closed his eyes and shook his head. Muttering to himself about how she shouldn’t have ever been put through something like whatever it was she had experienced.

After several long moments, he moved over to grab himself a fresh shirt. Grimacing as he put his arms through the sleeves before pulling it down over his abdomen.

Issa is almost certain of the precise moment that he’s seen the scars. There’s a silence that might have been oppressive if she were someone prone to self-consciousness. Perhaps someone else might have scrambled to grab a shirt, rushed to yank it down to cover the various sorts of marks marring her skin, or lashed out and told the observer to mind their own kriffing business.

As it is, she simply reaches for the shirt she had brought up with her, casually pulling it over her head and sliding it down as though there was nothing in the world amiss. 

[ There isn’t, really. This has been her life for almost as long as she can remember. ]

She goes about the rest of her routine, careful not to look––as promised––even once he starts muttering to himself. She can’t hear exactly what he says, but she can gather the gist of it, in context.

Only once she’s dressed for bed and she settles to lie back on her bunk, only then does she speak, voice perfectly unaffected as though discussing the weather.

“… The oldest ones, the thin lines on my back, my arms… those are from the ‘experimental drug trial’ I told you about. Might have left out the part about it being a drug cartel testing adrenals and other illegal substances on kids they rounded up in the lower levels. The scars are from their… tests to make certain the product was working and, trust me, it could have been a lot worse.”

[ She could be dead, like most of the others. ]

She doesn’t dwell on that thought though.

“The big one on my right shoulder––looks kind of like a star?––that was a slug thrower, souvenir from a job on Tatooine after a misunderstanding with a Tusken. Above my left hip was a nick from a vibroblade in a bar fight on Nar Shadaa. A fight that I won, by the way.”

[ Though she’d also nearly given Gav a heart attack when he saw the red seeping through her shirt. ]

There’s an offhanded shrug and a wry almost-smile.

“But, before your imagination runs away with you, they weren’t all that bad. Those are just the ones with the most interesting stories. The others are just little scrapes here and there, well, pretty much anywhere you can get a scrape. Along with everything else the testing apparently messed up, I seem to scar easier, even from stupid things like scraping my back on some loose paneling in the D-5. Most of them I didn’t even know when they happened.”

[ Of course, the why of that he already knew in part… now in total. Well. Mostly. ]

“They’re not so bad, though.”

A huff of a laugh. 

@dreadxreckoning ( Issa ) continued from [ x ]

Migs’ eyes were wide and almost frantically searching around as Issa grabbed his shoulders and continued to speak with him. Her words barely reaching his ears and almost sounded close to whispers overtaken by the memories of all the sounds he had heard all that time ago.

All the fear, pain and anguish he was feeling felt as fresh as the day everything had happened.

Hands clutching tightly at her arms as his heart beat frantically, Mayfeld’s breath was coming in quick, panicked pants as his mind struggled to comprehend what was real and what was just a nightmare.

It’s a risk and she knows it, but… But she can’t just watch and do nothing, and certainly not if there’s even a chance it might help. Might allow him to better ground himself.

So, very, very carefully, she extracts one of her arms from his grip… only so she can move closer and bring him into a hug. There’s a solidity to the embrace but no real strength behind it. If he wanted to pull away, he could. She certainly wouldn’t stop him.

Turning her head a bit so she can talk right beside his ear, soft and even, she continues her efforts.

“Hey… Come on, Migs… You’re not wherever you were in your nightmares. You’re on the D-5,” she repeats that fact, doing her best to keep that point fresh, hoping that it will break through that terror sooner rather than later.