Ramikadyc-A Star Wars Call of Duty AU
cw's: canon typical violence, allusion to SA (literally one line), depression I guess, angsty, this is rough
Eight Years Before the Battle of Geonosis
It wasnāt often that Simon Riley slept long and deep enough for his mind to wander and his consciousness slack enough to delve into dreams and his own inner psyche; but he supposed he had no choice, this time. A drugged slumber was still a slumber, but even then he cursed anything and everyone.Ā
One part of Simon wonders long and hardā¦why was Price so determined to find him? To save him? How was he different from any other shabuir that had long accepted that his time hidden behind a cold shell of beskar and aggressive unbreakable ideology and clanship was long over when he was sold to be just another slave, fallen from the pride he once held.Ā
Simon was stripped of any more meaning, physical or cultural or otherwise, now; the little he had left, anyways. Maybe he was an empty shell long before he donned beskar and hid behind a helmet of indifference and coldness. The raise of an electro-whip and a collar around his neck and a hand slipping from his to replace a spear in his bloodied palm and the burning, neverending heat of twin suns had erased anything else.Ā
Simon wished Price left him to die on that whipping post. Simon wished he had never met Shmi and her son who had almost coaxed humanity back into him, as delicate and shaky as it was. He had made his choice, and was content to rot-he didnāt deserve care or a second chance or a bacta tank or to even see a single glint of a ripple of beskar sparkling in the sun or glinting in the glow of the medbay.Ā
The crrk of a neck snapping under his hands. The squelch of organs when he pulled his knife or spear or whatever the Hutts provided him with out of a trandoshanās stomach cavity. Smooth hands sliding down his bare skin, drawing out pleasure even when his mind said ānoā and laughter all around. Even the occasional blasterfire, not that he was allowed to ever use a blaster in the gladiator arenas-it was all so familiar to him, yet white noise or a constant ringing in his ears that never seemed to fade.Ā
He was used to that noise now-perhaps always had been. Violence was so deeply carved in his bones that it was all he had ever known-both within the physical circumstances of whatever environment he happened to be in, whether it was whatever screaming match his buire were in the middle in or the ping! and pew-pew! of whatever living being was unlucky enough to be mowed down by him in the name of glory and something more pure.Ā
Or...the circumstances were just in his blood. His Mandalorian ancestral namesake, however simple it may have rooted from, still arose from centuries of fighting and more fighting and then some.
The harmonious silence that came with common decency scared him far more than violence ever would.Ā
Cruelty was predictable. Kind people were not.Ā
Not that John Price was exactly kind; perhaps not the right word. Tolerant, maybe. The old man had dumped him back into the rancorās den of the terrorist comrades he had betrayed after Simon refused his request (more like a quiet but stern demand) to join him, to start anew; cin vehtin. A clean slate, a virgin snow.Ā
Price had spattered that snow with blood whether he intended to or not-maybe to teach Simon a lesson, to come crying back to him when he had wisened up and realized the error of his ways.Ā
The thing was, Simon recognized the error of his ways, of the Mandalorian way, whatever that way was argued to be.Ā
He just didnāt feel like doing anything about it.Ā
āYouāre angry, ad. Rage can do wonders for the mind and body-you just have to learn how to harness it,ā Price had said three years prior, in classic Mandalorian fashion. Ah, anger...the best motivator for a warrior, apparently.
āI could show you. You could become a better warrior than those close-minded purists ever preached.āĀ
Simon had spit in his face.
He supposed Price wasnāt so different from the slavers, in a way. They liked the challenge of taking away a Mandalorianās dignity, of undoing that prideful psyche, whileā¦
Price liked the challenge of bringing it back. Of filling in the splinters and cracks that permeated Simonās manda with something more desirable to him, for him.Ā
But Simon was convinced he was a ghost, and would stay that way. A spirit condemned to forever wander the teetering edge between identity and the gaping wound that was left when it was ripped away, forever festering.Ā
Though, Simon thought that there was always something festering within him; rotten and sour. It had just been twisted in whatever way others saw fit, whether it was his own father or Deathwatch or the slavers or John Price.Ā
Price sits and faces him, not technically looming but still imposing nevertheless. His face is stern, almost expectant as his eyes flicker to the relatively new scar splitting down Simonās lip; even bacta could only do so much.Ā
Price almost feels like heās intruding, like he shouldnāt be here-seeing Simon so barefaced and devoid of blood and bruises and almost appearing peaceful as he sleeps. But he needs to see him, take him in once again. Simon wonāt be happy when he wakes up, but Priceā¦
He still saw that rage in him. That coldness. That potential. But even moreso, a shred of humanity. Simon wasnāt the killing machine, the empty vessel he thought himself to be; even after all he had endured.Ā
However, Price wasn't the type to let such potential simply waste away.
Simon was a stubborn man, but so was Price; and Price was going to draw that warriorās spirit out of Simon once more...
whether he liked it or not.
prguitarman
kianamaiart
snowghoul
romaincrisis
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
