I Dump My Writings Here

No one in Paris could deny the brutal contrast between the lowest members of the highest members of French society. From the streets to the estates; from the rags to the frills and lace; from the scraps to the buffets. It was a comparison that the rich took with snobbish pride and the poor with longing and sometimes contempt. But both wanted more. The rich wanted more, a kind of want that they had and hoarded everything they need and didn’t—a kind of want where they were never satisfied even if they already had their fill. And the poor wanted more too, a kind of want that they’d do anything to get anything and everything they needed—a kind of want where getting scraps was never enough, but was almost always had to be.

And then those who were stuck in between. They had neither the streets nor the estates; neither the rags nor the frills and lace; and neither the scraps nor the buffets. They were stable, but only just. One misstep, and they’d lose everything. 

But many, at some point, have drowned in the noise of their lives. Some have become too content in their marble estates that they’ve been taught not to see the troubles beyond its walls. Some have lost hope that their lives would ever change, living their last days with their begs and pleas falling upon deaf ears. And some have become indifferent in their barely-stable life, learning that demanding the more that they need was futile.

How could they not? When the government was much more bothered catering to the whims of the rich and powerful and ignoring the needs of the masses. How could they not, when a laborer would beg for scraps, the government would laugh, and he would be left to die? How could they not, when the rich stole for their fancy, they got a slap on the wrist; but when the poor stole food for their children, they were sentenced to imprisonment? How could they not, when merely speaking up for what was right, was returned with being silenced? The world they lived in was miserable; sickness spread like rats, hunger dominated the streets, and polluted water breached every crevice of Paris. The decline of their society and economy was all of the making of the government, who blamed the people for France’s misfortunes.

And yet, hope remained in the people who questioned. Questioned the state of society. Questioned the government. Questioned the policies that kept the poor poor and the rich rich. Questioned why people, who were suffering just as many others, were blind to the truth. Les Amis de l’ABC, they were called. The Friends of the ABC. Friends of the lowly.

They held meetings. They held rallies. They gave pamphlets and speeches to educate people of the deteriorating state of their society and their lives. They urged people to join them—a call to change the course of their pitiful lives. Most importantly, they gave the people something to hold onto.

And thus, they were the catalyst for many.

A figure in faded red stood in the sea of people who had gathered to listen to Enjolras, student-leader of Les Amis de l’ABC, speak at their rally. The figure strained their neck to catch a glimpse of him, with hair as bright as his mind. He spoke clearly, his message powerful; he spoke of policies and theories and power and stratification, but he did not speak in a way a book would. Despite his obviously educated background, he spoke for the people by speaking in their language, and not the language of textbooks or universities. 

And so the figure stood in rapt attention. It was a waste of time, their family would tell them. Why would they care, when they were not begging for scraps or living in the streets? The people in their family had jobs, food, and a roof over their heads, what more could they want? Why should they concern themselves with the plight of others? Why would they care, even if one delayed wage could end them all?

But the figure in faded red was intrigued, yet they could not be there for every rally. They could not read every pamphlet or listen to every speech. Sometimes, when out on errands, they would listen to snippets of speeches. They would have brief encounters with some of the student-members—a short chat during the distribution of pamphlets led them to learn that Feuilly was the only workingman, but was struggling to make ends meet; or that an invitation to join them at the Cafe Musain would lead them to discovering the eloquent Combeferre was a surgeon. The members of the Amis then seemed more human than ever before.

Despite being intrigued, they found themselves declining unless it was utterly convenient for them. A knot of guilt would form in their gut, knowing that these students have been balancing their fight for a Republic with the other facets of their life. They would not join a rally, unless they had the time, and they so happened to be there already. They would not accept a pamphlet, unless they could hide it from their family or had time to read it. But their eyes and mind had never shut again, and the spark of intrigued never dimmed but also never grew.

But in every rally that they could catch, every speech that they could listen to, they would always think, “Enjolras would make a good leader of the Republic someday. He has my support now and in the future.”

They and their family lived in Place Saint-Michel, near the Cafe Musain. It was not uncommon to see the students passing by, especially in the chilly breeze of the evening and in the biting cold of midnight. They would greet the students, sometimes, when they would cross paths on the streets. Sometimes, they would lean out on their window of their flat and tend to their budding red poppies, while watching the lively students walk the street. Oftentimes, the students would carry nothing but themselves, with the occasional stack of pamphlets to be distributed to the people. But tonight, the street was filled with people. The students carried muskets and weapons, and they called upon the people, and the people answered. It was loud. There no grand speeches, only the excited shouts of a bright future right on their fingertips. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the cold night. Tonight, the streets were red with the flags of the revolution and the Republic.

And as the students led the people on the march in the street, as the flag of France and the revolution were waved down there and in the windows of the people, our figure watched with awe. They did not join, however, merely watching from above. They understood and believed in the students’ cause, but they remained in their spot by their window, surrounded by the buds of their red poppies.

The following day was the funeral of General Lamarque. It was a public event, as were all funerals of great men of the government; the people were almost required to attend. They went with their family, once again wearing faded red. Under the shadow of the Elephant of the Bastille, they squeezed in the crowd of mourners. Up front, they could see Enjolras in his blood red coat. And as the carriage carrying the casket passed them, the student-leader in blood red surged forward to wave a flag that looked as if it were made from the same cloth as his coat.

As the other students and workers surged and seized control of the carriage, banners and flags of red and the Republic flew ablaze in the wind. The orderly line that the National Guard wanted broke, the dam breaking to release the sea of people demanding for better and for more. A cacophony of “Vive la France!” and “Vive General Lamarque!” resounded from the people. Then angry shouts and gunshots started to mix; the National Guard had started firing and tried to rein in the crowd.

Their family took them and retreated back to their flat at Place Saint-Michel. Their family did not want to be associated with them, “unnecessary rabble. Created nothing but trouble for everyone. Should’ve stuck to mourning the dead. We’ll be safe here, away from it all.”

Their heart thumped heavily in their chest, as if it were bashing against the ribcage, demanding to be set loose. They sat on a chair, their mind trying to wrap around what had just happen, when they heard the angry shouts and urgent commands and the faint smell of gunpowder. They looked out their window to see that the rabble rousers have arrived. The cobblestone street was replaced by the heads of people escaping the gunfire and moving towards a new dawn. Change waited for no one, they realized.

Soon, the students moved into the surrounding buildings, houses, and establishments. They took any and whatever pieces of furniture they could find, dragging them towards just outside the Cafe Musain; chairs, tables, benches, even an old piano was not spared. Some of their neighbors were generous enough to throw down their own pieces of furnitures before the students could even ask. They were starting to pile high outside the Cafe, an amalgamation of the students’ vision and the people’s support. A barricade to safeguard the future Republic.

Without warning, the door to their apartment burst open. Their family screamed in shock as the students apologized while taking some chairs and a table. But they themselves showed no resistance at all. They glanced at their family, who were fighting with the students for the furniture, and made no move to help or resist. Enjolras then stepped forward, reaching towards the chair they had sat on. Their breathing became labored; would they help these people, who have now obviously turned themselves into criminals for the people, or would they do nothing, and distance themselves from a fight that they thought wasn’t theirs?

When they did nothing, Enjolras got the chair and held it with reverence, as if it were a holy relic rather than a simple sitting tool. With a kind “thank you”, and armful of wooden furnitures, the students left. A hole was left somewhere deep within them, too. It was as if something that should be inside them didn’t exist. They wanted to run down and join the students on the barricades, but what good would that do? What did they hope to achieve? So they did nothing.

The remaining hours seemed to pass by in such a painstaking speed. They and their family dared not to venture out in fear of getting shot or involuntarily thrown into the mess. God forbid they and their family be mistaken as part of the insurrectionists. So they stayed still. It wasn’t until the first round of gunfire did the family move. They took cover in whatever remaining furniture or features they had in the flat. Our figure stayed away from the window where their red poppies were, leaning instead against the wall farthest from the barricades. Their hands flew over their ears as the bang bang bang of guns rang out. Their ears felt like imploding. Their heart pounded in rhythm with the sound of gunfire, their heart and guns outside were in such harmony, they felt as if they were being shot as well.

BANG! THUMP!

BANG BANG! THUMP THUMP!

As the gunfire ceased, they slumped against the wall. They felt as if they had been the one out there fighting. Should they go down and help their wounded? Perhaps not, it was still risky even if the fighting had paused.

And as their heart’s pace slowed down, their eyes drooped as well. The world turned dark and quiet.

BOOM!

They were once again awoken by a deep and heavy sound. As they heard it, the very floorboards and their being seemed to tremble in tandem. Their heart started thumping rapidly again as the gunshots resounded once more. They crawled towards the window with the budding red poppies and gazed down below.

They could barely see. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could see vague figures on the ground, unmoving. Some were of the National Guards but many were students. Some they recognized. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could vaguely spot outlines of figures running to the nearby houses and buildings.

“HELP!”

If it was possible, they jolted and froze at the same time.

BAM BAM BAM! “LET US IN! PLEASE!”

They stared down. The barricade had fallen, and students were fleeing and seeking refuge from the very people who had given them support.

Should they let the students in?

Perhaps not. After all, the Amis had many supporters. Surely, many of them would help the students.

They withdrew from the window and returned to their wall. They covered their ears once more, drowning out the sounds of the fight and the pleas of the students. Their eyes were tightly shut, blocking out the sights of the bodies on the street and the students pounding on the doors. And their heart thumped rhythmically along with the gunshots, closing themselves to the very people trying to fight for more doors to open for the citizens of France. In their huddled state, safe in their flat, they did not see the people of Paris turning their backs on those that fought for them.

As the pleas of the students were silenced, as the sounds of the cannons halted, as the crying stopped, as the gunfire ceased, their heart slowed.

Thump thump thump…

Thump thump…

Thump…

Thump…

With their eyes closed tight, they saw nothing but darkness, nothing different from the world outside. They fell into a restless slumber, the dark in front of their eyes occasionally flashing with blood red shapes.

They awoke the next morning to the quiet of the outside. Their family was bustling about, bringing in the chairs and table that the students had borrowed yesterday. The pieces of furniture were mostly damaged but still useful after they’ve been fixed.

The bright ray of sun caught their eyes, so they walked towards the window to close it. Instead, they found themselves stunned. Their red poppies had bloomed into vivid, strong, petals of red. And below in the street, was a sea of red. Not of flags or banners or even clothes. It was the red of the students, a glaring dark crimson puddle of their sacrifice. And somehow, the figure looking down felt the red drain from their face. They felt a nasty, cold and biting shiver crawl down their spine. They watched as the red of the streets was being washed by the grey of contaminated water as people started scrubbing the quiet cobblestone street of Place Saint-Michel. And so, our figure in faded red took a pair of scissors and gently cut the red poppies from their stems.

They went out in the streets, ignoring the women cleaning them and ignoring the men of the National Guard lingering about. Their nose scrunched up with the nasty mix of smells, but they forced themself onwards. They walked the short distance to the Cafe Musain.

No lively banter.

No heated debates.

No smell of food.

In front were bloodied figures of men. They were lined up, but not one in front of the other as if awaiting trial; they were lined up on the ground, side by side. Enjolras was the first in line, as he always had been for them. His blood red coat stood up amongst the others, but blended well with their wounds.

They knelt down in front of the fair-headed student-leader first. They reverently placed a red poppy on his chest, as if it were a holy relic that would save his soul instead of a simple flower.

For Enjolras, the law student.

And one by one, they knelt down for the rest of the fallen members of Les Amis de l’ABC.

For Combeferre, the surgeon.

For Courfeyrac, the center.

For Feuilly, the workingman.

For Joly, the medical student.

For Lesgle, the man with the eternal smile.

For Bahorel, the witty gentleman.

For Prouvaire, the poet.

For Gavroche, the little boy who found his family with the students.

And for Grantaire, the cynic and critic who stood with Enjolras to the very end.

They did not return home. Instead, they went to the nearest and cheapest bookstore they could find. They recalled the thinkers Enjolras would cite, and pulled out all the books that they could find.

They spent the rest of their life reading. Learning. Making up for what they should have done for the students.

And so in 1848, they fought in the Revolution, helping to establish the Second Republic. The monarchy was gone, and the people were given hope. But they hadn’t only fought for the current and future citizens of France, but they also fought for the martyrs of the past that were failed by the people they fought for.

Today, perhaps this story may resonate with some of us. Some of us may have been through similar experiences. When those who have sworn to serve and protect its people start to fail, be aware, and do not remain blind in your comfort. Must we wait for someone to give their life to start fighting for the safety and the needs we are obliged?

~~~

~~~

The shrine welcomed the Faithful to its embrace. Candles lit the space that surrounded the relic of one of the Valar. The stream in the middle glittered from the candles that floated as people added more. They were ferried down the stream by small shells. The moment was meant to be a solemn mourning for all those that had fallen in Middle Earth. Valandil, along with Elendil had placed candles for Isildur and Ontamo.

The last thing Valandil remembered before the sharp metal sticking out of his gut brought him to his knees was his Captain's voice commanding him not to kill Kemen, who had barged and disrupted their mourning.

Darkness shrouded his eyes as he laid in Elendil's lap. Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he see his Captain's face? Why couldn't he feel?

The dark soon transformed into a soft glow. He saw nothing else at first, then he heard giggles. Familiar giggles.

"You're too slow, Valandil!" A little girl.

"Slow down!" A slightly older boy, but it wasn't his voice.

Then the soft glow grew color. Bold hues of red, gold, blue, and green, with the touch of greys and browns. Then the blurry colored-glow turned sharper, more defined. The shapes of houses, merchants’ stalls, and the cobblestone streets of Armenelos. The streets were bumpy and the wind blew into Valandil’s face.

He remembered that day well. One of the many days he would play with two of Elendil’s children: Isildur and Finduilas.

Finduilas. That was her name.

He felt someone knock into him from behind, causing him to fall smack on the cobblestone street. After having upright himself, he came face-to-face with the little girl Finduilas. But instead of seeing her from the top (as he had expected), he found himself eye-to-eye with Elendil’s youngest daughter. She had wild brown locks, wavy, as if the sea that surrounded Númenor were created from the strands of her hair. Her eyes were gleaming with mischief, and her gap-toothed smile was wide.

“That was easy!” Little Finduilas exclaimed as another boy came catching up from behind her. His oval face and dark wavy hair could only mean this was Isildur.

Oh, Isildur, why must you have gone back for the Queen?

Valandil remembered that day in the streets. The sun was nigh touching the sea; the sky was gold and purple. He recalled that their parents had arrived soon after, scolding them for playing so late.

Yet no parents came this time. In fact, the streets were empty save for them, but he was sure the place had been crowded that day.

The streets and the faces of his friends turned dark as pitch. Once again, there was nothing he could see save for the eternal black darkness.

With nothing in sight, he forced himself to move. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Until he could slowly feel soft ground, no longer the hard cobblestone street of the city. It was soft and warm. Then he smelled salt, then he could hear the crashing of waves, then he felt the strong warmth of the sun. Finally, he saw it—it was a beach, and standing on either side of him was Isildur and a curly golden haired boy. Ontamo.

He remembered that day. They had been around thirteen summers old, chatting about their aspirations of joining the Sea Guard when they grew older.

But something—-someone was missing.

“I want to be in the Sea Guard too!”

There she was. Finduilas, her hair now slightly longer but no less wild, if only managed by some hair ties that were struggling to hold her hair in place. She had to run to catch up to them, trying to squeeze herself in the group. The boys were in the age where they were growing up, and Valandil could feel his head tilted downwards just to look at Finduilas in the eye. He couldn’t remember what he said—couldn’t remember if he said anything at all.

But Isildur said something, and as Finduilas excitement deflated and manifested into a pout, he knew it wasn’t something good.

Then her face turned to him.

He wasn’t saying anything. Did he even say anything that day? Did he say anything to make her feel better?

His line of sight withdrew back to Ontamo and Isildur.

He remembered now. He had said nothing that day. Just left her there.

Suddenly, the sand fell beneath his feet, swallowing him whole. He tried to yell for help, but nothing came out of his mouth, only the course grains of sand going in. As his vision turned dark once again, he spluttered and struggled to breathe. And just when he thought it was his end, he screamed.

His heart raced, beating as if it were beating against his ribcage to release itself from his chest as he felt himself fall.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Until he felt his behind land on something wooden.

It was loud. He sat in front of a long table—a counter—that was busy with mugs of drinks being served left and right. Chatter and shouts and song overlapped each other left and right, a  familiar cacophony to Valandil’s ears. On either side of him were two empty seats. One for Isildur, one for Ontamo.

He remembered that day. He must’ve been around nineteen summers already. A man in his own right. He had grown taller, his own dark hair curly. His body was lean, as if it knew that Valandil would soon to be a promising addition to the Sea Guard.

He looked around once again. Many filled the wooden seats of the tavern, save for the ones beside him. He knew that Isildur and Ontamo were late that day, and he had sat in the middle seat to save his friends their spaces.

“Have you seen my brother?” A voice asked.

He turned to his left, and there she stood. Finduilas, whose hair was no longer wild. Her hair was now neat but still let loose, save for some locks that were pulled back into braids. She stood there gracefully, poised, as if she were in audience of the Queen instead of her brother’s dear friend. Her gaze no longer held mischief, but nervousness and a hint of warmth. They had grown apart in the years since that day in the cobblestone streets, but perhaps…

“He informed earlier that he and Ontamo would be late. Please, sit, it will be his seat, anyway,” he said. And so she did. Conversation flowed but few and far in between. He felt strange as he tried to reconcile the little girl he used to play with, and the stranger that sat beside him. His dear friend’s sister.

He soon discovered her passion for carving. She discovered his secret love for words and poetry. He recounted his injury with Isildur a few weeks ago. She told the story of how she nearly burnt her chambers down. He revealed his regret of growing apart from her and his fear of running out of time for things he desired.

The more they talked, the lesser the sounds of the tavern was heard. Until there was silence, and only his and Finduilas’s voice could be heard. He looked around, seeing nothing but chairs, tables, and drinks. Strange, as he knew that that night, the tavern did not grow empty.

Suddenly, a cold splash fell upon him from above, his head lurching forward from the impact. When he lifted his head, he could see a clear sky and the Great Sea ahead in the horizon. He felt the warm sand beneath once again, and something warmer in his left hand.

Finduilas. Her right hand in his left.

He remembered that day well. Just a few summers after that night they had renewed their friendship. And just a few weeks before he, Isildur, and Ontamo sailed to the Southlands.

His bond with Finduilas was stronger now. He felt strange in her graceful presence, like drinking a hot bowl of soup on a cold night. Or like sitting close to the hearth during a thundering tempest. Or…no. He could not quite describe it. How could he? How could one ever truly encapsulate this wondrous feeling when they’re in the presence of one they hold most dear above all else?

How could he, lowly Valandil, put into words his feelings for his Captain’s daughter? For his dear friend’s sister?

Feelings? What was he feeling? He did not know, exactly. All he knew was that it felt right to have her hand in his; to hold her and kiss her forehead before they part ways for the night; to divulge their hearts’ deepest secrets and aspirations; to always seek each other when the day had only just begun. It was as right as the sun rising and setting each day.

“Do not fret about your apprenticeship with the palace scribe,” he said to her tenderly, “I know you will do well.”

“And do not fret about your training with the master swordsman,” she rebutted playfully, “I know you will do well.”

A beat of silence, and then…

“I truly am glad we became friends again, Valandil.”

Should he tell her? Perhaps another time. After all, what would he tell her, that he was feeling…something…that he could not name? No, he would tell her when he knew what it was.

The warmth that he felt in her presence spread throughout his body. He smiled. Then the warmth quickly isolated itself in his torso and back, and the rest of his body was wracked with shivers. The light of the sun faded into nothingness, and there was no sensation left for him to feel.

Love. That was it. He could finally tell her.

Where was she? His last thought, pondering her whereabouts, consumed his mind, just as the darkness finally consumed whole.

And as a struggling Elendil was forcibly removed from the shrine, Valandil was left lying under the watchful gaze of the relic of one of the Valar—-now a mourner for the first of the Faithful to fall.

You remember that day clearly.

You were a singer at Cid's dingy parlor in Ord Mantell, earning just enough to get by. Lucky you that Cid let you stay at an adjoining room to her business place. Her parlor wasn't that famous, nor was it that underground either. There were a few regular patrons here and there; a lot of times, new faces would appear once and never come back. You didn't see that much hope in your future, either. You figured you would be stuck there forever.

Until they came.

At first, you found it odd that a group of clones came into a parlor. Even worse that they brought a young girl with them. That definitely made you suspicious. Who would bring a child in this shady place?

You couldn't even tell that they were clones at first---or even that the girl was also a clone. The men's armor seemed to be very different from the usual white and painted armor. These clones had black and red armor (save for one, who had light grey and red). They looked different, too. While all the other clones were identical---save for the varying hairstyles, scars, and tattoos---these clones didn't even look like clones at first. One was a huge giant, one was pale with cybernetics, one had a giant face tattoo and long hair, and one was slightly lean with goggles. Let's not even get started on the girl.

These clones---Clone Force 99 or the Bad Batch, as they want to be called----reluctantly started to work for Cid until it became a regular deal. And so it was that their missions for Cid would lead them to be in the parlor frequently. They would catch you performing sometimes. And sometimes, when time would permit it, they would chat with you for a bit. Omega was the bubbliest of the bunch, always asking you to play with her if time permit.

You remember that day clearly.

That one fateful day, though you wish it wasn't under such circumstance.

Omega had come running in the parlor. Trailing behind her were her brothers, covered in several cuts and bruises, especially Wrecker, who was also limping.

That was the start of it all.

Ord Mantell as a whole is a shady place. Coupled with having witnessed countless bar fights, you had to learn first aid. It was a skill you quickly developed through many oppurtunities in the parlor and in the streets. And that was how you helped the Batch. That one fateful day, you were the one who tended to their injuries.

And so it became that you turned into their medic. Just an extra hand staying at Ord Mantell, if they needed; but soon you started to tag along them in the missions Cid gave them. And being their medic meant you spent a good chunk of your time with Tech.

He filled in the gaps of your medical knowledge. Truthfully, you really enjoyed learning anything, so you've always looked forward to spending time with Tech because it always meant you would soak up tons of information. Not only that, you two would always debate back and forth on topics you were confident and very knowledgeable about. It was a fresh change from your routine life as a singer in Cid's parlour.

And it came to no surprise to the Batch that Tech was the person you grew closest to.

Everything was going well, you thought. Everytime you were with him---every smile, compliment, even critique---your smile would be at its brightest. Your ramblings would be at their most energetic. And your heart would beat at its fastest.

But as always with you, the happy things never seem to last.

You remember that day clearly.

You came into Cid's office with the Batch, side-by-side with Tech. There was someone else in the office with the Trandoshan, though. Phee the pirate. You'd recognize that charisma anywhere.

You've met her a few times since Cid seemed to trust her a great deal. You admire the lady too. She's strong, beautiful, witty, smart, independent, charismatic.

Everything you're not.

The way she talked to Tech made you feel odd. You had expected her to chat up Hunter, mostly. But not Tech.

At first Tech didn't even pay much heed to her; and to your own disgust, you were somehow thankful for that.

But as Phee spent more time with you and the Batch---up to the point of relocating to Pabu---Tech and Phee got closer.

They spent much time alone. And even when the rest of you were there, Tech would always give her a smile different than the ones you've ever seen him give to anyone. And his tone---a soft, gentle tone that he's never used on anyone else but her.

And frankly, those were the only signs you needed.

You, Phee, and the Batch had an early dinner which finished as the sun was setting. You had seen the genius and pirate get up and walk away together, laughing about something. You quickly excused yourself from the table, but not before you caught Hunter giving you a soft gaze.

Presently, you've been sitting on a rock on the shores of Pabu for goodness knows how long. Purple with hues of orange paint the sky as the sun has almost completely set. The waves washing upon the shore and recoiling back into the sea in an almost melodic rhythm.

It's only now that you open your journal---yes, a paperback journal as it feels more personal---and begin to write, the light of the sunset and a small lamp beside you shining on the pages.

On my own, pretending he's beside me.

Your mind conjurs up an image of Tech sitting silently beside you on the rock, quietly typing away on his datapad.

All alone, I walk with him 'til morning.

You two would get up and start making your back to Upper Pabu, discussing a new species of plant Tech just read about.

Without him, I feel his arms around me. And when I lose my way, I close my eyes, and he has found me.

As you write those words, it's as if you could feel the plastoid of his armor around your arms and body. A rare gesture from him, but one that you always cherished.

In the rain, the pavement shines like silver. All the lights, are misty in the river. In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight; and all I see is him and me forever and forever!

You recall a mission with the Batch, one that had you and Tech disguised as a couple, dressed in civies, walking down a busy marketplace when the rain poured harshly. You two ran back through a forest by a river to get back to the Marauder. You two were holding hands even, which made your heart thump so much that Hunter had a suspicious look on his face when you came back.

But the scene in your head disappears, leaving you alone with your journal again under the night sky.

And I know it's only in my mind that I'm talking to myself and not to him. 

You smile bitterly at the times he seemed oblivious to your flimsy excuses to just even be near him. In hindsight, it's cute and endearing.

And although, I know that he is blind, still I say there's a way for us.

Your smile drops and your head is clear once again.

I love him.

But when the night is over, he is gone. The river's just a river. Without him, the world around me changes. The trees are bare and everywhere the streets are full of strangers.

Your mind drifts back to that memory of you two running through the forest. But this time, you're alone, and suddenly the memory doesn't seem special at all.

I love him.

But every day I'm learning all my life, I've only been pretending!

It's as if a Rancor were squeezing your heart as your write. Your hand shakes, making you almost drop your pen. You recall all the times you've been rejected before Tech---the two other guys that you liked before him. You weren't pretty enough for the first one, he had said so himself, as he didn't deem you mature-looking enough. You had just turned into a teenager, and that was what he was already looking for. You loathed your body and youself for that. 

And even though the second one became your boyfriend, he still left you without a word to pursue someone else.

And now that Tech has his eyes on someone else, it's as if you were a teenager again looking for approval from the people she admired.

Were you not pretty enough for Tech? Not smart enough? Not strong enough?

He doesn't have to say anything, you already know the answer.

Without me, his world will go on turning. A world that's full of happiness that I have never known.

Finally, your mind plays back the every memory of Tech and Phee enjoying each other's company. Their laughter, smiles, banter, and affection shoot like blaster fire through your heart.

I love him.

I love him.

"I love him," you mutter to yourself.

But only on my own.

The journey on the way back to Ord Mantell is not always vibrant, but this time, it is. Blue streaks decorate the blackness of space as the Havoc Marauder travels back to Ord Mantell. The energy in the ship is unusually jolly after a mission; you could feel everyone's energy.

Cid's client this time was a sheriff. He hired you and the Batch to act as temporary bodyguards to drive away mercenaries from his town on a tropical planet. While you were there, you and the Batch befriended the local villagers. As a thank you gift, they gave you tons of food—enough for a real meal for the five of you—for the journey back to Cid's.

It seems they packed you some sort of noodles. It's incredibly saucy—almost a vibrant red—not that you mind. The smell is delicious, mild enough for Hunter to enjoy it properly, but enough that you can smell the blend of several different spices. Chopped out pieces of vegetables and meat are mixed into it, as well.

You sit on your bunk, quietly observing the Batch as you heartily eat the noodles. Wrecker, who practically wolfed down his big portion of the food, is now playing dejarik with Omega, who is multitasking between eating dinner and playing the game. The girl giggles as she continues to beat the gentle giant.

Tech and Echo are both seated by the ship's console. You could sense that they're relaxed and satisfied, as opposed to their usual tired state after a mission. They both eat the food while chatting with each other, a smile on each of their faces.

Your glance finally lands on Sergeant Hunter. With his food in hand, he leans on the wall as he watches over his crew. Looking at him, you can feel warmth radiate through your body, and you know that feeling to be Hunter's; it's just the Force's way of telling you how happy he is for the time being.

You smile to yourself, it's not every time that the Batch could enjoy like this. Your heart feels light just by watching them. They reminded you of the Wolfpack.

Oh.

Your heart turns heavy. You're quite past being angry with them: about turning their backs against the Jedi Order; about betraying the cause they fought for; and about killing Master Plo.

No. You just miss them. You miss how things were. You miss the warmth they brought with their presence. You crave for Master Plo's fatherly advice and care. You want to feel Wolffe's comforting hug after a failed campaign. You want to hear Sinker's and Boost's corny jokes that would distract you from the horrors of the war.

You just want them back—just like the old times.

Breaking out of your thoughts, you feel a lingering sensation. Looking up, you find Hunter looking at you with worry. It still surprises you, that after months of being with them, you still can't quite figure out how his enhanced senses work.

Regardless, you send him your signature tight-lipped smile. That awkward smile that graced your features upon your introduction to your new master. The one you gave the 104th battalion at your first campaign as their Commander. The one—

You huff, internally berating yourself for going there again. You really should control your thoughts better.

You quickly finish your food, before properly disposing of the container and utensils. Quickly, you head to the fresher to brush your teeth. Once you're done, you feel something in your stomach, as if you're still hungry, as if something is bubbling inside. You ignore it, just wanting to sleep so that your mind won't be plagued by unwanted thoughts. It's hard at night, the dark thoughts always seem to get worse then.

Heading to your bunk, you collapse on it; everything you and the Batch did the past few days finally catching up to you as your adrenaline drops. It doesn't take long before you're curled up on your bunk, asleep.

You don't even know how long it's been, but suddenly you sit upright and swing your legs over your bunk. Without thinking, you walk briskly to the fresher, slamming the door shut before hunching over the toilet and immediately expelling your dinner.

You groan, slumping down on the fresher floor. You could feel something bubbling in your stomach again, forcing it's way up, along with a strong pinch in your abdomen. The aftermath of your vomit tastes like dinner and something sour.

Just then, a knock is heard. "Are you okay?" Hunter's gruff but calming voice calls out.

Shakily, you stand and flush the toilet before washing your hands.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you reply calmly, masking the pain that you're feeling.

Hunter suddenly opens the fresher door, making you jump. He looks at you worriedly.

"I can hear your stomach, doesn't sound good."

You walk past him into the direction of your bunk. You feel Echo's and Tech's eyes on you as well, but you just want to go back to sleep.

"I think I just ate too fast. Don't worry about it," you mumble tiredly as you resume your slumber.

Echo, Tech, and Hunter all look at your sleeping form but decided that perhaps it's best you get some rest.

The peace continues for around half an hour. You wake up again, hurriedly walking to the bathroom. You don't even notice the worried glance Tech gives, or even the fresher door that you left open before throwing up in the toilet again.

You groan, slumping on the fresher floor.

Someone pulls you up gently by your arm.

"It's alright, I got you," you hear Hunter say as you see Tech flushing the toilet.

You sigh as he brings you back to your bunk, laying you down on it.

"Sorry, Hunter. Did I wake you?" You ask.

He just chuckles. "Yeah, but don't worry. How're you feeling?"

You slump back on my pillows. "Tired."

Just then, Tech suddenly appears, typing away at his datapad. He looks at you before talking.

"It seems that the contents that you expelled included acid, aside from the food you ate for dinner," he then looks at Hunter, "you said you could hear her stomach?"

"Yeah, it sounded like something was bubbling upwards."

Tech nods, seemingly satisfied. "Figured as much," comes his robotic-like voice. He looks at you again, with one eyebrow raised. "I had a theory, so I looked for your medical files from the GAR. You have gastroesopheagal reflux disease. It is most likely that the noodles that we ate triggered it."

"Yeah, kinda figured that out after I threw up the first time," you mumble. You bring the blankets up to your chin, wishing that you could disappear from their scrutinizing gaze.

"I've also checked our medpacks—we do not have any antacid at hand. We'd have to wait till we arrive at Ord Mantell to restock."

Hunter frowns. "Do you need anything?" He asks you.

Your gaze lingers a bit longer on him than you would've liked. His eyebrow are arched upwards, causing lines to appear on his forehead. While crouched, you could still tell that his torso is slightly leaning forwards towards you. He keeps one hand on your bunk, too. For a brief moment, you see a man with a GAR-standard haircut, a cybernetic eye, a scar over it, and white and grey armor. But it's as if your vision shifts, and you see the man with long hair, face tattoo, a red bandana, and colorful armor.

"No, nothing. I'm fine," you reply dryly.

"No, you are not," Tech bluntly points out.

"I'll sleep it off," you mumble, rolling over to your side as your eyes begin to droop once again from exhaustion.

Hunter and Tech both sigh as you quite literally turn your backs on them. At this point, they're quite used to you being closed off, but this is the first time they've seen how you're like when your sick. You're more distant than you usually are.

After some time you feel the familiar pinch in your stomach and your labored breathing. The acid quickly rises in you, and it feels as if it were knawing through its pathway.

You quickly turn to the other side of your bunk in hopes to reach the fresher again. Instead, your eyes meet a metal bucket beside your bunk. Unable to hold everything in, you expel the acid in the bucket.

You cry out in pain; the muscles of your abdoment working overtime to push the acid out of you. Your hair drapes around your face as you throw up, getting in the way of the vomit that not only comes out of your mouth, but also some through the nose.

You vaguely feel a hand gathering your hair and holding it away from your face, and another hand gently rubbing your back.

"Hey, it's okay. I got you," it says soothingly.

Warm tears stream down from your eyes, to your cheeks, and pour down to the bucket.

You lie back down, breathing heavily. The bitter-sour aftertaste of the acid makes you cringe. Your eyelids flutter heavily, and you drift in and out of sleep. You don't even notice that Hunter disappeared until you hear the fresher door open and the bucket being settled down beside your bunk again.

"I could've done that myself," You mutter tiredly.

Hunter crosses his arms over his chest, a big frown on his face. "No, you need to rest. Let me help you."

"It's my problem. I'm the one who's sick."

"Uh-huh," Hunter grunts, looking very unimpressed. "C'mon, ad'ika. Let me help."

Ad'ika.

As he says that, you could hear Wolffe's voice. Your eyes dart around the room, trying to find him. But the only other person you see is a concerned Hunter looking down at you.

Logically, you knew you needed someone to help you with the bucket, and other things that may come up. Your heart clenches at how you wished it was Wolffe, or Boost, or Sinker, or Comet, or Master Plo. But deep inside you, you know that if you try to do this all by yourself, you may end up vomiting on the floor or elsewhere where you shouldn't be. You wouldn't want that.

"Fine," you concede. Your voice no longer holding the fight it had previously.

Hunter flashes you a faint smile as he leaves. Your head lolls on the pillow as your eyelids close on their own and your mind becomes blank.

You wake up once again to someone tapping your shoulder. In your hazy vision, you see Hunter holding out a bottle of water to you. Sitting up, you take it gratefully, taking a few sips. You hand it back to him before resuming your slumber.

And so under the lights of hyperspace, the cycle continued until you reached Ord Mantell. Every thirty minutes or so, Hunter would wake up after you throw up in the bucket; he would flush it before returning it to you clean. Occassionally, he would refill the bottle with water, as well.

In your delurious state, sometimes you would see Wolffe instead of Hunter moving about. And it would seep into your dreams, too. You would see the blur of grey and white armor of the Wolfpack instead of the colorful armor of the Batch. You would hear Wolffe's voice—gruff and strict—telling you to take it easy.

But as the hours tick by, you no longer see or hear anyone from the Wolfpack, whether it be in your dreams or reality. You don't see the grey and white. Instead, you see flashes of color; you see flashes of grey mixed with yellow, red, cyan, and orange. You don't hear Wolffe's strict voice, Boost and Sinker's jokes, or Master Plo's comforting advice. You hear Hunter's gruff but caring remarks, Wrecker's booming laughter, Echo's gentle reminders, Tech's steady comments, and Omega's soft greetings.

Porchay hasn't seen his childhood home for quite some time, not since he got kidnapped. But now that his brother is the head of the Minor Family (also, the boyfriend of the Main Family head), Chay will stay his brother at the Minor Family mansion. Now, he just has to get the rest of their stuff from their old home.

In his former bedroom, Chay stares at his idol wall decorated with pictures of Wik—ah, well, P'Kim. The colorful photogenic pictures of the local indie artist are spread out but culminate towrard the desk pushed against the wall.

He sighs heavily, suddenly remembering the same man is currently downstairs in the living room. Not that he wanted him within his vicinity, anyway.

"Chay," Porsche calls.

Chay looks up from his phone, "Hmm?"

"Take Kim to help you with the stuff."

The younger brother accidentally drops his phone on the bed. "What?! You know just one of the bodyguards is enough, right? Can't P'Arm come instead?"

"There's a really important meeting later, and I don't trust the other bodyguards enough to go with you. Kim isn't really involved with the family business, anyway."

The younger boy pulls a slight grimace, but he eventually nods at his brother.

Chay pinches the bridge of his nose at the memory. "Ay, Hia," he says.

He starts to carefully remove the pictures from the wall. But the more pictures he takes down, the more memories flash into his mind: their dates, the food they shared, and the music they jammed together to. He's so blinded by the past playing like a reel in his mind, he hasn't noticed that he's nearly tearing the photographs as he's removing them from the wall.

He's mind has stopped replaying the memories now. He touches his cheeks finding them wet, before looking down at his desk where he finds several pictures slightly crumpled or slightly torn.

His knees buckle, making him crumble to the floor as he silently bawls his eyes out.

Meanwhile downstairs in the living room, Kim starts to pack the fragile items. After putting away a lamp, several vases, and other ceramic works, he stumbles upon a framed picture of Porsche and Chay, happily sitting together side-by-side.

Porsche and Kim sit in the living room of the Main Family. The former, with arms crossed, roots himself in front of the youngest Theerapanyakul in the house, who fidgets with his hands.

"Just help Chay with the packing and cleaning. That's it," Porsche says firmly as he glares at Kim.

"Don't worry," Kim replies calmly, "I already know he doesn't want to talk to me."

"Good. You deserve it."

Kim groans at the memory and smacks his forehead. It's true that he was looking into his father's many secrets, which included Porsche, but he really did—no—does love Chay.

He feels like banging his head on a wall. Of course Chay would be hurt after responding to his "have you ever loved me" with "I'm sorry". Of course Chay wouldn't want to talk to him.

You're such an idiot.

He continues packing things away in boxes, all the while his heart, full of regret, beating heavily and his mind re-playing every single moment they shared.

It's almost 11:30 in the morning, almost time for lunch. Kim hasn't seen Chay come down yet, so he decided to make some grub for themselves. He carefully threads through the sea of large brown boxes and finds himself at the kitchen. He browses through the cupboards, finding a small sack of rice there that he then places on the kitchen counter. He then searches the fridge; he found some bits of papaya, a coconut, cabbage, and—oh, some eggs.

He gets an idea. And he hopes that it's a good one.

He brings out all the ingredients and items he's going to need. He hopes Chay will like this.

Unbeknownst to him, Chay could actually hear him busy himself in the kitchen. But whatever, he just shurgs and continues sweeping his bedroom floor, making sure to get the spot under the few boxes that contain his other belongings. After a few minutes, he glances around his room; it's probably the last time he'll be in this room.

He then lies down on his bare mattress, pulling out his phone.

It must've been almost 30 minutes when he suddenly heard a loud ow! from downstairs.

He jumps out of his bed—well, mattress—and rushes down the stairs, skipping every other step as he goes.

"P'Kim?" He looks around the first floor but halts when he sees Kim keeping his hand under the faucet's running water.

The older man in question uses his other hand to wave embarrassingly at Chay. "Hey, uh, I made lunch...it's on the table."

Chay inches closer to the four-seater dining table, where he finds two plates at the opposite ends of the table. He gasps as he sees the sunny-side up egg on top of rice, with a smiley face made out of ketchup—the same food he made for P'Kim the day he got kidnapped.

"Oh," Chay says, "thank you."

He then sits down, at first just staring at his food before digging in.

Kim soon follows suit, sans the staring at his food.

A few minutes have passed and both of them have been quiet so far. Chay has been keeping his eyes trained on his food only, in contrast to Kim who keeps shifting his glance from his food to the boy in front of him. Nothing could be heard in the room, really, just the scraping and slight clanging of stainless steel utensils against porcelain plates and the occasional horns from the vehicles outside.

It didn't take long for Chay to finish his food, just as he was about to bring his empty plate to the sink, Kim speaks up.

"No, I'll do it."

"Oh," Chay lets out, "are you sure? I can just wash mine."

Kim stands out, holding his plate, then grabbing Chay's. "No, it's alright, really." He brings their dirty dishes to the sink then turns on the faucet.

Chay watches Kim as the youngest member of the Main Family cleans up. Should he accept P'Kim's apology? He sure seemed like he means it. But then again he never made it clear what he was apologizing for, he never answered his question, and he was still nosy even after they have stopped talking.

"P'Kim?"

The man has just finished drying his hands on a nearby hand towel. "Yeah?"

"Could you help me with the boxes upstairs, please?"

Kim has to bite his lip to keep himself from smiling. The little smitten boy inside him is dancing and whooping for joy. Chay trusts him enough to help him!

He clears his throat. "Ah, yes, sure. Come on."

It doesn't take long for them to bring all the boxes downstairs since some of Chay's stuff are at the Main Family's house already. Soon, they've started to sweep the first floor, making sure to get under the boxes. Nothing could be heard except for the occasional shifting of the boxes or furniture. After a while, Kim decides to break the tension.

"Chay, I'm sorry."

The other boy has been expecting this and already has an idea what this will be about, still he asks. "About what?"

Kim collapses on the nearby sofa. "How I just left you there, hanging. I really did love you, Chay; I just couldn't bring myself to say it that day, but that isn't an excuse. I followed you into that club and Yok's bar because I cared about you—I wanted to keep you safe. But I also know now that I should've respected your choice to keep your distance from me, especially when you blocked me. I'm really sorry that I hurt you."

He looks up at Chay, who's been standing in front of him, looking down. Kim bites his lips again, but this time the little smitten boy inside him is cowering from Chay's glare.

Despite his harsh and cold demeanor, Chay's voice came out small. "Do you really mean that? Do you still care about me?"

Kim edges closer to him. "Of course! Of course to both questions, Chay."

Chay looks at him, all the memories running through his mind like a movie that's on fast forward. Eventually he asks.

"Do you want to try again?"