RISE

He understood her curiosity, for that he could not blame her. However, the query left his skin bristling and his lungs burning. He knew what she meant, yet he wanted desperately to pretend he didn’t, she was intelligent, and knew Dyans well enough to figure when he was bullshitting him. If he dodged a question like this, she would pick it up. And he would be plagued with those memories once more without an outlet of release. Trapped on a ship, there were only so many ways to release that rage. 

He faced her with tired eyes and shrugged. He remembered.  “Five stormtroopers. They were helping me with a training exercise, and I snapped, so to speak. No real reason. Nothing premeditated. I was just tired of feeling like I didn’t have a choice.” He cleared his throat and turned away, hands coming together to fiddle with one another. He rubbed his index finger with his thumb and twisted his lips. 

It had been long ago, nearing on fourteen years now, yet he could not push it from his mind. He knew he’d used all he’d been taught on those men. On those kids. It was later did he learn that even they did not have a choice in their being there. He’d misunderstood their loyalties, yet for a while after, the guilt would not plague him. 

It did now, though. 

He made himself small - smaller - as he picked through the ruckus, his head on a swivel; often was it directed at the man trailing behind him. In a sworn (half-assed, that was) oath to protect this man, for supposedly a fat wad. At this point, he didn’t care, it was a job and one well done at that. And besides, the amusement of using the excuse of being his protector in order to drag him along to places he otherwise would never traverse on his own? Brilliant, if he were speaking for himself - and he was. The majority of the languages, he knew, practiced ears and perhaps more adapted brain working to make sense of some of the screaming. The Colt 1911 at his hip growing heavier by each pique of interest. There were a few men screaming in Russian, yet he blocked them out upon the realization that they were not the end game to his “search”. He checked over his shoulder for Zemo again.  “It’s ironic that out of all of my known languages, Sokovian is not one of them.” He mused, a gentle smirk playing him. It fell when a holler let out, the skin on his arms bristling with gooseflesh.  “Maybe it is better we stay out of this one. Lest I see this job fruitlessly through.” He took a step back, hand grasping his 1911.  “Make the call.”

LMAO what did I do? 

Ease came like a wave at the recall of the General’s lacking presence. A bitter man with bitter intentions; always enough to set Dyans on a sour course before a job. He was not foolish enough so to butt heads with the man, however he had a few saved quips to tear out when he saw fit. Which, in truth was not often. The Lieutenant was starkly contrasting in energy, attitude and resolve, Dyans knew that much. Got his job done, however overtly nervous of his presence. That, or there was an outside situation nagging at him, but his shoulders shook slightly, and his voice strained. Hiding it bore him no respect from Dyans. He took the datapad in gloved fingers and read through the mission, delicately placed per usual, he did not have many queries by the end of his read.  “It doesn’t state whether this is a seize, assassination or intel mission.” He said, his face blank while his tone monotonous.  “Important details, but everything else seems to be here."

A wind’s whisper was always akin to a scream on jungle planets. A crackling few embers on wood sat in front of him, hardly enough to be called a fire but the flames had to be kept low lest the wind carried sparks and obliterated the forest and its only two humanoid inhabitants. They’d come dangerously close upon crashing into thick red trees, narrowly missing the tree line, even narrower a river wider than the mouth of a sarlaac and likely twice the depth. The transport, large as it was, would have been toast. 

Perhaps a tale to the Maker’s idealist intentions, the only two who had made it from the fire had been Dyans and Kylo Ren him-fucking-self. Dyans knew - and knew it well - that there was no surprise that he’d climbed his way from the rubble, while Dyans had barely managed to pull his hammer from the rubble much less himself. However, he found it quite ironic that he hadn’t been the one injured. 

He’d removed his own sleeve, his right arm now a refuge for hell only knows the kind of insects. He’d slapped a few from the sky, attracted to the blood, rusty and metallic in scent. A pack of Dyans’ had miraculously been dutiful in surviving the crash, a small, worn roll of gauze neatly wrapped up tight, pre-wrap somewhere deep in its void; he made haste to look as the wound soaked through the cloth he was applying pressure with. 

“Out of all of your odd abilities, you couldn’t have used one of them to prevent this?” He asked,  not-so-stoically bitter.  “And how is it that I - a mere assassin - made it out unscathed while one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy is on death’s door?” His eyes narrowed as he dangerously cut them to the man he was mending. 

He twisted his lips indignantly, clicking his tongue as he expertly unwinded the gauze and tore a piece off with his teeth. He had no suture, no thread, and while he could dethread a pant leg, he wasn’t feeling up to carving a suture from animal bone, nor was he particularly fond of walking around a fertile planet scarce of a pant. He settled for a glance of annoyance while he rested the gauze upon the wound, undoing the pre-wrap to wrap the man’s waist. He was slow in his movements, like he’d rather be doing anything else. 

“Poetic if you dream it up, loathsome in practice.”  

❝  Try and steal and you get bit, that's what you 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐟**𝐤𝐢𝐧' get ❞