#bade-wavewar

when sal was sixteen years old, he was thrown into a pit, hellish and dark and full of large skittering beasts, left to die under the cloudless sky, left to claw and bite and scratch his way out, nothing but his rage and the bones of the boys who had come before him, died before him like meat to vicious pets. he was nine the first time his father taught him to use a weapon instead of just his own body, how to stand, how to hold, how to brace his nerves against a coming onslaught like a mountain in a storm, stone and steel and flame-- always flame.

he’s had audiences before, sneering spectators betting on how long he’d last out in the wilds of the fontaine prison planet, the most inescapable rock in the galaxy, or bar patrons who’ve witnessed his temper’s incendiary fuse, but nothing so loud before, nothing so wide before. he glances over at the entrance to the arena and inhales the gathering crowd’s chants and hollers, boisterously preening for a good fight, for a good show. two men, fifty battle droids. they ought to make it a hundred.

Eon pauses in the doorway of his little bunker. Still as a statue, and quiet as one to avoid startling a stranger. A tiny furrow appears between two arched brows-- no, perhaps a visitor? That idea is more shocking. No one ever visits him, not voluntarily. Not in his room, at least. He really has no need to sleep, and usually keeps all important belongings tucked into the hidden folds of his robes. He chose not to decorate, leaving an invisible impression on crew members and passengers instead of any hint of his identity on the walls and shelves of his room. Maybe the captain had finally decided to scrap him and this was only the beginning of forcing him off the Derelict.

“...What is your name?” There are so many new passengers running around. The familiar faces had started to blend with strangers due to an absent mind. And he fears his mind has failed him when he finally sees their face. Sharp features and dark eyes not all that strange. He finds himself stepping forward, as if being closer might grasp a distant memory. “...I know you. I do... I must.” Silence stretches on as Eon stares at the other, the weight of his gaze intense. He turns to look at his bed, waving a hand. “You may sleep here, or the opposite side. Sleep is not necessary for me. Sometimes I pretend to sleep, but it wastes time.”

Eon had learned not to become comfortable with who he shared a room with on Rishi. Coming and going, wanderers there for a quick payout, taking what they could get from a planet full of criminals that would just as quickly double cross you. But this face-- this one had stayed the longest out of all of them. 

the very moment salathiel is handed the small, almost-nondescript chip image, he knows exactly what it is and what it means. what it could mean for the rest of his ship, what it could mean for the rest of their journey through space, at least for the foreseeable future, what it could mean in terms of who to trust and how long before sal inevitably kicks their ass out the airlock-- be they passenger or jedi. the moment he looks at it, he knows there’s more to it than a surface level photograph, knows it holds more history than its owner doubtless wishes to share.

he folds his fingers around the trinket and assures his android that it’s fine, it’s nothing, he’ll return it to the proper person and that’ll be the end of it-- there’s absolutely nothing wrong and nothing amiss about it. eon, being the two-bit robot sal knows him to be, agrees and leaves the navigation room. sal waits exactly fifteen seconds before rising from his seat and thundering his way through the corridors of the derelict, his fists tight at his sides, his jaw sharp and clenched, his vision tinged with an edge of furious red, even as they glow yellow in the dim lighting.

𝒢𝒶𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓉: What do you rate your self-worth, out of 100?

Pom found the question oddly narcissistic, or was it all about self-confidence and knowing your worth within the galaxy that was so big and filled with others probably bigger and better than you. “I give myself a nice eighty.” There were too many things that she still wanted to achieve. Pom will give herself a 100 once she finally becomes queen of Vena.

𝑀𝑜𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑒: Do you consider yourself a patient person when it comes to love and life?

If she thought about the many years she had to wait until her sister would no longer be queen. Pom would consider herself patient, prepared for what was to come. Love, her thoughts on love were pretty on the surface. She loved different things, loved ambition more than the idea of being in love with a person. “Being patient can be rewarding. There’s no time limit on success, only if death comes in the way. — Yes, I do consider myself very patient for either.”