#enbrann

        a decrepit starport  —  at the edges of the outer rim  —  a thin abscess into the flesh of space,    beyond the new republic’s care,    contaminated with crime;       even the shadows here seem dicey,    crooked and bent against the corners of every steel port and crate.    his own sways with his stride,    billowing cloak breaking into bits of black,    like flies.    the knight’s presence is not exactly inconspicuous  —  a phantom amidst flocks of fading crowds  —  then again,    he has never made use of subtlety,    and he has never had cause to.    tracing fenix here had taken longer than anticipated,    but the bounty hunter had been the only lead he could grasp.    it’s not far off from their prior meetings;    he hadn’t been keeping track.    she clearly had.     (  @enbrann​​​​​​​​​ said:    twice is a coincidence.    three times is enemy action.  )     now,    away from prying eyes,    inside a half empty cantina,     the masked creature cants its head,    chrome cavity boring into her  -  vacant  - -  and void.       

❝    noted.    consider this an interrogation,    then,    enemy to enemy.    ❞   ren begins,    any nuance his tone might’ve held,    be it amusement or annoyance,    lost to apathy at the modulator’s behest.    a holopad is haphazardly thrown atop the table between them,    its projector wheezing with the sudden exertion:   a visual is spewed out,    detailing a former official of the new republic judiciary  —  and his target  —  as per the supreme leader’s command.    ren had supposed it was related to some classified imperial plans the man had acquired,    though he’d not cared enough to question the extent of the reasoning  —  a gun need not ask its owner why He pulled the trigger.

these bones of hers ablaze  —  these tendons of disguise  —  the flesh that divulges a bundle of broken images  — -  a burning field,   or rather a burnt landscape,   stones stained with the ashes of its aftermath.    there’s something burning below the blood and bone of this woman.    a bright outline.    perhaps its something much like the grace thumping wildly beyond his own flesh confines.    something that does not belong here.    flame to flame,    their eyes meet.    this tucked away bar at the end of a lost street is devoid of life,    near empty as the clock draws closer to the witching hour,    and it seems as though even his demons in their right minds have scattered to their wretched holes.    leaning against the dark,   ragged counter,   he cants his head to the side,    marginally,    overcome with the tendrils of this thought that push at his peripheral.    a curious gaze falls on the figure draped in mystery as she speaks.    he squints,   and the grin that spills over his features is like blood from a wound.

 “Do you mean that in a literal or in a weird metaphysical sense?”

He spins on his feet to face her. While there is a hint of humor in his voice he does wonder if he is as  transparent as all that. What exactly does she think she knows? The night makes it difficult to decode whether or not her expression is sincere, but he searches for a tug at the lips or perhaps a crinkle by the eye. He opts to pretend that he figures it is the former. Does he worry about being seen alone with her? Not particularly. He grins and extends his arm to her:

            this desert is the apotheosis of all deserts:    sand into oasis then back into sand  —  the target  —  like sifting grains from a bowl.       this cantina is such a harbour itself,    for it is the only establishment amidst the gradient of yellow dunes by miles.    from outside,    blaster bolts drum in the silence of sands,    entropy devours the terrain,    and the whizzing of the few ships breathes life into dust,    sending it spiraling.    his troops had secured the perimeter,    though by now,    the knight knew,    perhaps instinctively,    that his objective was not here.    the bar is left mostly desolate  —  a lone server quivers behind it,    a few patrons scatter,    as ren’s gaze shifts from them to  —  the far back of the room,    at a rickety table,    the bounty hunter from before,    whose target happened to be his,    (  @enbrann​​ :     this is a sickness rooted and inherent in the nature of a tyranny.  )    

             born  into  the  role  of  destroyer:   certainly,  some gray can color the morality that comes alongside being an unwilling weapon from birth.  𝒖𝒏𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 is a loaded term,  however   –––   a scent takes consideration away,  makes choice a moot point as it envelops you in something primal and undeniable . . .    certainly,  in this circumstance,        𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚅𝙴  𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽  𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴.      she shifts her gaze downwards,  lifting one of her hands into view and tracing the lines of her palms with her eyes.      ❝  this is no comfort.  ❞     and one she wouldn’t want,  anyway.    ᴾᴵᵀᵞ  ᴳᴿᴬᴺᵀᴱᴰ  ᵀᴼ  ᵀᴴᴱ  ᴰᴼᴳ  ᵂᴵᵀᴴ  ˢᴴᴬᴿᴾ  ᵀᴱᴱᵀᴴ  ᴵˢ  ˢᵀᴵᴸᴸ  ᴾᴿᴱᴱᴹᴾᵀᴵᵛᴱ  ᴼᴺᴸᵞ  ᴼᶠ  ᴬ  ᴹᴱᴿᶜᴵᶠᵁᴸ  ˢᴴᴼᵀ  ᵀᴼ  ᵀᴴᴱ  ᴴᴱᴬᴰ;     this is not your fault,     but you’ll do it again.   she turns her hand,  now staring intently,  singularly,  at the worn out,  discolored skin between her knuckles.  where blades pierce through with horrifying force    [  tools of destruction,   paired with your manipulated psyche  ].   to you,   proof of the fact that the destruction is ongoing.   regardless of origin,   these hands inflict harm.    𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘.       ❝  i  am  . . .  a  killer.  ❞