#gravitationalcollapse

Fa, Fa.- Guster “When you look in the mirror, wish you were someone else, just a perfect reflection, you and no one else.” (I sat on this for a bit, trying to figure out where they would interact, so have the most common place because I'm lame and an unoriginal noodle.)

He heard his name and it was like being tangled. One thread wrapped around another, and then another, until he felt like he couldn't move, suspended and humiliated for all to see. Each thread his own failings and mistakes.   

He'd spent his career aboard the Finalizer fixated on his superiors. They were who he wanted to be. He never wanted to be himself, that was for certain, but if he could be them? If he could be the General? That face in the mirror would be a reflection he could be proud of. 

The mistake had been small, just a tiny infraction, but it cost them men and time, two things you could not get enough of. Lieutenant Mitaka knew he deserved this, being dressed down like some green cadet in front of his peers. It made it infinitely worse that it was done by the General. Not only the mistakes he made, but who had called him out on it.

Phasma barely heard him. There was blood on her dress, and the gun still clutched tight in her hand, standing stiff and still. She’d only meant to kill her father, at first. By the end of the evening, her mother and brother laid bleeding out on the floor, too.

She didn’t know who else to call but Hux. Certaintly not the police. She had no intention of spending the rest of her life in prison. Not after everything she’d done for the war effort. Everything she’d sacrificed, only to come home to the same, miserable family. The same abusive father and cowering mother. And her brother...foolish enough to try and stop her.

Phasma took a long, deep breath, and finally looked at Hux directly, for the first time since he’d walked through the door. She’d almost expected him to convince her to turn herself in. Maybe he still would.

i need some english swimming animus

I look at the other person in the room, a slight furrow forming in my brow before it brightens up with a smile. “I know! I’ll just crazy glue myself to you!” the end unless you wanna add more

I slowly but surely grace the paper’s surface with the smooth gel pen’s tip. My hand seems to have a mind of its own. It traces the well known contours of my signature into the page, leaving my mark on a piece of paper that I know I wont see again.

You look at the document with a satisfied smile. You turn your head to look at the other person in the room, and then make to remove yourself from the vincinity of the little writing desk. But as you lift your hand, which you had placed on the paper, it is also krazy clued.

"Damn," you say.