- III -
One of those times he will get his hands on a medic and show them exactly how much appreciated their services are. A cracked bone here, a nice invading bit of metal there, let them feel how much it hurts to be at their tender mercies, how brilliant the pain when all the anaesthetics pumped into your nerves are nothing but a hopeful yearning in a in destroyed body. Of course, he will never do it. Were he to act on his instincts in this case, there wouldn't be any doctors to sew him together again after a particularly damaging meeting with his enemies, or employer. And he has learned to accept that some things cannot be changed, cannot be avoided despite what one desires, like love and hate, life and death or his relationship with the Medical Corps, despicable creatures that they are.
The room reeks of bacta, the sickly sweet odour of the 'help all-heal all' salve saturating both his clothes and skin, bringing him to the realization that he was probably put into a bath with the stuff to reach all those little crevices that can't be reached any other way. How rejuvenatingly humiliating, to swim in a tank surrounded by slightly pink-blue fluid, all his secrets in the open for the masses to gaff at. He shudders at the thought, instantly denying it's very existence. It is better to not think about some things, to just forget they ever happened.
A door opens. Now there begins the obligatory parade of commanding officers giving their well wishes to the recuperating demon they all love to hate, their fear tainting the atmosphere with its bleak taste. But it is neither the pacifistic captain of his Grey Lady, nor the sometimes too logical general who prides himself with occupying quarters on the same deck as Her Lady's Prince who enters. No, much to his dismay, it is a girl-child playing at being the great leader of a so-called revolution and a captain who sacrificed a promising career in the navy for the life of a lowly smuggler.
A smile tucks at his lips, sign of his amusement when confronted with cosmic comedy. Or is it maybe a smirk? It doesn't matter what mien is shown on his face as it cannot be seen anyway. Or can it? Slowly, prudent of the truth he already knows, his hands rise to his head, touch it, learn what is to see. No, no, no, that cannot be, only a play of his mind, nothing more, nothing less. But he cannot fight the idea that something strange is happening. Why else would he be here, imprisoned to the barely full-grown body of a child that doesn't exist, cannot have survived because then all he did would be for nothing, only a futile fantasy in the heart of an old dragon.
"We were worried about you, Luke." Soft words, spoken by a girl who, despite what fate handed to her, still believes in the dreams of her youth, still looks for the one knight, the perfect hero to take her away from all the monuments of kingdoms past that are crumbling to dust around her, her tiny hands fighting, bleeding to build the old palace anew though only ruins remain. But of course, there aren't knights any more, only warriors in shining armour fighting for what they believe in. The times of ascetic warrior monks playing at heroics and stealing the hearts of innocent children, who fall in love with them because they are safe, totally safe for they would never touch what they desire, are long gone, vanished into the mists of legend.
And it is better they stay gone, he thinks with a touch of bitterness. Better the universe forgets them, lets them enter into the realm of fairy tale.
Elegant fingers pry his hands away from his face, turn his head so that his eyes may be searched by dark crystals burning with a fire he once cherished, would have died, killed for if only the fates had allowed for more time, just a little bit more time to finish his plans. Old pain, guilt of the guilty, anger fuelling a dead soul to heights of anguish, must have been creeping behind the masks he wears, for the princess lets go as if burned and runs out of the room, leaving MedBay in wonder about what finally managed to get under her skin, to make her react with true emotion and not the methodical emptiness she showed since the destruction of her crown world.
"Was that really necessary?" Whispered words out of the mouth of a man he once trusted with his life, no, his soul.
Of course, it was not. Not even a monster can control everything. As it is, what scared the princess was a totally involuntary reaction. But he will not tell, will never let anyone understand what goes on behind eyes that are eternally hidden in the shadow of a nightmare's face.
"She will never love you." His words sound strange, like the vocal cords wish to produce a tone far higher than what his brain orders them to create. The rough voice of someone who hasn't spoken for a long time and now tries to imitate a Hutt.
The captain only looks at him as if he has lost his mind. A valid question, one he has asked himself often enough, but sadly was always forced to answer in the negative. No, not insane, never that, though a certified suicidal megalomaniac with a taste for elaborate torture he definitely is.
"Lord Ash of Yinchorr told you that while we were visiting the training facilities, if I remember right. And you know I do, Solo." Recognition is evident in the former flight-squad captain as he levels his weapon at the recuperating man in front of him.
"Give me one good reason not to kill you where you stand." The patient only looks down at himself, sitting quite comfortable with the help of a raised cushion. "Sit." Solo corrects his mistake."
"Because you like me." comes as answer from the seated man. "Because, despite the fact that you fear me more than death, you once trusted me enough to call me 'friend'."