Síndri Vaēsahd
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2017
- Messages
- 51
- Reaction score
- 2
NAR SHADDAA
RASBORA SLUMS
.∏∏.
RASBORA SLUMS
.∏∏.
_ Buzzing. Insect wings buzzing. His temple aches, sweaty. Everything feels so heavy, standing still. His lashes beat sluggish blinks. Swollen eyes searching for something on the floor at his feet, they can't seem to place the steel their stuck in. The insect swings by eardrum with another abusing buzzing.
Right crimson lightsaber slashed through a flashing memory, severing a scream short. When, if not then. But not now. The slain pieces tumbled to the floor with searing smoke trails, rolling into another's legs. They screamed too. Pleading innocence and incongruity. Too loud, stifled by another plasmic slice before reason could reach him. The lightsaber hum drowned out their voices.
Overhead now, his scalp felt the humming heat from the burning bulb; boiling those beads of sweat from crown to cheek. The steel scared him, like being stuck in quicksand. It devoured his day dream as he felt a sinking in his gut.
Their hands plunged in from his dark nightmare onto his coat, grasping for mercy. There he was again, but when was not clear. Too many uncategorized moments before the last. He gripped at them and twisted, the crunching of joints twisting his face from then into again once more. Their faces were a little clearer. His hand wagged a miniature model in their pitiful faces. He no longer held his lightsaber, but a switchblade. Held to their lips. Lies must be cut out. But his fingers felt drawn to their tears. He touched them.
His fingertips stubbed into the metal shaft, reality always stopping him every now. It must be now. He focused on his empty palm. He remembered the miniature, the little tower. A fake. That's right. It was a fake. The memories hurt his eyes, stitching through his bloodstream with tiny pointed needles. The lift he occupied took on a more tangible presence to him, and the shadows eased into the cracks of his mind.
The metal box slowed its descent. The door opened. A dank smell oozed into the shaft and he fixed his collar tighter about his neck. At least down here it seemed he could focus better, the Force less chaotic thereabouts. Wet, everywhere. Slippery like the slime he was after: Devario. It wasn't the first time someone gave him bad information. Not likely the last. But that wouldn't stop Síndri from tracing the scum back down the sewers where it came from to get what he was owed. Gang or no gang, he would get his answers.
He just had to go deeper than he'd gone before.