OMFG! Anakin might do ~something~ *pearl clutch* (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} darkforcerising) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} makebelievelog,@ 2012-10-22 21:16:00 |
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What: Obi-Wan is gone, Anakin is devastated. Instead of a whole tribe of Tusken Raiders, he takes it out on his swoop bike
When: Monday morning
Where: Stables
Rating/Warnings: The swoop bike is taking a beating, fairly low
Status: Narrative/Closed
Anakin ripped out an incorrectly wired connection on the aft repulsorlift part before him. He’d made the wrong repair, which he hadn’t even done right. His mind was so unfocused he couldn’t concentrate.
Hours earlier his eyes had snapped open in the still darkness of pre-dawn morning. The clock told him he’d woken up before his normal time, and though the castle stood around him draped in all the normal nocturnal activities and a calm stillness threaded in throughout the collective rise and fall of sleeping residents, he knew something was wrong. It was as if something had reached into his gut and twisted everything about into knots powerful enough to hinder his ability to breathe properly.
His first thought was of Padmé and he silenced the panic in his heart long enough to force himself to look at her side of the bed. So fearful he would see an empty expanse next to him, instead of the soft sleeping form of his wife, he almost couldn’t look.
But she was there, the sight of her comforting but not enough to sooth away the pit of seemingly irrational hopelessness in his stomach. His next thought was to contact Obi-Wan, his mentor and friend; something like this would surely be felt by him, too.
And then he knew.
That lonely ache in his soul eating away at everything inside him was the absence of the one person he’d grown to expect to always be there. Obi-Wan was gone. He could feel it, where the presence of his friend should be in his mind there was nothingness. His friend had been sent home.
The strangled sound that had escaped his throat before he could stop himself had woken up Padmé, and she had tried to help him, which he appreciated, but felt no better for her efforts. He did not take losing those he cared about well, it was one of his greatest struggles. He’d been trying so hard to master this fear, but confronted with it so boldly like this it was as if he was thrown back six months of progress.
He wanted to shake the foundation of the castle to pieces and tear down its walls. He wanted to strike at them, whoever they were that controlled like gods who came and who went, and rip out their hearts the way they had done to him. He knew this was wrong and kept his hands fisted in his hair or in the blankets, and he kept a hard clamp on that creature in his chest that was the embodiment of this dark desire. He’d promised to never again give into that feeling.
To ease his mind he sought the refuge of his work. Fixing things always made more sense to him than anything else in the universe. The need for something to assuage his sorrow brought him to his bike in the stable, but the fear of even touching the Force in this anguished state made his movements erratic, unsteady, and prone to making mistakes. When he made the first one, he gritted his teeth and set about to undo the blunder. But with each slip, each mess up, he grew more frustrated with himself. The parts in his hands held none of their usual meaning for him. All he could think about was the loss of Obi-Wan and the life he had returned to, the life Anakin had condemned him to, alone and broken on that cruel, merciless desert world.
Anakin ripped at that wire and the defenses he was trying to maintain crumbled apart. He picked up the repulsorlift component, casing and all, and threw it at the bike. He heard something crack but he couldn’t be sure if it was the bike or the part that was clattering away on the ground. Either way, he didn’t care, he had momentum now.
He cast around for something gratifyingly solid and after some frantic searching his eyes finally alighted on the crowbar leaning against the stall wall. He walked to it, hefted it into his hands, testing its balance, and then he crossed back to his bike to, and screaming, swung with all his strength.
The connecting vibration was satisfyingly destructive, something crunched, something shattered, pieces flew off, and metal rang in protest. He didn’t stop, and with each swing more parts came loose and broke. He shouted at the bike until he was hoarse, mostly in Huttese because those curses were guttural and cathartic. He kept swinging until his arms hurt and then he kept going. Until the bike was twisted and jagged, a bent, mangled mess beyond repair. He poured all his pain into destroying the vehicle he had built from scratch.
If he couldn’t strike at them, at least something could look as devastated as he felt.