Log:A Festering Subconscious
The flight from Sullust must have been one hellacious ride for all Resistance fighters on board.
Those not critically wounded had to cope with mental turmoil and helping to stabilize teammates on the verge of crashing.
Like Major Greystorm.
At first she’d seemed nothing more than a corpse. Skin already ghastly white by the time they hauled her up the ramp of their transport. Blood-gooped lips turned frosty purple by the time they made a side maneuver to pick up Hex, and skin began to turn a hypoxic shade of blue once they were beyond the immediate reach of enemy fire.
The charred and meaty hole blasted through her sternum seemed like as good a place to address as any, for the doc onboard. And why not? The woman brave enough to plunge her hand into Ambrosia’s chest may have felt her own heart seize with surprise though, when her boyfriend’s corpse of a mother suddenly reanimated. At least on the outside.
A spontaneous agonal breath groans deeply aloud as Ambrosia’s head jerks back, chest heaving with the involuntary effort. The scorched muscle of her heart flutters desperately and erratically; it’s unable to find its rhythm despite the spasm that, for a moment, could masquerade as consciousness.
She goes limp once more, save for the occasional, shallow gasp that fills her remaining lung with a frothy blend of air and blood. Against all odds, the woman seems unable to loosen her grip on life. A thin thread of /something/ tethers her here. Her last conscious thought, connecting Jax, the red glow of a lightsaber, and the undeniable evil that wields it, is perhaps lost in its repetition and worry. Unresolved. Son’s safety unrealized.
Her pupils remain fixed, not responding to the looks of panic or grief that pass through her would-be field of vision. But it’s not this plane of existence she’s gazing into, anymore.
It is dark. And it is cold. They’d dropped the temperature of the cell since locking her inside. Her shivers rattle her restraints that keep her arms and legs tethered to the metal rails of the surgical bed. These quaking limbs of hers strain against the binds which hold them, but it’s of no consequence. Struggle is futile against one’s masters. Such is the way of the Empire.
The voices return, seeming far away on the other side of the door. They’ve come for the child. For her baby. There’s a new light inside sweet Ambrosia, and they seek to extinguish it.
White gloves are coming now. White gloves and black hearts. It’s now or never. A final scream and contortion of her flexible frame slips one hand free, and that’s all she needs to snatch at the tray and slash the face of the obedient doctor who’s just trying to do her job. Then the stun baton appears from nowhere and presses her shoulder back against the table. The volts...how they do hurt!
Beneath the desperate clutch of fingers, Ambrosia’s heart quivers with the effort gifted from another. Electrical impulses fire rapidly inside, but fail to establish order. So much chaos, so much blood.
For those thinking the Major has made her last stand, they may try to think comforting thoughts, like surely she is at peace. At last able to rest after fighting the good fight. A bitter hero to many, a legend to some, and a very real person to fewer still.
But where her soul has settled...It isn’t a nice place.
It’s cold. Dark. No loving faces rising from the depths of her soul’s memory to meet her, to entice what’s left of her neurons’ functioning that an afterlife awaits, or that forgiveness is there.
And, she supposes, that’s just and it’s what she deserves. It’s not the violent acts of war that condemn her, no…it’s the sense of satisfaction she experienced with each kill. The repetition of killing reinforced by the self-gratifying nature of the acts.
Leia dangled the bait and she’d hungrily accepted the opportunity to do it again after a dry spell of a ‘normal’, moral life. The only difference between herself and those who burned villages is that she happens to murder for those who claim the moral high ground - freedom from tyranny – and has managed to keep focused, channeling her rage to unleash upon only those that this moral high ground deems deserving. Troopers. Faceless masks. Drones. Pawns in service to the darkness.
While she remains barely brushed with the light.
But surely she wasn’t always this way? There are some memories she’s positive lie there, deeply embedded, protected, that are warm and good. A lifetime ago, before she was ‘raised’ from the bowels of the labor department to serve a higher function. Before she was introduced to a mirror and made to see where her true value lay.
She can hear ‘his’ voice, just on the other side of the door. Short and clipped. Efficient. Everything the man ever did was efficient. Except one time...
There’s this feral thing, looking out through her eyes, listening through her ears and scrabbling at that suffocating blanket of dark. She still tries after all these years, even beyond her corporeal form, to scratch him. Maul. Mangle. Rip those steely, gray eyes from his skull and stuff’em through his mirthless smile.
That divide between them – it stirs the ire, keeps her prisoner within her own spiteful thoughts. It blinds her, not to what she knows is on the other side, but what she’s failed to accept within reach on her own. Peace. Forgiveness.
And so she cannot let go. Not yet. Stars above, not yet.
In the world of the living, the shell of Ambrosia draws another labored breath beneath the puff of her son’s. Her second-borne.
While her soul remains lost in preoccupation, her body is diligently standing by.
The desire for vengeance remains, where all other thoughts have drifted away.