Acier

This was never how things were supposed to go.

Fatine was used to Acier not picking up her calls right away. He was busy - with what he’d never say - and she’d leave him long, rambling voicemails. Sometimes she’d be upset. Sometimes she’d talk about her day. He’d always call her back, even if he was exhausted.

Invalid holo number.

Click.

There was no voicemail box. Nothing for her to prattle on into. Ace had deprived her of both answers and an outlet for her confusion, hurt, and anger.

…

She tried again. Dialed the number manually this time, double, triple checking to make sure that she’d entered it correctly.

That stupid robo-voice answered again: Invalid holo number.

Click.

She tried him again. And again. And again until her fingers were trembling under the weight of a reality she’d refused to accept:

Acier Moonbound had left her.


The Dreadnought wasn’t hard to find. It was this massive, ridiculous thing. Fatine was ostentatious, so she loved it.

Now that it was a reminder of how much Acier had hurt her, she hated it.

Flirting her way into the shipyard had been easy enough - I left my datapad in my boyfriend’s big, fancy ship! The cans of paint had been easy to procure, too. Everything felt easy when you were running on pure adrenaline and rage.

The cops intervened after she’d started smashing viewports. Or rather, tried to. They were reinforced transperisteel, because everything the Sith built was big and stupid and made to withstand a fucking hurricane.

Fortunately, Fatine had a gun.

The first window withstood only a single slug before shattering from the next. The main viewshield was a little more tricky, a little more sturdy. She discharged round after round, screaming like a madwoman until the bright glare of several flashlights converged on her.

Fatine dropped her weapon, dropped to her knees, and sobbed.

After she’d been hauled off, the cops took pictures of the damage. Aside from shattered glass, the ship’s bow was covered in a brightly colored array of spray-painted curse words:





Lysander von Ascania , wherever he was, would receive a call in the middle of the night.

As soon as he’d picked up, he was subject to a blubbering Fatine making absolutely no sense, trying to explain everything through dramatic, aggrieved wails and sniffles.

“Lys- BUH, uhwah-! H-He ahhHHHhhwuh-! AcierbrokeupwithMEEEEEUHWAHHHHH UHHHHHHUHHHHH-!”

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