There was nothing left for him, it seemed. He couldn’t hide on Nar Shaddaa, where the agents of his old employer—now his enemy—lurked in the shadows. He couldn’t stay on Corellia, for though it had once been his homeworld, it couldn’t provide him with sanctuary from those who hunted him.
And he soon learned that Coruscant, the great hub of the galaxy, was off-limits as well. It happened the moment he came out of hyperspace, a sudden brute force that breached his consciousness and fractured his thoughts. It was a splinter in his mind’s eye, a crippling blow to whatever part of him housed the metaphysical aspects of his being. He was blinded, and yet he saw; he was deafened, and still he heard. He felt… he felt.
Val.
Their bond, the shimmering astral cord that connected them, had suddenly become engorged with feedback. He was bombarded with foreign images, memories, passing fancies, the hopes and dreams of another human being. Someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Someone he thought was dead.
It was too much, too fast. He couldn’t stand it.
As soon as he could move again, he plotted a course as far away as possible, heading deep into the Outer Rim. He didn’t care where exactly he ended up, just as long as he could escape the overwhelming emotions of his insane brother.
He no longer wanted to feel anything.
The place was packed with unwashed patrons, reeking of the sweat of more than a dozen different species. They crowded around tables to gamble, clustered around the bar to drink, or lounged in the corners with pungent smoke pluming from their nostrils.
Despite currently being held in the thrall of the CIS (at least, that’s what he’d last heard—it was difficult to follow the ever-shifting currents of galactic politics), Tatooine was what it had always been. Crime ran rampant. Slavery continued to thrive. The Hutts maintained a strong presence in the face of their well-intentioned new overlords. The rise and fall of empires had never mattered to the population of this backwater cesspool, and it never would.
Alyosha hoped to find solace in that fact. He sat at the bar, nursing his second drink, perspiration trickling down the back of his neck. His jacket, the only armor he possessed, was not suited to the heat. But he didn’t dare take it off. This place might be a haven for third-rate criminals, but he didn't doubt there were bounty hunters among them who might have seen his face posted along with the rest of the galaxy's most wanted. He only wanted to drink, and kindly hoped that the universe—or the Force—would let him, but you could never be too careful.
The flashes of feeling still came upon him every now and then. He suspected they would never stop. As long as his brother was out there, he would be able to sense him, constantly reminded by the occasional pulse of energy that stirred his passions. It wasn’t exactly a new experience—he’d felt it these past eleven years too, but only very rarely. He never connected it to Val, and tended to chalk it up to intuition or deja vu. But now he saw that those few times had been little sparks, no bigger than a kid’s pop detonator. What he’d experienced near Coruscant was a thermal explosion in comparison, but they had the same origin point, the same signature.
Knowing that Val was alive didn’t disturb him. In fact, part of him was glad at the news. But he wished it hadn’t come to him now, in this time of uncertainty and danger, when the professional assassin became a killer on the run.
And he soon learned that Coruscant, the great hub of the galaxy, was off-limits as well. It happened the moment he came out of hyperspace, a sudden brute force that breached his consciousness and fractured his thoughts. It was a splinter in his mind’s eye, a crippling blow to whatever part of him housed the metaphysical aspects of his being. He was blinded, and yet he saw; he was deafened, and still he heard. He felt… he felt.
Val.
Their bond, the shimmering astral cord that connected them, had suddenly become engorged with feedback. He was bombarded with foreign images, memories, passing fancies, the hopes and dreams of another human being. Someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Someone he thought was dead.
It was too much, too fast. He couldn’t stand it.
As soon as he could move again, he plotted a course as far away as possible, heading deep into the Outer Rim. He didn’t care where exactly he ended up, just as long as he could escape the overwhelming emotions of his insane brother.
He no longer wanted to feel anything.
~*~*~
Setting: A cantina on Tatooine.
Setting: A cantina on Tatooine.
The place was packed with unwashed patrons, reeking of the sweat of more than a dozen different species. They crowded around tables to gamble, clustered around the bar to drink, or lounged in the corners with pungent smoke pluming from their nostrils.
Despite currently being held in the thrall of the CIS (at least, that’s what he’d last heard—it was difficult to follow the ever-shifting currents of galactic politics), Tatooine was what it had always been. Crime ran rampant. Slavery continued to thrive. The Hutts maintained a strong presence in the face of their well-intentioned new overlords. The rise and fall of empires had never mattered to the population of this backwater cesspool, and it never would.
Alyosha hoped to find solace in that fact. He sat at the bar, nursing his second drink, perspiration trickling down the back of his neck. His jacket, the only armor he possessed, was not suited to the heat. But he didn’t dare take it off. This place might be a haven for third-rate criminals, but he didn't doubt there were bounty hunters among them who might have seen his face posted along with the rest of the galaxy's most wanted. He only wanted to drink, and kindly hoped that the universe—or the Force—would let him, but you could never be too careful.
The flashes of feeling still came upon him every now and then. He suspected they would never stop. As long as his brother was out there, he would be able to sense him, constantly reminded by the occasional pulse of energy that stirred his passions. It wasn’t exactly a new experience—he’d felt it these past eleven years too, but only very rarely. He never connected it to Val, and tended to chalk it up to intuition or deja vu. But now he saw that those few times had been little sparks, no bigger than a kid’s pop detonator. What he’d experienced near Coruscant was a thermal explosion in comparison, but they had the same origin point, the same signature.
Knowing that Val was alive didn’t disturb him. In fact, part of him was glad at the news. But he wished it hadn’t come to him now, in this time of uncertainty and danger, when the professional assassin became a killer on the run.
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