Setter Ryburn
Man of Ill Intent
The smell is what got him. Every night. Every night, he could remember it all.
The smell of cordite, gunpowder. Brass, metal taste in his mouth from the blood. The smell of burning fires, raging through the streets. Plasma, ozone- the things that made a battlefield chaotic. The things that kept him awake at night weren't the major things- it was the little things. Coruscant.
He remembered that day, and he relived it every night.
This night wasn't unlike any others. It was always the same dream. The same memory. Desperate, hiding, screeching ships overhead desperately trying to fend off the inevitable Sith attack. He remembered their red-hued blades, tearing through the night with such malice intent. The masks, the armor. The shotgun cut through them like a knife through butter, it barked in his hands with the fury of the last member of Havoc Squad. It barked with the Republic's memory. It was vengeance, it was- it was running low on ammo.
But there were only so many of him, and so many of them. He was screaming, trying to load more shells as they calmly walked to his position. That was the dream. That's how he remembered it. Except this time he had no shells. No hope. They were coming and he was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die here, alone, scared, and with no hope. The Alliance fell, the Republic fell, his planet burned. And he could do nothing about it- he was alone, he was all alone-
SILVER REST
RANGERS QUARTERS
Sometimes, he hated having his own room at Silver Rest. Sure, he had rank, but he could have used some company. But he didn't want his men to see him like this. Cold sweats, panicking every time he woke up. He checked his watch. On standard time, it was nearly 3 in the morning.But time mattered little to him. He could barely sleep as it is. He ran out of pills a long time ago, right after he got to Silver Rest. Didn't want to ask the medical staff here for more pills to help him sleep. They'd look at him, with their judgmental eyes. Tell him to seek peace through the force, tell him to meditate and reflect. Just like they always did. He heard that since he was 19 years old and fresh out of boot camp, from every Jedi he encountered after a battle. Like they had some cure-all through the force.
Damn their force, damn them.
He ran his hands over his face, feeling the stubble that he'd been growing for a few days now. He shaved intermittently- mostly when he felt like it. Lately- that wasn't often. He let his appearance slip- he noticed that. He sat up on the bed, and put his feet on the floor, sighing. Another damn night. Another damn nightmare.
He would've reached for a pill right about now. Something guaranteed to knock him out for 8 hours and inhibit anything that resembled brain function. No dreams, no nightmares. Nothing but blissful blackness. But he eventually had to wake up. Had to keep the mission going. He stood up, shirtless with his Jedi trousers on. He stole them, obviously. Jedi dressed comfortably, he didn't blame them. He slipped on a tank top, not wishing to offend any of the sensitive Jedi. He did what he always did when he had a nightmare.
He was going to sneak to the edge of Silver Rest and have a cigarette, and stare at the wall until exhaustion and boredom lulled him back to a somewhat peaceful sleep. He only could the dreams once a night now, and it was always the same. He dangled the cigarette from his lips, his hands dug into the pockets of the robes bottoms. He lazily looked around.
No Jedi this time of night, at least- not yet. He only got caught once, and he chalked it up to a misunderstanding and that was that. The guards and security systems paid him no mind. He didn't cause trouble- not here, at least. In fact, he hadn't really talked to anyone outside the Rangers and Raider. He buried himself in training and the building of his team, and off-world personal missions, and vendettas that he settled. The Jedi were busy with their own problems to even think about Setter doing his thing out and about. He always came back, and he was there when the Silvers needed him.
So nobody really looked too far into him.
He sighed, walking close to the edge. He flicked his lighter several times, glancing around, before lighting his cigarette. In the sanguine night, an orange flame made an impression. He sighed, taking a long drag. The red-orange hue of his cigarette illuminated his face, before he took it away from his mouth, casting the light near his feet instead. For now, he was content to hide at this platform and smoke until his lungs gave out-
After all, there wasn't too much to do at the moment.
