S E E K
When he’d gotten wind of the memorial in advance of its occurrence, Vizion Trozky had wrestled with the thought of attending. He recalled the events that necessitated that occasion of remembrance - he recalled vividly; he had been there, but it wasn’t the pain of the familial losses suffered that day which made him hesitate, and in the end, decline to make the trip. That had all faded to fond remembrance of when they had lived.
No, it was Naboo itself and its inextricable ties to her. Her and how that singular catastrophic event had been the genesis of decay in his bond - forged in the hazy, bright years of childhood - with the woman that was Briana Sal-Soren. The start of a series of unavoidable and avoidable decisions and events that caused what had been a cherished friendship (and dare he admit it now, a cautious, frightened love) to slip through his fingers like sand. A thing that he might have been holding onto far too tightly. That was the one true inheritance from his father.
To move on from it all, from her, was one of the hardest undertakings in his still-short life, but more than two years on she no longer dwelled in his thoughts as she once had, and the brunt of his days were filled with the responsibilities, hardships, and different bonds that encompassed the life of a Jedi Knight. He had even gotten to a point that he could be cordial with her, work with her, even be happy for her and maintain his professionalism and distance, but then… the galaxy still saw fit to nauseate him; remind him that he wasn’t as far on as he believed, and urge him to realise that he had to make that distance greater.
She was still his weakness, one he had toiled and still toiled to mitigate, if not cut himself off from, even now… and lay to rest what he had for years thought would come to pass: that she would be his, when the right time arrived. Such that, when the news came out about the harrowing events that transpired during that solemn gathering of remembrance, Vizion was near-frozen in conflict with himself.
The stark silence of the sparse apartment where he laid his head at times became at once claustrophobic as he read the news, the datapad shaking in his hands as he sat in boxer shorts and a sleeveless top at the foot of his bed in the late evening, running a fever of misgivings, futile anger, and helpless anxieties, knowing then and there that day’s promise of sleep had fled. Soon enough, the ‘pad issued a moderate creak in his tight grasp, dragging him to the surface of awareness, just enough to pull in a rattling and sharp gasp, and let the device slip onto the soft, empty expanse on which he sat… only to fill his hands with his face and the sting of moisture rimming his eyes, as he shook in what felt like airless, deep breaths.
After some scant minutes of this seeming futility, the Brentaalan rose sharply and went to the shoulder-level window to shove it open forcefully until it stopped its slide with a dull tunk, so that he might gulp down the cool, fresh night air, and try to come to his senses, regret, sharp rage, and futile self-blame raging in his mind, as his blood thundered in his ears. It was all he could do to attempt to scrub away the thoughts that he should hunt down, and murder every last fucking person responsible.
He was better than that, he had been… so sure of it, that he was, “Fuck!” he rasped, slamming a fist on the windowsill. Some minutes later, after his forehead too had come to rest on that slim surface and tears were running freely, Vizion tore himself away from the window, whereupon he started to slowly pace. This wasn’t right.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He wasn’t about to throw away everything else that gave his life meaning, but then, what could he do? It was this that would plague Vizion for the ensuing night hours wherein he, at some point, threw on some sweats, shoes, and a light jacket and went out into the night, as if the greater open air would give space for the tight roil of thoughts in his head to unfurl. Then, when the sun rose and chased him back to his sparse abode, he got on the comm, and placed a call.
When there was no answer, and the message system clicked on, Vizion hung up and stared at his comm device for several minutes, as a low, tired panic swelled, begging him to try again, and again, for however long it would take to connect with a real voice, without knowing what he would actually say. Once those minutes passed and he was calm enough, he tried again, and when the message system activated this time, he left some unsure, gravelly, tired words:
< Hey. Ah… shit. Uh… It’s Viz. I heard what happened. I'm... more sorry than you could know. > Egregious understatement. < I know I’ve got to be the last person you want to hear from, but… I… need to know you’re okay. > And if there was anything he could do, words left unsaid, out of caution. To not become a suffocation. < Give me a ring when you get this, let me know you’re safe. That’s all I ask. >
A moment of consideration put a pause in his message, his thoughts swimming with all the things he fought the urge to say. He knew she was capable of taking care of herself, and he
< Please, Bri. For... for an old friend. >
Vizion hung up for the second time, pocketed the device, and went back out into the morning to hunt down what he could hunt without severe consequence: a cup of caf.
It was going to be a long day.
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