The Stranger Who Knocks
Cold water splashed onto facial flesh, sending a jolt of awareness through Zaavik's nerves. A silent inhale rushed into a tight chest, cringing inward from the chill. He splashed his face again, continuing until he stopped having any reaction to the temperature. Excess water dripping down his face expelled in a mist as he blew air. As his head raised, the blue eyes that stared back from beyond the mirror almost didn't register as his own. Dark circles, drooping eyelids, and a long, violet mane that was free from the tie he'd lost somewhere during the retreat, leaving strands draped in a veil over his face. Altogether he looked more like a specter from a ghost story than any living man.
Blood loss could do that to a person. It had gotten on just about everything, leaving red crusts and smears littered around the claustrophobic space of the ship's latrine. A mess that could have likely been avoided had he not insisted on locking himself in. Aradia had lugged him into the medbay, and administered just enough bacta to keep him away from the light in the tunnel. As soon as she'd gone to get the ship out of Imperial space, he slumped his way out of the medbay with first-aid and locked himself into the latrine. He wasn't about to let her doctor him for several reasons. He'd gotten past the trust barrier, and didn't have any notion that she'd put him down.
There were other reasons that kept him reserved from that kind of assistance. Stubbornness and self-destructive independence only being single bricks in the wall of refusal. The remainder would remain an enigma due to a refusal to explain himself. Consciousness faded in and out as he did his best to bandage himself. Aradia had come banging on the door not soon after they'd shot into hyperspace. "I'm fine!" he'd insist every time. She was persistent. She must have returned a dozen times, Zaavik refusing to budge each time. Was she worried? No, of course not. Why would she be?
Yet, continuance betrayed his notion that she wasn't.
Eventually, she came with a blade instead of a fist. Maybe she was angry after all. About all the blood? About the botched operation? Either way, Zaavik fired a warning shot with a backup blaster he'd taken along with the first aid. Stubborn as ever. Her lightsaber made and odd noise, blade disappearing from its impalement through the door. For a moment he worried, although he'd never own up to it, that he might have hit her instead of what he was aiming for. A few graveled curses and the sounds of movement beyond the door reassured him to the contrary. If he had hit her, no doubt she would have completed her cut into the latrine, and likely for a different reason altogether.
Reflection ended with a sharp jolt of pain in his chest. Since then he'd been in here for what must have been hours. Perhaps nearly a day had passed? He hadn't been keeping track between lapses in consciousness. He dug through the disheveled first-aid box and got ahold of the only bacta-hypo inside. He didn't hesitate. The needle plunged into his flesh, and the drug was injected intramuscularly beside the wound. He hissed, gritting his teeth and groaning closed-mouth as it expanded. He discarded it into the sink, plastic and metal clattering after he'd pulled the needle out.
A few moments of heavy breathing hunched over the sink preceded everything else. The faucet knob squeaked loudly as he shut the water off once his bearings had been more or less regained. As the bacta worked, the pain subsided, but not quite to a totally bearable level. He threw on a relatively fresh black longsleeve that he'd some way or another managed to keep clean in the mess the latrine had become. A hand slapped the latrine door panel, sending it sliding open with a laborious clicking. Persistent knocking, a lightsaber, and blaster bolt likely didn't do it any favors. He leaned against the wall for support and used his hand to pull his hair from beneath the collar of the shirt. The usually restrained locks now draping freely past his shoulders.
In his periphery, he caught a glance of a viewport. Space was still, stars glittering in the beyond. "Aradia!?" his shout had intent, but was aimless, stifled beneath his intended volume by pain. Staggering out of the crew quarters and through the ship, he remained against the wall. "Why aren't we in hyperspace!?" he inquired into the still, quiet cooridors of the ship.
"Where are we?"
Blood loss could do that to a person. It had gotten on just about everything, leaving red crusts and smears littered around the claustrophobic space of the ship's latrine. A mess that could have likely been avoided had he not insisted on locking himself in. Aradia had lugged him into the medbay, and administered just enough bacta to keep him away from the light in the tunnel. As soon as she'd gone to get the ship out of Imperial space, he slumped his way out of the medbay with first-aid and locked himself into the latrine. He wasn't about to let her doctor him for several reasons. He'd gotten past the trust barrier, and didn't have any notion that she'd put him down.
There were other reasons that kept him reserved from that kind of assistance. Stubbornness and self-destructive independence only being single bricks in the wall of refusal. The remainder would remain an enigma due to a refusal to explain himself. Consciousness faded in and out as he did his best to bandage himself. Aradia had come banging on the door not soon after they'd shot into hyperspace. "I'm fine!" he'd insist every time. She was persistent. She must have returned a dozen times, Zaavik refusing to budge each time. Was she worried? No, of course not. Why would she be?
Yet, continuance betrayed his notion that she wasn't.
Eventually, she came with a blade instead of a fist. Maybe she was angry after all. About all the blood? About the botched operation? Either way, Zaavik fired a warning shot with a backup blaster he'd taken along with the first aid. Stubborn as ever. Her lightsaber made and odd noise, blade disappearing from its impalement through the door. For a moment he worried, although he'd never own up to it, that he might have hit her instead of what he was aiming for. A few graveled curses and the sounds of movement beyond the door reassured him to the contrary. If he had hit her, no doubt she would have completed her cut into the latrine, and likely for a different reason altogether.
Reflection ended with a sharp jolt of pain in his chest. Since then he'd been in here for what must have been hours. Perhaps nearly a day had passed? He hadn't been keeping track between lapses in consciousness. He dug through the disheveled first-aid box and got ahold of the only bacta-hypo inside. He didn't hesitate. The needle plunged into his flesh, and the drug was injected intramuscularly beside the wound. He hissed, gritting his teeth and groaning closed-mouth as it expanded. He discarded it into the sink, plastic and metal clattering after he'd pulled the needle out.
A few moments of heavy breathing hunched over the sink preceded everything else. The faucet knob squeaked loudly as he shut the water off once his bearings had been more or less regained. As the bacta worked, the pain subsided, but not quite to a totally bearable level. He threw on a relatively fresh black longsleeve that he'd some way or another managed to keep clean in the mess the latrine had become. A hand slapped the latrine door panel, sending it sliding open with a laborious clicking. Persistent knocking, a lightsaber, and blaster bolt likely didn't do it any favors. He leaned against the wall for support and used his hand to pull his hair from beneath the collar of the shirt. The usually restrained locks now draping freely past his shoulders.
In his periphery, he caught a glance of a viewport. Space was still, stars glittering in the beyond. "Aradia!?" his shout had intent, but was aimless, stifled beneath his intended volume by pain. Staggering out of the crew quarters and through the ship, he remained against the wall. "Why aren't we in hyperspace!?" he inquired into the still, quiet cooridors of the ship.
"Where are we?"
