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❛ please, don't take this out on me / cause you're the only thing that's keeping me alive. ❜
——BULLS IN THE BRONX// PIERCE THE VEIL
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THE THOUGHT OF THE CLONE CAPTAIN WAS A CURSE SONDER COULD NO LONGER ESCAPE.
The unease of his name, the mere grasp of his presence, his touch; there was an everpressing gnawing ache where indifference once held.
Yet, it had been many, many rotations since that fateful night.
Yet, she thought about the weight of his arms around her all the same.
It was despicable; revolting — it was distracting, and Sonder had experienced plenty of missions to know how to mask the ache.
So, why was this so different?
What happened to the killer? The infamous assassin? All that blood. All that violence. No longer could she force herself into her work; the usually cold, stone-walled facade she held. It had been wiped clean; alongside all that stained her hands.
Such stained hands, he gently held.
Sonder squeezed her eyes shut. Pressing her hands forcefully to the sides of her head, she forbade herself the thought of him once more. It was sickening. A plague on her mind. The constant flicker of golden eyes that could rival a thousand splendid suns. A passionate, ferocious courage, devotion and—
'No.'
It had to stop. It was wrong. Sinful, almost. It betrayed everything she knew, everything she stood for. These nauseating, flitting, fluttering motions in her chest had to die: yet, the caged bird would not cease the profuse beating of its wings. Desperate, yearning: why wouldn't it just stop? Allow her some peace, an edge of sanity: though, it was futile.
