Tenebris Inlustrus

Dark Star Dying

All he knew, at this point, was pain.
Synthesized metal digging into his wrists and ankles where he'd once attempted to escape it's grasp. That seemed so long ago.
The blankness in his mind covering the last communication he'd had, the links with his sons. Once they'd figured it out, they'd kept him drugged down.
That had been a turning point for his mental state.
Blood trickling down his face from a bruised cut just above his temple, against the stub of what had once been a horn.
That wasn't distracting. Even sarcasm had faded. Distractions were his only focus.
A cell, too small for him.
A law force, unjust in their supposed justice.
A loss in the heart of a man who thought he'd had nothing to lose.
Tenebris had been in that cell for weeks. Maybe a month. He'd only started counting seconds a few days in, and unfortunately lost count nearly every time someone came into his cell.
They'd stated clearly that they wanted to break him.
And so they were.
He'd at first attempted to keep track of his injuries, and also at first been disappointed at the fact that they would surely scar.
Scars were merely a list of failures and accidents. He knew that now.
His body, once his own prize, was now nothing but a canvas of blood and discolorment.
Anyone would be scarcely lucky to find a limb or joint of the Ketorian that wasn't lacerated or maimed.
He'd lost his suit at some point, but couldn't recall when. His dress shirt had been torn to shreds soon after. Left shirtless with his weight straining against the chains behind him. Even if he was somehow freed, there'd be plenty of doubt over whether his joints would ever recover from the strange positioning.
If he'd ever had the pantherlike grace of zero gravity, it had been stripped from him.
They hadn't destroyed his brand, but he now bore another below it- a prisoner's code, burnt much less elegantly than the Ketorian glyphs adorning his shoulder.
He'd forgotten how badly brands burnt.
Surprisingly, they hadn't broken or dislocated any of his bones. He'd even received occasional medical attention. He might've argued that was the worst part.
Most of the prison's medics were female, from what he'd seen. They would come in, flaring a bright light just enough to stun him enough for them to work easily. They stitched his wounds without anesthetic, dousing them with alcohol that always ended up running, causing his already offset stripes to flare a variety of pained colors. Their hands would sometimes drift to places that he would have never allowed had he been able to defend himself, but considering his history and how frequently they wandered, he had no strength to attempt to stop them.
They told him his crew had abandoned him. The Novatis Llunar, home of his Syndicate, had fled back to deep space after it's leader was taken.
Forget the damned medics. That was the worst part.
His crew, he could have understood. He was never a good captain.
His family.. that had broken him.
And with that, they had their success.
Why didn't they just stop?
All he wanted was for it to stop.
He had lost everything.
But he kept losing.
Every day.
Over and over again.
Losing.
One of those days, though, it seemed he hadn't lost.
Blaster fire in the corridor. A prison break? A siege? He could only hope.
Until familiar voices drifted into the darkness of his cell.
His beta. His Iota. His deltas. His epsilons.
They'd come.
His family hadn't abandoned him.
Every thought in his exhausted mind hit a break. Once. Twice. On the third surge of blankness, they reversed.
He wasn't losing.
They were there. He hadn't lost them.
But if all he had to lose was his again.. why did his chest still hurt?
Because of course, they weren't all he had to lose. He still had himself.
His heart.
That was what burned.
The shock, the reversal.. he'd gone into shock. His heart couldn't take it. He was weakened already. It had given out. How much time did he have? He scrambled to remember. Ten minutes? Ten minutes.
Ten.
The flashbacks started for home. A stampede of memory. Ice flats, hardly-lit festivals. Haunting folk songs raised by the collective voices of an entire city. Gladiators and gamblers and.. fading. Killing her. His. She'd been his. Not anymore. Running. Stealing. Stealing things that would've already been his own. Leaving. Leaving everything behind. A new start, in a new place, totally and utterly alone. Finding ways to cope. Strange ways, but good ways. Innocence lost forever. Things became clearer.
Nine.
Another death, and more to come. That one had turned him. He left the coping behind. Starting new all over again. Dropping old names. He couldn't remember them now. Someone could. But who?
The Novatis. Safety in numbers. Finding like minds. Countless successful missions. Doubt. Where had the doubt come from?
Eight.
From himself. They turned on him for so many reasons. Tried so hard. Two loyalists and a beggar. Those loyal ones. His friends. A flash of the present- was he leaving his friends? He felt something hammer against his restraints, soon falling into someone's arms with a quiet gasp of pain. He was so tired. They must have known. They started moving, quickly. Shouts and the sounds of panic, but.. so far away.
Seven.
Too far away. Back into his thoughts, away from his shocked palor and aching body. Back to.. what was it? Mutiny? He wanted to go home again, but his mind was set on it. Multiple attempts. One dead. Two dead. Three. Make it the whole crew. The beggar ran, the loyalists fought him to calm, like a crazed animal, reteaching him his trust. Trust. Was that why he felt hands on him? Gentle, healing, trying to help. He hoped it would work. Oh, he desperately hoped it would work. He didn't want to die.
Six.
The new crew. New. What was new anymore? He only knew old. He finally felt all his age, a full five thousand with hopes for five thousand more. So many new faces, all of them ending up strangely kind. Even the kappas, so weary of him. These memories were clearer. Happier. He'd found all he wanted. Love. Finally. Companionship. So lost previously. Family. A very welcome surprise.
Five.
So many times he nearly lost them. So many times he felt things he thought he would never feel. He changed. He was no longer cold. He was no longer unattached. He'd become so much more than a murderer. Or a strategist. Or anything else he had ever been. He was a father. A man of family, who'd finally learned how to love. Something snapped him back to his thoughts.
Pain flaring though his chest again. Electric. Something in his arm, a quick flash of consciousness, enough to hear screaming. Commands. Someone desperately trying to save him. He was desperate to be saved, but time moved faster and slower all at the same time.
Four.
Things moved on. Time. Losses. Brief scares and timeless joy. All to be lost. Wait. Lost? Losing? Again? No. He couldn't. Not again. It'd been too long. Too much loss. He was spiraling back. Reversing again. He was.. he was dying.
Three.
It kept speeding up. It wouldn't stop. It would never stop. They would never stop. They'd gotten him. They'd won. Another prick to his arm. Another flash of vision and consciousness. Rain. There was rain. He had missed rain. Out again.
Two.
Things were going too fast. Something broke through. A scream. Who was screaming? Was it him? That would explain a lot. He was terrified.
One.
Oh god. Only one. This one slowed down. How had he been counting? He'd been preoccupied. He'd been counting for the past two months, after all, hadn't he? What would happen after he died? He couldn't take dying. He wanted to go home.
He knew he was too far away from home. He couldn't remember anyone dying back home. No proper ceremonies, no goodbyes, or- Wait. He had goodbyes. He didn't know where he put them. He needed to get them to the crew, to his family. He needed to get up. He needed to-
Zero.
The last minute.
Tenebris Inlustrus, the Dark Star of the Novatis Llunar, had faded out.