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star wars: luke skywalker

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Who:Han Solo and YOUR FACE
When: throughout the month of May
Where: aboard the Moira unless otherwise noted
What: for all your miscellaneous threading needs! will probably post some specific starters, but feel free to hit him up with basically anything.
Warnings: currently n/a; will warn in threads / update as needed

Though going home is Han's number one priority, he's not sure a temporary trip (if that's even for real) is worth the risk. So while he'll get into his share of trouble, he's sticking around on the Moira a fair amount. Plenty to do.

He keeps up with his work running one of the transporters as needed, and can frequently be found between trips on the flight deck. Sometimes he's poking at his shuttle of choice, but just as often he can be found in or around the Millennium Falcon. Loath as he was to risk spreading whatever contamination they've all contracted onto his pride and joy, there's only so much waiting a man can take. (Play your cards right and maybe you'll get a tour, he likes to show off.)

The mess hall, the bar, and the cafe are all frequent enough haunts. Hell of a lot better than being stuck for months with instant caf and freeze-dried rations. As far as space travel goes, this is straight up luxury.

Otherwise, he'll be around, here and there.

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[ closed starters below! ]

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One day she doesn't come back.

He let it happen, that's his first thought. It's the first thought in some time to cut through Kylo Ren's own preoccupations—he's plunged into the ingress whenever he can, sometimes with the mandated partner but more often alone and always returning too soon, exhausted from mending his lightsaber or head ringing with the Supreme Leader's voice. The Moira, the squabbling crew, even the taunt of the Millennium Falcon in the cargo bay—they've become a temporary delay before he returns to the world he belongs in.

These days, these days that blur like the stars before a hyperspace jump, he doesn't stray far from the ingress, and he wastes no time in getting there. Seeing no sign of their host, he takes the turbolift down to the portal. It's a brief but excruciating journey, his helplessness made manifest in the lethargic descent. He wants to snap every cable in the lift, every bone in the host's body. He's come to his senses: it's her fault, this woman who refuses to so much as give her name.

“Where is she?”

Near the edge of the platform the woman turns, her presence sharp and serene in the Force. Her expression, Kylo notices belatedly, is one of concern. She says, I apologize and experimental stages and easily remedied. With the Force at her throat, crushing her windpipe, she says nothing. Her face contorts.

One day Leia doesn't come back.

In spite of his misgivings Han has made a few jumps himself, with friends and with near-strangers. Halfway it's a matter of curiosity, mostly it's because this is a good way to get things they need aboard, things they want, without trusting to the whim of the Ingress. It's different for Leia, he knows, but it's not as though he can ask her not to go back. Not, he suspects, like she'd listen if he tried, though it worries him, the hold it has on her. The reasons make sense, but it's a little too much like watching an addict.

He's heading down to see if there's been any word of her, if the strange woman with her strange machines has anything to help, and instead he finds struggling against nothing, pinned by the wild look in Kylo Ren's eyes.

"The hell do you think you're doing?"

That tone must be familiar, not that Han has any idea. Either way, he doesn't give Kylo a chance to explain himself-- he can't pry the incorporeal hand from the woman's throat so Han does what seems like the next best thing and charges the man, intending to break his concentration and throw him off balance.

Unfortunately, he succeeds in throwing them both off balance, tipping over the edge as the woman catches her breath and looks on.

It's as though he's felled by a voice, the shudder of memory and jolt in the Force and blow of Han's body hitting him as one. The air leaves his lungs and Kylo Ren gasps breathlessly, twists to take the fall on his side. His shoulder cracks against the platform, the glass faultless and the hurt rough.

They roll entangled into the ingress.

It spits him out on a ship. Kylo shoves the other man off, heedless of the pain that streaks through his arm. There's a door in front of him: his hands close into fists and for a moment he's still, pitched slightly forward like a man poised to scream. With an earsplitting screech, the metal slab's ripped loose from the frame, peeled off like the lid of a can.

Kylo erupts from the room, reaching automatically for a lightsaber he doesn't have. She isn't here. She isn't here and he's trapped, at the mercy of the ingress. He stalks down the narrow corridor, his steps clanging. The Force around him, the walls of the ship, they seem to tremble with rage.

With a snarl and a gesture he uproots the dejarik table. As he flings out an arm a box hurls across the room. It hits the wall and tools burst from it, rain to the floor. He throws another box, but it's not enough—nothing like metal melting beneath his lightsaber, the shower of hot sparks. He strides to the radio, tears out handfuls of wiring and what parts he can snap off in a frenzied scrabbling.

He slams a fist into the wall. And again. Clenches it harder when the pain comes. “I hope you're proud of yourself,” he snaps when he senses Han Solo nearing.

The fall leaves him dazed, not so quick to spring back to his feet as Kylo Ren-- which might be for the best, because it means the young man's rage is visited on his surroundings rather than his unwilling companion.

And it's a surprise, when he rights himself, that he's laid out on a familiar floor. Maybe it makes sense, if this thing is supposed to take you home. If there's any place that is-- but he could swear he wasn't the one who fell through first. Maybe it's like Hoth, maybe they're on a course to wherever this lunatic comes from.

He doesn't know, and frankly doesn't care, because the shriek of durasteel being rent gets him on his feet real quick, and he chases after. It isn't real, he tells himself, because the Falcon is docked safely on the flight deck and no temperamental Sith is going to touch it, but still. He takes in the toppled gaming table and sparking array of wires, the new dents in old metal, the bunk in the main hold that he has never seen before (which stops him short for a moment, the first cue that something's wrong. It makes him doubt for just a moment that this is his ship-- there are hundreds of YT-1300s in service, easily, but it's his, he just knows her.

(Come to think of it, things look... Wrong. Not overall. Like two ships have been overlaid; parts are just right, the corridors, the walls, but here and there it seems more old and worn than it ought to.)

"Me?" Well, at least Kylo didn't take a swing at him. That's progress, right? Han is too indignant to be properly angry about the damage, fortunately. Don't worry, he'll get there. "You're gonna wreck the life support, stop that!"

The only thing worse than dying cold and alone in space is dying cold and alone in space because some idiot can't control his temper, as they say. (Yeah, no one says that, but they should.)

Kylo rounds on him, raising an arm and bringing his fist down inches from the man's head. He looks worse than when they last stood face to face, hollowed out. His eyes burn feverishly bright. “See what you've done,” he hisses, fighting for the breath to speak. “Idiot. Eternal idiot.”

If he keeps this up his hand will break. Life support will fail and they'll die. There is a part of him that grasps these cold facts, but it's nothing next to the rage spurring him on. He shoves off from the wall, his posture rigid. “We're trapped here until—if—it sends us back. And she...” She's fomenting rebellion in some world half a step from reality.

Kylo Ren grits his teeth, turns. The lid to the compartment in the floor slices through the air, whipping into the wall. He doesn't watch it crash to the ground—his eyes are roaming the ship.

He recognizes where he is. He has no self-control left; it's sheer exhaustion that keeps the “no” from falling from his lips.

Having half expected that (and the other half expected worse,) he manages not to flinch. It doesn't seem like a good idea, showing weakness in the face of that kind of anger and strength-- though there's something about it that feels more bluster than anything. This man, he doesn't doubt, is dangerous-- but it's a different sort of danger, not the impassive cruelty he's faced elsewhere. He doesn't like letting him vent his anger on the Falcon, but like it or not they're stuck here until they get pulled back.

"And killing her was gonna do what? There are people stuck on the other side of this damn thing."

Sounding doubtful, Han is standing his ground, totally misunderstanding which she the other man means. It hasn't occurred to him that Kylo could be here for the same reason he is. Either way, thankfully, he's stopped-- or at least put a pause on-- destroying things. That's not enough to get Han to relax, but it's a step in the right direction. Enough of a break for him to wonder what the hell happened to his ship.

“I know!” he shouts, voice turning to static in his ears. As much to drown Han out as anything. In the wake of all the damage he's visited on the ship, the effect is pitiful—laughable, almost. The words flutter down, harmless as feathers.

Kylo stands in the center of the room, his gaze continuing to twitch over the ship's interior. Now that he knows the Millennium Falcon for what it is, the thought of touching any part of the vessel repulses him. The Falcon had always been cobbled together—from longing, pride, desperation. From love, some of it Ben Solo's.

“If I'd meant to kill her I'd have snapped her neck,” he says abruptly. A flat statement, articulated with military precision. Brushing past Han, he strides down the hall to the cockpit.

Something in Kylo's demeanor has changed subtly, and Han hasn't got a clue what it is-- what's caused him to go quiet, whether this is just a lull between outbursts. It doesn't matter much, because it's not in his nature to hold back. If he provokes another tantrum, so be it; he doesn't really understand how not to.

He clenches his jaw and follows along, resenting the fact that the other man is leading the way, too frustrated to properly take note of the fact that it means he knows his way around. The ship is an odd patchwork of... something; the surfaces alternately familiar and alien, pitted with unfamiliar history. Stopping to look would mean letting him out of sight. Besides, he isn't sure he wants to look too closely. Perhaps some fate he'd rather not confront is written in those dents and scratches.

"Then what were you doing there?" he demands. Probably it'd be wiser to go their separate ways, sulk in opposite corners of the ship until that familiar tug draws them back to Amissis-Re, but like hell is he yielding the cockpit.

Han Solo's clanging footsteps, his grating Force presence, dog Kylo to the cockpit. He ducks through the doorway and stops where he stands, blocking Solo's view of much of anything. “Don't you have a ship to repair?” he snaps, turning his head without looking at the other man.

He would have sensed it, but it's a relief nonetheless to find pilot and copilot's chairs empty. The air still smells of circuitry, smoldering machinery. Once again at the center of the room, his posture inflexible, Kylo Ren turns his attention to the viewport, skimming over the scattering of stars like a block of illegible text. “I was holding her responsible,” he says, curt. His hands squeeze briefly into fists.

(He picks out unbidden the dice dangling overhead, the tiny pecks in the cushion of the worn navigation chair to his right. Made by a child's fingers.)

"So you can wreck it again?"

Yeah, that's not happening. (He's not gonna clean up after you, kid.) Years of flying this ship have left him able to tell pretty easily what is and isn't vital, and as long as they're not in danger, Han isn't leaving him unattended.

Irritated, he shoulders past, leaning over the back of the pilot's seat to look over the displays and status lights, just to make absolutely certain there's nothing he's got to fix. And maybe try to figure out where they are, though he has the feeling it doesn't matter. With the ship all piecemeal, he imagines the sky can't be any better. They could try to find their way somewhere, but what good would it do?

(Especially to Alderaan, which is where he needs to go.)

"She's half responsible," he mutters. They shouldn't have kept going back-- he should have talked Leia into staying--

That's on him.

His anger falters, and in that sudden sickening absence he grasps at anything. Astonishment—that Han Solo would pass up an opportunity to shirk responsibility, that independent of the Force their thoughts could come so close to meeting—and respect. A depthless sorrow. He's speechless. It is indistinguishable from silence, of course, to a man who feels secure enough to put his back to him.

“You're right,” he says in a breathy rush. His voice darkens, but he's unable to steel it into a threat. “I should do the same to you.”

At times he'd justified his father's continued existence as generosity on his part, meting out days as he saw fit. At times he'd dismissed it as inconsequential, the man a distraction. Now, overcome with feeling, he can no longer deny it: he's not strong enough to allow Han Solo to live.

He draws a painstaking breath. “Look at me.” His inflection warps as he speaks; the words don't sound like they belong together.

Why not turn his back? If nothing else, their prior interactions prove there's very little he can do to defend himself. You can't reason with rage like that, either. Besides, he has bigger concerns-- ones he doesn't realize Kylo shares. The truth is, there's only so much responsibility he can claim-- he should have gone with her, maybe, but he can't imagine she'd have willingly kept to the Moira when Alderaan-- or, at least, some facsimile of it-- was so close. He loves how stubborn and sure of herself Leia is, except it makes him want to scream sometimes.

The threat ought to scare him, but it doesn't. The nav computer can't get a solid read on where they are; the ship is stable but only just, status lights sweeping on and off in chaotic waves, a symptom of mismatched wiring he doesn't have time to worry about. There's nowhere to go, so as long as life support holds, it doesn't matter if they can't get anywhere. At least it gives him something to focus on-- something other than the stranger behind him and his grudge against him and the oddly familiar way he stalked down the hallway of the Falcon.

Han turns to look at him, as requested, but somehow there's no hint of obedience to it. Looking at Kylo Ren, he's struck again by an inexplicable uneasiness-- there's something uncanny about him, something he can't wrap his mind around. It isn't fear, though that might be the more reasonable response; instead, quietly defiant and oddly calm, he meets the other man's gaze silently.

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1. I'm sorry 2. lmk if you need me to change anything 3. I'M SORRY

<3! likewise, i hope this works for ya

SORRY ABOUT YOUR SHIP DUDE

THIS WILL NEVER BE FORGIVEN ps I'm sorry 4 everything

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