Pitched whinge of speeders dotted the skyscape of Coronet. A day like any other; commuters roamed beneath the afternoon sun, eyes cast to the horizon. The endless drone of holonet news and neon-lit billboards advertised and chronicled the day. Foretellings of battle and politics, of rote and rant, played on. For one of the largest metropolises in the rim, the day simply passed.
Few remembered the occasion.
The sound of coughing, taste of wet tears, touch of dusty smoke.
125 ABY. A day like any other. Much the same as now. People, passersby, all with their own troubles. Their own lives. They milled about frenetically. They watched the speeder lined sky. They went to work or school, bespoke lifts to the sector spaceport. Thousands upon thousands of them. And yet, for some, the day dawned black with a veil of blood.
Breathing past a runny nose, scratching soot from eyes she refused to open, she shuddered at a touch upon her shoulder.
How it haunted her.
Boots chirped a march across duracrete street, accompanied by the afternoon drone. Priscilla walked, meandered really, a lilting pace that dreaded its destination. Today marked the 10th anniversary of that tragedy. Hollow years. Reminiscence came bitterly. Still, she pressed on with all the hesitation and reluctance mustered against her. Still, she managed a tight smile at the honest fear. She lived. Many others had not. Perhaps that alone gave her the courage to face it now.
A tremulous sigh found her standing before the memorial. Several others stood with her, most in silence. Most remembering. She recognized none of them; wanted to recognize none of them.
A day like any other. And perhaps the last she'd have to face the past.
Few remembered the occasion.
The sound of coughing, taste of wet tears, touch of dusty smoke.
125 ABY. A day like any other. Much the same as now. People, passersby, all with their own troubles. Their own lives. They milled about frenetically. They watched the speeder lined sky. They went to work or school, bespoke lifts to the sector spaceport. Thousands upon thousands of them. And yet, for some, the day dawned black with a veil of blood.
Breathing past a runny nose, scratching soot from eyes she refused to open, she shuddered at a touch upon her shoulder.
How it haunted her.
Boots chirped a march across duracrete street, accompanied by the afternoon drone. Priscilla walked, meandered really, a lilting pace that dreaded its destination. Today marked the 10th anniversary of that tragedy. Hollow years. Reminiscence came bitterly. Still, she pressed on with all the hesitation and reluctance mustered against her. Still, she managed a tight smile at the honest fear. She lived. Many others had not. Perhaps that alone gave her the courage to face it now.
A tremulous sigh found her standing before the memorial. Several others stood with her, most in silence. Most remembering. She recognized none of them; wanted to recognize none of them.
A day like any other. And perhaps the last she'd have to face the past.