Luck just wasn't in his favor today.
The gleam in the Zabrak's eyes was bright with fear, his face awash in desperation as he struggled beneath Poet's weight. Pleas fell one after another from the dealer's mouth in rapid, hopeless rambling – please don't arrest me, I have a kid waiting for me at home, I just wanted the creds, I'm so sorry, please, please, please – and the Ranger would have heeded the distressed words if life pardoned every crime committed with simple words of forgiveness and sympathy for the forlorn.
Life did not work that way, and it never would. Even if the Zabrak was saying the truth, a crime was still a crime and the dealer would have to face the full brunt of justice and law like everyone else. Just because he was allegedly doing this for the sake of his kid didn't mean that officials would turn a blind eye to the crimes he had committed – what use would the law be if sob stories like this one trumped over what was lawful and just?
"You have the right to remain silent," Poet told the dealer as he cuffed him, tone cold and nearly mechanical. He couldn't allow himself to show a sliver of sympathy for this man's supposed plight. Justice had to be served, and that was what he was doing right now. "Anything you say can and will be held against you–"
"N-No! You can't take me away from my kid!"
With a feral scream, the Zabrak renewed his struggling and planted an elbow on Poet's side, sending the young Ranger gasping for air that was knocked out of him. The dealer took the opportunity to buck the half-Morellian off of his back, with Poet grasping the back of the suspect's shirt in an attempt to bring him down again. The Zabrak was pretty persistent, however, and snapped his head back to clip the Ranger on the jaw.
Grunting in pain, Poet loosened his grip on the Zabrak and realized a little too late that it was a horribly wrong move. One moment he was lifting a hand to his jaw, and the next–
Another desperate shout from the dealer was the only warning Poet received before he was being pushed backwards with every ounce of strength the Zabrak had left. The half-Morellian stumbled backwards clumsily, unable to anchor himself to hopefully reduce the force with which he was being pushed with, booted feet scrambling for purchase until they stopped hitting duracrete any longer.
"Kriff–"
The subsequent fall that was supposed to happen in the blink of an eye almost felt like a lifetime to Poet. He had not realized that falling nearly felt peaceful, that the sudden weightlessness that engulfed all of his senses would be so calming. Briefly he caught sight of the Zabrak peering from the edge of the building, the dealer's eyes wide and his face painted with horror at what he had done. Was the guy horrified that reckless imprudence resulting to homicide would be added to the list of cases against him?
But in the end, it really didn't matter to Poet any longer. He was falling to his death, and even if his life didn't flash before his eyes he knew he would regret dying like this. That he wasn't even able to tell his parents goodbye, that he loved them as much as they loved him. That he would make Muse cry when he's finally gone, and–
Kark. Dad and Muse would definitely feel his life getting snuffed through the Force, wouldn't they?
I'm sorry–
Something cracked and snapped underneath him when his body hit whatever it might be and before he knew it he was falling again. With a sickening crunch he finally hit the ground and Poet, eyes still half-opened, gazed almost lifelessly up at the cloudless blue Coruscant skies.
Partially heterochromatic eyes – one brown and the other half-brown and -green – stared blankly and blindly up ahead, unheeding of the blur of colours moving above him. Panicked shouts and screams fell on deaf ears as a pool of vibrant red began to form beneath him, creating a morbid, deformed halo around his head. His left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, his right arm doing the same, and something seemed to be stabbing his lungs from the inside.
He didn't care, though. Not when he couldn't even feel anything.
Images flickered in and out of his mind, and as much as he tried to grasp them they all faded away like clouds stretched too far and too thin to maintain forms. They slipped away like water in his cupped hands. It felt like he was trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.
Slowly but steadily the images – the memories of his treasured childhood –threw themselves away into oblivion. An unchartered territory that no one ever dared to cross, and no one had ever returned from.
Rudra Severino, Imogen Severino, Muse Serenata Severino, he repeated in his head like a mantra, each name ringing with growing desperation in his muddled thoughts. Dad, Mum, little sister. Rudra, Imogen, Muse. Poet Regulus– Poet Severino.
He didn't feel anything when he was being lifted carefully to a... stretcher? He didn't feel anything when the owners of the garbled voices prodded his chest and head with extreme care and caution.
Rudra, Imogen, Muse. Poet.
He didn't see anything when a light was being shined on his eyes. His pupils shrank but his eyes did not follow the light's movements. He just stared, unseeing, as he repeated the names in his head.
They were important names. Or were they?
Who were they?
Four names... Four... names?
What names?
Anguish he had never felt before made his chest hurt, and he was deaf to the loud, rapid beeping somewhere that sent the owners of the garbled voices – both old and new – in a state of... panic? Urgency? What for?
But he was just thinking about names, wasn't he? How many names were those again?
Whose... W-Whose names were those, whatever they were?
"We're losing him–"
"–need to get the surgical droids–"
"–can't afford to lose–"
"–someone contact his family–"
Blessed silence.
The gleam in the Zabrak's eyes was bright with fear, his face awash in desperation as he struggled beneath Poet's weight. Pleas fell one after another from the dealer's mouth in rapid, hopeless rambling – please don't arrest me, I have a kid waiting for me at home, I just wanted the creds, I'm so sorry, please, please, please – and the Ranger would have heeded the distressed words if life pardoned every crime committed with simple words of forgiveness and sympathy for the forlorn.
Life did not work that way, and it never would. Even if the Zabrak was saying the truth, a crime was still a crime and the dealer would have to face the full brunt of justice and law like everyone else. Just because he was allegedly doing this for the sake of his kid didn't mean that officials would turn a blind eye to the crimes he had committed – what use would the law be if sob stories like this one trumped over what was lawful and just?
"You have the right to remain silent," Poet told the dealer as he cuffed him, tone cold and nearly mechanical. He couldn't allow himself to show a sliver of sympathy for this man's supposed plight. Justice had to be served, and that was what he was doing right now. "Anything you say can and will be held against you–"
"N-No! You can't take me away from my kid!"
With a feral scream, the Zabrak renewed his struggling and planted an elbow on Poet's side, sending the young Ranger gasping for air that was knocked out of him. The dealer took the opportunity to buck the half-Morellian off of his back, with Poet grasping the back of the suspect's shirt in an attempt to bring him down again. The Zabrak was pretty persistent, however, and snapped his head back to clip the Ranger on the jaw.
Grunting in pain, Poet loosened his grip on the Zabrak and realized a little too late that it was a horribly wrong move. One moment he was lifting a hand to his jaw, and the next–
Another desperate shout from the dealer was the only warning Poet received before he was being pushed backwards with every ounce of strength the Zabrak had left. The half-Morellian stumbled backwards clumsily, unable to anchor himself to hopefully reduce the force with which he was being pushed with, booted feet scrambling for purchase until they stopped hitting duracrete any longer.
"Kriff–"
The subsequent fall that was supposed to happen in the blink of an eye almost felt like a lifetime to Poet. He had not realized that falling nearly felt peaceful, that the sudden weightlessness that engulfed all of his senses would be so calming. Briefly he caught sight of the Zabrak peering from the edge of the building, the dealer's eyes wide and his face painted with horror at what he had done. Was the guy horrified that reckless imprudence resulting to homicide would be added to the list of cases against him?
But in the end, it really didn't matter to Poet any longer. He was falling to his death, and even if his life didn't flash before his eyes he knew he would regret dying like this. That he wasn't even able to tell his parents goodbye, that he loved them as much as they loved him. That he would make Muse cry when he's finally gone, and–
Kark. Dad and Muse would definitely feel his life getting snuffed through the Force, wouldn't they?
I'm sorry–
Something cracked and snapped underneath him when his body hit whatever it might be and before he knew it he was falling again. With a sickening crunch he finally hit the ground and Poet, eyes still half-opened, gazed almost lifelessly up at the cloudless blue Coruscant skies.
—·—
He was deaf to the world around him.
Partially heterochromatic eyes – one brown and the other half-brown and -green – stared blankly and blindly up ahead, unheeding of the blur of colours moving above him. Panicked shouts and screams fell on deaf ears as a pool of vibrant red began to form beneath him, creating a morbid, deformed halo around his head. His left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, his right arm doing the same, and something seemed to be stabbing his lungs from the inside.
He didn't care, though. Not when he couldn't even feel anything.
Images flickered in and out of his mind, and as much as he tried to grasp them they all faded away like clouds stretched too far and too thin to maintain forms. They slipped away like water in his cupped hands. It felt like he was trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.
Slowly but steadily the images – the memories of his treasured childhood –threw themselves away into oblivion. An unchartered territory that no one ever dared to cross, and no one had ever returned from.
Rudra Severino, Imogen Severino, Muse Serenata Severino, he repeated in his head like a mantra, each name ringing with growing desperation in his muddled thoughts. Dad, Mum, little sister. Rudra, Imogen, Muse. Poet Regulus– Poet Severino.
He didn't feel anything when he was being lifted carefully to a... stretcher? He didn't feel anything when the owners of the garbled voices prodded his chest and head with extreme care and caution.
Rudra, Imogen, Muse. Poet.
He didn't see anything when a light was being shined on his eyes. His pupils shrank but his eyes did not follow the light's movements. He just stared, unseeing, as he repeated the names in his head.
They were important names. Or were they?
Who were they?
Four names... Four... names?
What names?
Anguish he had never felt before made his chest hurt, and he was deaf to the loud, rapid beeping somewhere that sent the owners of the garbled voices – both old and new – in a state of... panic? Urgency? What for?
But he was just thinking about names, wasn't he? How many names were those again?
Whose... W-Whose names were those, whatever they were?
"We're losing him–"
"–need to get the surgical droids–"
"–can't afford to lose–"
"–someone contact his family–"
Blessed silence.
—·—
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