Trompe L'Oeil

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music IC

“Never open with dialogue,” the Ranger cautioned while liquor dripped from his lip beside levity. “It's a terrible start to the story. Really, you want to find the ending as quickly as possible, and sometimes you do that by saying nothing at all." He knocked back a shot and burped.

"Easiest way to put a crook behind barriers is to put a bolt in his noggin.” The glass thud upon the bar. “Can I get another drink and an OH YEAH!?”

Apart from the usual sounds fit for a cantina, with a hodgepodge of language and tongues and drinks to keep them flapping, a moment of silence ensued.

“I think you’ve had enough, bud,” the bartender cautioned. He looked neither amused nor amusing.

“Enough, eh?” The Ranger snorted. He sat that stool like it was a throne, liked he owned it—and the bar and its tender and the entire cantina and everyone in it. “Let me tell you something, bud.” He leaned forward, pulled his coat closer, exposed the blaster at his thigh. “It’s enough...when I kriffin SAY it's enough!"

Enough...enough...enough...

The Ranger whipped out his blaster. The bartender backed up. There was a blaster shot. The man fell down. It wasn’t the bartender; he was still standing, staring from the stool to the shooter. “Nice shot.” The bartender nodded at the corpse slumped over the counter. “Clean bolt to the back of the head. Paid for that mistake. Shame he won't be paying his tab too…”

Mistake...mistake...mistake...

Just as the bartender sighed out his woes like a dead man dying another Ranger breathed in; booze and stale chips and the clarity of having just killed a crook. He rose from his table, pulled his coat closer, holstered the blaster at his thigh.

“Do, done, did,” the Ranger spoke with a rolling shoulder, reaching the bar to request a whiskey. There was a stutter in his speech but his host heard him clearly enough.

Nice painting. The Ranger squinted at the painting above the bar, maybe a hall in a ballroom, majestic architecture, gilded splendor. I don't like it one bit. A man contradicts himself. I don't feel well.

“So, how does it feel, partner?” Bartender smiled as he poured and passed the glass.

“How does what feel?” Ranger knocked back the whiskey, set the glass down, raised a brow at the question and the twitch in his hand.

Bartender looked left, looked right, and there might have been a smile in one eye and a scowl in the other. “To have shot yourself in the head, of course.”

Ranger looked right, looked left. What...the… There he was, sitting on a stool right beside him: a mirror image of himself. The clothing, the body, the skin, the species—all of it identical. No...way… He pulled on the body’s shoulder so the living and the dead could meet face to face. The face...my face…my face...face...face...

“Tell me,” the other voice returned. “How does it feel to have killed yourself for the hundredth time, Zad Ruzed?”[/abox3]

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music OOC

“Where am I?”

The voice was weak, dry, empty, like it came from a head lying on a bed of sand. Might have been a fitting comparison considering the speaker was lying naked on a bed of sand.

“You are in the desert, Mr. Ruzed.” The other voice was close, distant; an echo that came from this way and that way all at once, and nowhere at all all the same.

“Are…” Zad fumbled. He wanted to say so much but, between not knowing what to say or how to say it, he could only say so much. “Are…”

“What’s that?”

“Ar...Ar...vala...se...seven?”

“No, Mr. Ruzed… I’m afraid not…”

Where… Where… He opened his eyes again. They had been closed again. Hadn’t they? He couldn’t remember. He did not know. Where...am...I…

The world was bright, first white then yellow, like a blinding sun transported in front of the pupil. He wanted to howl. He wanted to hurt. Yet, the only pain he felt was a tingle in his knees, then his hands, then his chest, until his forehead was some throbbing skull best left on a stick.

“Your thoughts are...interesting...Mr. Ruzed…”

Mr. Ruzed. Why didn’t this bastard just call him Zad Ruzed? Zad Ruzed looked this way, spotted an endless sea of golden desert stretching into a hazy horizon. He looked the other way, spied a mirror image thought to be impossible, but such was the desert.

“Who...are...you?”

“Me?” The voice was suddenly casual, maybe mocking, like an interrogator breaking code to appear personable. “My O my, Mr. Ruzed, you really are lost in this desert, aren’t you?”

“Who...are you?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? 'Who are you?' You are asking the right question...but in the wrong way.” The voice, the echo, everywhere and nowhere all at once. “The question, Zad Ruzed, is...who are you?”

Who am I…

Some people asked the question wanting to know what kind of person they were—really—like maybe they had just taken their first self-examination quiz, shot their sixth whiskey or shot their second skull.

You don’t ask the first time…

He remembered. No, he had a feeling. It was something different, something distant, like a shore so close on the horizon but so far away. It was that feeling you got when you could recall an event without seeing it take place.

The first time...the only question you ask...is…’Who’s next?’

Was that all he was? Was this Zad Ruzed simply some assassin? Killer? Was his first kill just like snapping your fingers, or snapping your fingers at the clerk who put too much sugar in your coffee?

Am I…

Zad formed the killer's question like hard clay in a crippled hand, gazing up at the glassy blue sky, watching dreamy clouds drift lazily above a scolding, scoffing desert.

Am I…

The sand was hot beneath his bare skin, and there was a warm breeze against his bare beard, but when he turned his head and glimpsed that faraway water, that ocean, that oasis, he could taste how cold it was.

...Dead?

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music

“How do you feel, Zad Ruzed?”

Zad hesitated to answer, gazing out at a distant shore, the sea between them. Its waves hit a crescendo, like an orchestra; saltwater like perfume, or a woman’s naked sweat; tiny droplets of water spraying upon a man’s bare chest like the strokes of a violin in a flurry.

“I…I…I feel…” He hesitated to answer. How could he? What can I say? He didn’t recognize his own voice, let alone the voice of the other speaker. Was it from the sky? Beneath the beach? How did I get here?

“Is that a piano you hear?” The voice mused, echoing itself. “That stroke?”

“The kark do I know?” Zad shrugged.

“Your mind, Ranger Ruzed, is walled. Within those walls is a garden blooming, an orchard of fruit, but you know neither how to groom the garden nor pluck the fruit.”

“Wise words,” Zad blew through his lips. “That mean as much as a grain of sand in the wind, pardner.”

“Oh, but we are not partners, Zad Ruzed.”

“Then what are we?”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Zad gaze upon the horizon, that skyward hill where the clouds touched the ocean, white upon blue, though the two could never marry as much as a Ranger could never marry a dead woman. “You make as much sense as a dead man.”

“Fitting, Mr. Ruzed, considering it was you who was shot.”

“What?” Zad touched his chest with a whole hand, felt no hole.

“Search deeper.”

“You make no sense.”

“Deeper, Ruzed. Search within your heart, within your mind… Find the wound, find the hole… Only then can you be…free…”

Zad saw it. Felt it. There was a hole where he should be whole. Right there. There. Damn it. Where? He lost it already, like a suspect down a dark alley, running away. Can’t run forever, pilgrim! Zad would catch ‘em. Always had. When he did? Will make ‘em wish they’d never been born.

“Born again, Zad Ruzed,” called that damned blasted voice from before.

Take a blaster to it. “The kriff you mean now!?”

“Can you afford to be…born again, Zad Ruzed?”

Zad Ruzed was fed up. He had had enough. “Take your philosophy…and…shove it. Up. Your. ASS.”

He kicked sand, kicked snow, threw a rock, threw a grenade, did all of that at once and blinked himself out of the trance. No. No. Impossible. Don’t make no damn sense. None of it. All just so…so…impossible.

“You are a box, Zad Ruzed.”

“Shut the kark up. I’ll put you down like the next perp.”

“It’s what you’re good at, Zad Ruzed.”

“That. THAT. Always the first name then the last. Just pick one!”

“You pick one. The blaster or the blasted.”

“What?

“Zaia or the Zabrak. Aemi or the Mandalorian. That woman or this woman. Choose.”

“KRIFF YOU!” Zad dove, grasped his arms into thin air, landed on a snowy beach, a sandy glacier. The kriff.

“A box, Ranger Ruzed. A heart-shaped box. Where is your love?”

“I loved her!” Zad pounded his fist into the sandy snow, the snowy sand. “I loved Aemi! Zaia is…is…more like a sister, a daughter!”

“You still have to choose. Choose.”

“KRIFF. YOU.”

“Then remain boxed, Zad Ruzed. A heart-shaped box that will never let you go.”

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music

“Ranger,” tipped the hat of a Ranger on the desert dust of Arvala-7.

“Ranger,” Ranger Ruzed greeted back, having no hat to tip so settling for dipping his hand from his head in a two-fingered salute.

He waltzed on, marched along, glimpsed the faces of all the townsfolk of Kradle.

“What brings you back?” Asked a beer-bellied Bothan smoking a cigar outside the sheriff’s office.

“Oh, you know…” Zad Ruzed drifted a smoke ring toward his counterpart’s upon exhaling from a cigarette. “...Business and pleasure. Take your pick.”

The Bothan stared the Human down, then grinned. “Welcome back, Zad Ruzed. It’s been a while. What kept you?”

Zad Ruzed sighed at that, stealing a look at the town he once called home. Home away from home.

“I was…delayed…” He trailed off, as did his thoughts; thoughts on a cantina then a desert, a beach and a sea, then here and back again like some old dwarf with a cane and a ring.

“Delayed?”

“Yeap. Delayed.” Zad shrugged off the concern, tucking his black leather jacket around himself. It wasn’t cold on a world like this but the hot wind was no less windy. “Then I found my way, remembered who I was and what I am and, well, hell…here I am.”

With a wink, Zad strolled past Kradle’s deputy and planted his boots inside the sheriff’s office. There was a desk waiting for him and it cradled his name.

Taking a seat, Ranger Ruzed relaxed, kicked back, propped boots upon desk and thought of two familiar faces. One was a Zabrak’s, as beautiful as any wife’s face could be, and the other was a Human’s, as beautiful as any daughter’s could be.

He rolled up his sleeves, a little hot in his coat, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He sipped, sighed, glad to be back. He blew smoke, flicked ash with the hand of one arm, scratched the arm of another, felt something firm. What’s this?

Zad Ruzed scratched at the skin. Again. And again. Fingernails clawed. A…tracking chip? Again. No cigar, no cigarette. He whipped out his knife. Poked. Prodded. Scratched. Sliced. Dug into.

That’s…no chip. He dragged his blade downward. Parted flesh and skin. Did not mistake the steel and the wire for anything less, nothing more. What…the kriff…

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music

Water. Daughter. Lover. I see. A sea. A fountain. A mountain. That beach. A desert. A burned earth. A sun. A son. A black hole sun. Dead. Alive. From dust to dust. From dusk till dawn. Moon. Sun. Eclipse. Do. Done. Did.

The Sheriff reached for his coffee. It was black, bittersweet, just the way he liked it. Steam drifted up his nostrils, soothing, as he sighed out the aroma of freshly ground Endorian beans. There was a knock on the door. He quickly covered up his arm with the sleeve.

“Come in,” Zad Ruzed beckoned his guest. It was a Human, a woman, with long blonde hair that might be more golden were it not for the dust and dirt. Her host liked that about her already. “Can I help you, Miss..?”

“Mrs,” she corrected. “Mrs. Stepford Halrion. Husband’s Dalton Halrion, owns a ranch yonder of his namesake, can’t miss it if you travel east.”

“I’ll remember that next time I travel east,” Zad smiled. Then frowned. The fact was that when someone went to visit the Sheriff they usually had a problem packed up with them. “What can I do for you?”

“Sheriff, more like, it’s what I can do for you.” The way she smiled might have made a grown man like Zad blush. He breathed easy. “We’ve heard a bit about you, Sheriff Ruzed, about how you helped the community way back when. Truth be told, we’re just offering to gift you with steady meat and goods for as long as you keep this town safe…sir.”

That sounded like a mighty fine deal already. “I appreciate that." He looked her over, careful not to tear his gaze away from hers, relying on peripheral vision the same way he did when hunting crooks.

She was comely, good figure hidden behind a farmer's outfit, could not be older than forty, which made her younger than him by a mile. He squinted. I...know you...see you...seen you before...

Had he not? Was this woman not the same woman he had found at that same ranch? Only...the ranch is on fire, children are screaming, speeder bikes are speeding away....

Zad sucked his tongue behind his teeth on the threat of biting it off. Her face was flawless. Except for the blood in her mouth and the eyeball on her cheek. He blinked. "Why isn’t your husband the one to tell me this?”

The gal shrugged. “He’s busy with— Oh, Sheriff, are you okay?” She pointed.

Zad looked down at his arm. There was a bead of red liquid seeping out of the sleeve. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” He dabbed it with a tissue. “Cut my arm on a rock braving the canyon on my way in. It happens.”

“Sure does,” Stepford seemed believing. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, Sheriff. And…thanks again…for coming back and all.”

That smile again, that look, that womanly walk away as the door closed behind and Zad sipped his coffee. No, he downed it. He didn’t know how. It had been piping hot when last his lips touched it.

The man stood up, rolled up his sleeve, bandaged the wound and the nonsense within it. He found the restroom, looked himself in the mirror, but it wasn’t Zad Ruzed staring back at him, not really.

Who…who…who am I? He didn’t like the answer, if there was one, so he smashed the mirror with a fist and found a new wound to bandage.

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music

That night, Sheriff Zad Ruzed, Ranger to boot, had concluded the day's dealings and decided to pass the time at the saloon.

“Another one?” The voice called across the counter. “Sure,” another voice answered. “Top me up but don’t tap me out,” demanded. “Or I’ll tap you out,” commanded. The two men exchanged grins.

“Glad you’re back, Sheriff,” Sherib expressed upon pulling a bottle from top shelf. “Town’s not been the same without you.”

The Sheriff stared, unable to reply. “I’ve missed it, desert and dust and dirt and all, and even the likes of you,” he lied. “Now, about that brew?”

Bartender poured gold, sheriff watched whiskey into glass like water from a fountain. He guzzled, set the glass back down with a sigh, tapped for a refill. Keep ‘em comin'. For now, he swiveled on his stool, turned to face the crowd.

They were a rowdy bunch, this bunch playing pazaak and the other sabaac, poker and blackjack, these guys and gals swaying to the piano, those gals and guys playing drinking games, and not so much as a scuffle.

“Always been this quiet?” Zad asked without looking behind. There was no answer. Kriffing Sherib sneaking shots. He turned to face the bartender. There was no bartender.

“Hey, where’s—” Sheriff began, saw no server, turned to face the crowd. “...Where’s…” Saw no crowd, no gamblers, no drunkards, nobody, nothing, no one around. It was an empty bar, an empty room, empty stools, save for the one that Zad Ruzed sat upon.

“What…” He blinked, scratched his arm, drew blood. “...Why…” He picked up his glass, saw no whiskey, threw it at the wall. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” Stood up. “WHO ARE YOU?” Tossed a table. “WHERE AM I?” Drew his pistol. “WHO AM I?” Pointed it to Zad Ruzed's head.

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music

…A man…
…A Ranger…
…Zad…
…Maybe later…

A man is not himself.
…Is this…now..?
He really cannot tell.
…That a…cow..?

A cow crosses the street. It is being led by a boy.
A dusty road, buildings at the flanks, made of wood.
The cow is meat for the butcher’s, prime cut choice.
A man is suddenly hungry, wants to eat and he should.

“How did…I…get...here..?”
A man asks his own head.
Townsfolk go right and left.
Horses, wagons, pedestrians.

“Sheriff, you all right?”
Asks some other guy.
He points to his thigh.
At Zad’s. It’s wrapped.

A bandage, bloody, but he isn’t bleeding, at least he doesn’t think.
His head, sweating in the sun, he feels it, and it has cloth on it too.
He takes it off, stained red, feels his head, but it also isn’t bleeding.
His thigh is next, and to his shock there is no wound. Can’t be true.

There is no wound, there is nothing, the damage isn’t even there.
Whatever happened, he turns around and expects some answers.
Whatever building he emerged from, and sure enough, there it is.
Instead of a saloon or sheriff’s office, the sign is enough to scare.

Even a Sector Ranger can feel fear, and it’s all this old man feels now.
For he realizes, in that very moment, this is all real, and a man is dead.
He thought maybe this is a dream, he’d wake up, soon he’d come around.
It’s not a dream. It isn’t anything. You are dead, old friend, dead Zad Ruzed.

The sign, it reads his name, ‘Zad Ruzed’, as an old man stands at the entrance.
The door is closed, no light in the windows, neither darkness, they are boarded.
The door is chained. A man is no detective but he can’t make sense of that one.
A chorus of ideas in his head. If this isn’t heaven or hell..could it be…purgatory..?

Is Zad Ruzed dead and is this husk and carcass whatever that is left of that man?
It is fitting for him to be living or whatever he is doing on those old western streets.
Saloon, hotel, gunsmith, butcher’s, sheriff’s office, general store, and that stray rat.
Flies in the air, in the desert, a coyote on a hill, gazing soul-deep, an old man bleeds.

He lunges, lurches, staggers and falls forward, jerking his hand out to break his fall.
His lungs all but burst, ribs threatening to break in, break open, as an old man coughs.
“...Not…today…” He gets up, wipes his lips, turns to the sheriff’s office. “Getting my gun...”
Kriff purgatory or whatever this shit is. Just then, a sharp pain in his head. “Kriffin’ headache.”

Zad Ruzed, he walks down the wooden path, past men and women, black boots -click-clackin’-.
Whether this or that pedestrian, get out of the old man’s way, their sheriff even, no lollygaggin’.
That Ranger is inbound, tucking his black leather duster over his shoulders and wearing a frown.
He finds his office, the door is locked, knocks on it but there is no answer and so he kicks it down.
At desk sits sheriff’s deputy, not really, but Zad recognizes him. It…can’t be… “Corran…Velt? How?”

“Well, Mr. Rough And Tumble…”
Corran trails off, holding up and offering a cup of hot coffee to the man.
“...I was hoping you could tell me…”

Zad blinks. Looks left. Deputy Jericho Trench. Looks right. Deputy Zaia Krodas.
No. He’s a Ranger. She’s a Mandalorian. This doesn’t make sense. The crap?
Zad scratches his head. Corran Velt suddenly speaks, and him, her.
“Join us.”
“Join us."
"Join us.”
Step closer and toward Zad.
“Kriff that.”
Grabs scatterblaster.

-BLAM!-
-BLAM!-
-BLAM!-
CRAP.

Everything begins to go black.
Black sea, and bloody, it's raining.
Heh, I guess that’s it, huh, old man?
Life's just an illusion like that painting.

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music IC

That head. That aching head. Rested, yet it feels as heavy as lead.
His head, a man’s head, skull like a bowling ball, hair, almost bald.
His hand, hand on head, that shell of bone, almost broken, dead.
Fingertips on skin, caressing, like she had—that old man’s doll.

There’s no sight and nothing to see, just a cold world, darker than black.
He can’t see a thing, so maybe he’s asleep, yeah, bittersweet symphony.
Eyes closed, can’t open them, heavy as his head, useless as an old man.
Behind eyes, tears are dry, can’t even weep, daydream a dreaming city.

Words, words are hard, so meaningless, as weightless as a man’s empty fist.
Words in his head, words curve and burn, turn and blur, and it’s all nonsense.
He can’t think, can’t blink, barely aware of whether he’s dead. Am I conscious..?
He can’t see himself, there’s no mirror, can barely see her…her hair and her lips.

Aemi…am I…am I alive?
An old man hopes not.
No…let me…let me die.
Like her, his lover…gone.

Zad…my man…oh…my brave Ranger…
Aemi…Aemi…is…is it…is it really you..?
Ruzed, I’m dead, but I love you…forever.
Baby…let me come to you. Did. Done. Do.

There’s no voice, gone from his head, those Zabrak horns, her chorus, is just noise.
An old man can’t see but he can hear. Faint at first, like a creeping memory…louder.
A gentle bell, like a woman’s kiss, drumstick cymbal, delicate, like her hand in his fist.
Cradling it, like the man’s voice in his head, it isn’t his, the singer’s, like old gunpowder.

Words, well, they were never the Ranger’s best; he solved problems with his fist, not his head.
New problems. Old friends. New Friends, Old Problems. The peak at my feet. But what's it mean?
That singer’s voice, that man’s, slow as molasses, dripping with whiskey, frontier saloon breath.
Done and dusted Ranger, gunslinger, he can’t see, he can hear, he can smell and, yes, it’s a drink.

“I take it you won’t be wanting another.”
New man’s voice, like that to a customer.
Old man shutters open, so slowly, so lazy.
Dark surface, like ancient wood, eyes hazy.

Smooth as cypress, that surface, polished wood, but this isn’t a forest, and it isn't a fortress.
A Ranger had a fort once, a mountain in the desert, but it’s dust now, like rust on his badge.
He blinks, like a man in a drunken stupor trying to blink himself back out of reality, by chorus.
The male singer, lyrics sliding beside the stroke of a violin; music of a mind trapped in the past.

“Hey, buddy, this isn’t a hotel. That’s next door to this restaurant.”
The old man licks his lips, too dry for drool, but can only gaze on.
Lifts his head, he looks left, looks right, feels like he just had a fight.
A man, woman, Human, other than, sitting on stools, one either side.

It’s all coming together now. Aching cheekbone, face removed from counter.
Music from ceiling speakers, covers over conversations of patrons, rounders.
That’s what he is, that dusted Ranger, in his black leather duster, a pretender.
Once a protector, couldn’t defend her, his lover, so he stares at the bartender.

“...Where…where...am I..?”
A smile on bartender guy.
“How much did you drink before you came to me?” He blinks.
The would be Ranger blinks back. “I…don’t remember…really.”

“You’re on Coruscant, friend, high above the elements, in a nest.”
Zad tilts his head, can’t recognize any of it. “The hell you on about?”
Bartender slides a glass to patron at one side. “Heh, you’re a mess.”
No offense, Ruzed can only guess. “This here is The Dreaming Cloud.”

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music IC

The Dreaming Cloud. Zad frowned. It sure was appropriate for this old dipshit.
Good name for this place. Where a man forgets his name, his face, and wakes.
Was that the case? Am I still asleep? Is this all just a dream? He can’t really say.
Bartender already moved on and away, leaving Zad alone with his bullshit.

Bottles on the wall, glasses on the counter, that man behind it, server droids helping him.
Who’s helping you, old man? Zad sighed into his fist, fingers loose within that pathetic grip.
With all that booze you knock back? He overdrank, and must have had a bunch of whiskey.
It wasn’t the first time he forgot last night, yesterday, a cloud and a blur, always drinking.

Always asleep. You never really wake. Even his own voice in his head sounded like a tombstone.
Dust and bones… Bare hands, leather sleeves, a man on a seat, listening to the blues all alone.
Not alone, another voice may say. I’m with you, Zad. Always. But Aemi was gone. Been so long.
Pain faded with time, but the wound's still there, a hole, in a galaxy where Zad didn’t belong.

Maybe it’s time to move on. Let bygones be bygones. No amount of frontier justice would do it.
Didn’t matter how many villains the Ranger put behind barriers, or he killed. Do. Done. Did.
Maybe The Dreaming Cloud was this universe’s way of telling Ruzed to stop looking back.
In the end, he only forgets. It wasn’t the first time. Amnesia had even once taken the man.

Memories were creeping in again, putting pieces of the puzzle back together within his head.
Sitting, listening, hands free, no drink, with guitar’s twang as the back of his head is scratched.
Fingers cradled his skull, rubbing what little hair was there, like she had done way back when.
A man’s voice, singer in the speaker, waiting on a call that would not come. Too late, Zad Ruzed.

If this is a dream, a nightmare, or I just damn well lost my mind, I’ve already lost all of the time.
Creases in his cheeks, fingers in his beard, eyes on a viewscreen, watching another bad guy.
News report about how a crook was found dead, shot in the head, evidently out of revenge.
A dish best served cold. Patrons around him, living in a haze, bit like his freshly lit cigarette.

A pistol on his hip, beneath his leather jacket, the weight of the iron tethered to his person.
Like his badge, it's part of his skin, but Zad was a Sector Ranger who didn’t really deserve it.
Woman on a stool beside him, told her date they should head to the main lounge to unwind.
Folks behind him, heading to the cinema to see “The Man With No Name” for a second time.

Even when a Ranger isn’t listening, he’s listening; ears to hear, eyes with sight, despite dying.
Don’t start crying, old man. Death would be the end, but he’s still living, and living is terrifying.
Blowing smoke, watching it, curling, drifting freely to the ceiling, reminding him that he’s lying.
There ain’t no escapin’ this life, Zad Ruzed. Remembering that even old men have to keep trying.

“I’ll take the tab.”
He tells that man.
Credits from a hand.
And Zad Ruzed stands.
There was no going back.
She would never again laugh.
But her memory was still intact.
To secure it, he needed bodybags.
Those Daggers just can't escape Zad.
“Sorry for fallin’ asleep, pardner. Thanks.”
With that, the Ranger turns, taking in a drag.
Cigarette between lips, burning, like his wrath.

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music OOC

The Dreaming Cloud. From cinema to lounge, restaurant to bar, and an observation room.
The Dreaming Cloud. The old ranger got up from his stool, he walked away, and he moved.
He just moved. He just walked. Getting old but no cane. Ancient but his gait is still measured.
Controlled movements, walking tall, strong, an arm at his side by leather jacket, lifting another.

Giving into the drag of a cigarette. Patrons at his back. He glances to one side. Spots a couple.
In a smaller setting, cozier, sitting on settee, viewscreen above their heads, but they ignore it.
Their focus was on one another. They kiss. Do. Done. Did. The veteran couldn’t help but grin.
His boots carry him, his long black coat trailing at his shins; dangerous, but wants no trouble.

Not in this establishment, that is. At another side, he spies glass doors, leading out into day.
Sunshine from the skies of Coruscant, beaming down upon this restaurant, this here Cloud.
Dreaming… Breathing out smoke, the man paused his walk, staring into sky and into space.
Behind the glass is a man. On the other side, people at tables, living life. But under a shroud.

That was the true illusion, wasn’t it? The hell are ya sayin’, old man? He shouldn’t give a damn.
Philosophy, poetry, paintings were never really his thing. He couldn’t sing and he couldn’t dance.
Aemi… He called her name, silently, licking his lips as if they’d just been kissed. It’s just a dream.
He’d tell himself, over and over again, under the spell of whiskey, or over it. It don’t mean no thing.

“HELLO MISTER MAN” Zad blinked down at that, spotted a boy so small he craned his neck up.
“Uh…” Ruzed blinked. “Hi, little guy.” The boy held up his arms, his hands, something in fingers.
Huh. Datapad would have made sense but this was plain old paper. Don’t always see it, mister.
“What’s that?” Boy smiled wide and turned the paper around. Zad frowned at it. “What...the…”

Skeleton? He tried to make sense of it. Android? Arms spread. Legs straight. It had a head anyway.
“Ya mind tellin’ me…” He trailed off. No…it can’t be… The body. The skin. The head. And the face.
“IT’S YOU” The boy sounded as excited as Zad had when Aemi had come back after a long week.
Damn uncanny... Good portrait of him, unless he was crazy. Should he take it? No. I should leave.

“Sorry, sir!” A woman offered. “Come on, Timothy, let’s leave the kind man alone and let’s go.”
The boy frowned, looked down, and curled up his paper as his mother led him away from Zad.
Who watched their backs, smiled, lifted his hand as if to wave, but he breathed in another blow.
“See ya, kid.” With that, the Ranger blinked the image from his mind, and walked, with his badge.

With his pistol at his hip, a big iron. Do. Done. Did.
For an exit, out of the Cloud, and into the daylight.
He had a mission. Business. He had his vengeance.
Where he is going, what he'll do, hell, he is justified.

He finds his ship, the Iron Justice, and the captain sits.
In the cockpit, he plots a course, and he holds up a fist.
I'ma get 'em, baby... Every last one of them mother fuckers...
Lips on flask but no sip. Save it for after. Six dead Daggers.