(no subject)
Rogue was in a temple, he felt sure of it. The ceiling vaulted high above, and sound had a certain quality to it, echoing yet muted. Somewhere, a celebration was going on, but where he was it seemed distant. He'd been here before - damned if he could remember when.
He was walking across large stone tiles, passing pedestal after pedestal set up against the wall. Hundreds of them; he wasn't counting, but the wall was very long. Each had a life-sized hologram of a person projected up above it, but unlike most holograms, they moved and watched him as he passed, whispering to each other. He didn't know how far he'd been walking, but he had a ways to go.
One, a dark-haired human woman who looked about nineteen, caught his eye. He stopped in front of her.
"Sir," she said, her voice bordering on insolent, even if it was faded and crackling a little. Despite the hint of disrespect, she straightened into a more formal stance and saluted crisply. She seemed familiar. They all seemed familiar.
"Who are you people?" Although he kept his voice down, it still cut through the quiet in a way the whispers didn't.
"It figures an old man like you would forget," the hologram said, but at his look of incomprehension, she sighed. "Yes, I know that's not why. Look at the pedestals, look at how we're dressed. Piece it out from there, sir. I'm not here to figure things out for you."
Each pedestal had a placard on it, with writing, but his vision blurred when he tried to read it. A lot of them had seals of some kind, usually featuring a simplified bird shape or a snubfighter or both. There were medals draped on many of them - many also with the bird shape - and looking up, he finally noticed that everyone was dressed the same. Dressed as he was. In baggy orange flightsuits, with the straps and white chestpieces, black boots and gloves, helmets tucked under their arms or at their feet.
"You're pilots," Rogue said slowly, shifting his grip on his own helmet. "You're all pilots who I know. Knew."
"Damn right," she said, and the others whispered agreement. "Good ones, too. We all ran out of luck, or made a poor choice, or the odds caught up to us, or we just weren't quite good enough. But we were all good. You don't take poor pilots, sir." And he knew what she meant. He knew.
"But there are so many people," he protested weakly, not saying it. The wall stretched on for quite a distance, both the way he'd come from and the way he was going in, and it was lined with pedestal after pedestal.
"What can I say, Lead? You're a lucky old man, even now," she said, the bitterness clear. The pilot to her right, a nonhuman woman with features like a bipedal, intellectual fish, interrupted with a murmur.
"Commander -" She said his name, and he could hear it, but the syllables slipped back out of his mind before he could do more than realize that it was his name. "- it isn't your fault. You did your best. Working with you, we did a lot of good. You're just... luckier than we were, and more skilled. You've done much more good than harm, and you couldn't have saved all of us."
The insolent woman shrugged and looked away, saying only "And you're not out of luck even now, Lead. It's your dream, not mine or hers. Take what you will." The bitterness left her voice, leaving it resigned. Disturbed and trying not to let it show, Rogue started walking again.
People of every humanoid species and a few that were not, of every age from teens to late middle, all pilots, all teasingly familiar, some of them calling him lucky, some calling him Lead or One or Commander, some saying his name, though he could never hold on to it - just that there were three syllables. There were a lot of them, and it felt like the farther he went, the heavier he felt. So many.
The last three - beyond them the hall ended - were not pilots. There were no medals on their pedestals, and they were dressed like civilians. A young woman in mechanic's gear, and to the right of her a man and a woman, about Rogue's age, sharing a pedestal, arms around each other's shoulders. He didn't know who they were, but just the sight of them opened some new pit of loss that he hadn't been aware of before, like what he felt looking at the long lineup of pilots, but not quite the same. He stopped.
The young woman said another name, also his, but different than the other one, he knew that even after it melted out of his memory. This one had only one syllable. "I wish -" She stopped, gave him a smile with pain in it, pain and regret. "I wish."
The couple were also smiling, their expressions more bittersweet, and the woman said, "We're proud of you, -" Yet a third name, also different, also his, two syllables. "Never forget that." He could see himself in them - his features in theirs, and -
Quietly, without a fuss, the room faded out, leaving only the pedestals and holograms drifting in the dark. Then they too were gone, and he was left alone.
Largely inspired by this page from Darklighter, as well as things he's thought and said throughout the series.
Rogue has forgotten:
* What transpired on the Fourth Floor with Black, Youth, and Derrick, though not the elevator going down, so he is able to recognize them
* Everything he wrote about Black or said about him; he can page back and see his writing warning people and most of his antagonistic exchange with the man, but the meat of it was inked over
* That he gave sealed letters pertaining to the Black situation to at least a dozen people
* However, he still dislikes Black and would not trust him farther than he can throw him. He just doesn't know why
* And he does remember Youth being cool to him. He doesn't generally try to win over people like that, so he'll be cool back
And a note: the people in this dream were a few hundred of the allies who have died working with Wedge. ...Seriously, he has a lot of them; in a dark moment he once thinks of them as "living shields" and wonders when it will be his turn. Falynn Sandskimmer and Jesmin Ackbar of Wraith Squadron show up first, then his old girlfriend Mala and his parents, Jagged and Zena.
He was walking across large stone tiles, passing pedestal after pedestal set up against the wall. Hundreds of them; he wasn't counting, but the wall was very long. Each had a life-sized hologram of a person projected up above it, but unlike most holograms, they moved and watched him as he passed, whispering to each other. He didn't know how far he'd been walking, but he had a ways to go.
One, a dark-haired human woman who looked about nineteen, caught his eye. He stopped in front of her.
"Sir," she said, her voice bordering on insolent, even if it was faded and crackling a little. Despite the hint of disrespect, she straightened into a more formal stance and saluted crisply. She seemed familiar. They all seemed familiar.
"Who are you people?" Although he kept his voice down, it still cut through the quiet in a way the whispers didn't.
"It figures an old man like you would forget," the hologram said, but at his look of incomprehension, she sighed. "Yes, I know that's not why. Look at the pedestals, look at how we're dressed. Piece it out from there, sir. I'm not here to figure things out for you."
Each pedestal had a placard on it, with writing, but his vision blurred when he tried to read it. A lot of them had seals of some kind, usually featuring a simplified bird shape or a snubfighter or both. There were medals draped on many of them - many also with the bird shape - and looking up, he finally noticed that everyone was dressed the same. Dressed as he was. In baggy orange flightsuits, with the straps and white chestpieces, black boots and gloves, helmets tucked under their arms or at their feet.
"You're pilots," Rogue said slowly, shifting his grip on his own helmet. "You're all pilots who I know. Knew."
"Damn right," she said, and the others whispered agreement. "Good ones, too. We all ran out of luck, or made a poor choice, or the odds caught up to us, or we just weren't quite good enough. But we were all good. You don't take poor pilots, sir." And he knew what she meant. He knew.
"But there are so many people," he protested weakly, not saying it. The wall stretched on for quite a distance, both the way he'd come from and the way he was going in, and it was lined with pedestal after pedestal.
"What can I say, Lead? You're a lucky old man, even now," she said, the bitterness clear. The pilot to her right, a nonhuman woman with features like a bipedal, intellectual fish, interrupted with a murmur.
"Commander -" She said his name, and he could hear it, but the syllables slipped back out of his mind before he could do more than realize that it was his name. "- it isn't your fault. You did your best. Working with you, we did a lot of good. You're just... luckier than we were, and more skilled. You've done much more good than harm, and you couldn't have saved all of us."
The insolent woman shrugged and looked away, saying only "And you're not out of luck even now, Lead. It's your dream, not mine or hers. Take what you will." The bitterness left her voice, leaving it resigned. Disturbed and trying not to let it show, Rogue started walking again.
People of every humanoid species and a few that were not, of every age from teens to late middle, all pilots, all teasingly familiar, some of them calling him lucky, some calling him Lead or One or Commander, some saying his name, though he could never hold on to it - just that there were three syllables. There were a lot of them, and it felt like the farther he went, the heavier he felt. So many.
The last three - beyond them the hall ended - were not pilots. There were no medals on their pedestals, and they were dressed like civilians. A young woman in mechanic's gear, and to the right of her a man and a woman, about Rogue's age, sharing a pedestal, arms around each other's shoulders. He didn't know who they were, but just the sight of them opened some new pit of loss that he hadn't been aware of before, like what he felt looking at the long lineup of pilots, but not quite the same. He stopped.
The young woman said another name, also his, but different than the other one, he knew that even after it melted out of his memory. This one had only one syllable. "I wish -" She stopped, gave him a smile with pain in it, pain and regret. "I wish."
The couple were also smiling, their expressions more bittersweet, and the woman said, "We're proud of you, -" Yet a third name, also different, also his, two syllables. "Never forget that." He could see himself in them - his features in theirs, and -
Quietly, without a fuss, the room faded out, leaving only the pedestals and holograms drifting in the dark. Then they too were gone, and he was left alone.
Largely inspired by this page from Darklighter, as well as things he's thought and said throughout the series.
Rogue has forgotten:
* What transpired on the Fourth Floor with Black, Youth, and Derrick, though not the elevator going down, so he is able to recognize them
* Everything he wrote about Black or said about him; he can page back and see his writing warning people and most of his antagonistic exchange with the man, but the meat of it was inked over
* That he gave sealed letters pertaining to the Black situation to at least a dozen people
* However, he still dislikes Black and would not trust him farther than he can throw him. He just doesn't know why
* And he does remember Youth being cool to him. He doesn't generally try to win over people like that, so he'll be cool back
And a note: the people in this dream were a few hundred of the allies who have died working with Wedge. ...Seriously, he has a lot of them; in a dark moment he once thinks of them as "living shields" and wonders when it will be his turn. Falynn Sandskimmer and Jesmin Ackbar of Wraith Squadron show up first, then his old girlfriend Mala and his parents, Jagged and Zena.