oom: sims, etc
He spent almost all of yesterday in the sims -- the afternoon, anyway, after-- after that. Because he couldn't face going anywhere else, because going anywhere else might mean seeing Inyri again, or Gavin or Lujayne, or Hobbie; and he wasn't sure why he couldn't quite face Hobbie, but he couldn't, so he stayed.
He needed to fly.
Oh, but kriff, he needed to fly properly, he needed to see the black of space beyond a real X-wing canopy, needed to feel subtle vibrations from real Incom engines, needed the particular idiosyncrancies of his fighter.
There wasn't even a real New Republic sim here.
But he managed to lose himself in them eventually, first the sims from that strange 'verse without any starfighters, which took almost all his attention, because freighters and cargo ships and lightweight cruisers and oh, whatever else the odd writing said this sim had, they were all different. All trickier, but he liked having to think about flying -- stopped him thinking about anything else.
Then, when he tired of that, he moved onto the other sims -- and starfighters, real starfighters, crudely-fashioned and far too holo-gamey but starfighters. Rebels and Imps and things to blow up, which was the best part, really -- it's always the best part.
He wasn't really sure how long he spent on that sim, that very first sim, blasting eyeballs and dupes, causing pretty explosions, grinning a humourless grin every so often when the AI provided a tricky enemy that he still managed to vape. Probably hours.
After some hours -- or was it days? or weeks? or years? -- he left and headed to his room, where Hobbie was already asleep. And he watched his best friend wingmate everything sleep for a while, just watched him as he sat in bed beside him, and caught himself thinking things in that small part of his mind with that voice he couldn't stop once it started.
Things like, I still love her too much and what if I can do something to help her and I'm just being selfish and I don't trust anyone else in the galaxy to look after her, what does that mean?
And even, in a harsh whisper in his head that made him feel sick, made him want to scream: if he didn't love me, if I didn't love him back, then she would be okay.
He didn't sleep well last night.
--
And now, now he's back in the sim room, having flown one run and not so much stopped as trailed off. He's sitting in the yellow-curtained sim, staring at the blank screen, hand on the blaster at his side like it's a security blanket.
It is, in a way, for him. He hardly wears it around the bar, really, partly because of the rules, and partly because he feels safe here.
Usually.
He took to wearing it for a while when he heard about Montparnasse, to be sure, and for a few days after that girl's death, the one he never knew. Normally, though, it stays in his room -- but he needed it, today, because he doesn't feel safe anymore, and he needs it now, because it reassures him that -- he can be in control.
He wants to shoot something, anything, lots of things. Blowing things up on screen is nice, and fun, and it wastes time and he needs that, sometimes. But he wants to cause damage, real damage, to something that's real -- he wants to blast something to pieces and grin at the real if small explosion and the real smell of burning ozone and the real feeling of breaking something without feeling guilty as all hell about it.
Because that's what he feels, just now: he feels guilty, and he feels hurt, and he's regretful, and sorry; oh, he's so. damn. sorry.
It didn't help, talking to Wedge, because the point is, of course, that he didn't talk. He can't tell Wedge about him and Inyri, oh, he can't, because if he tells -- when he tells -- Wedge anything, he'll have to tell him everything--
--me and Inyri and love and breaking and then, oh gods, me and Hobbie, me and Hobbie, and Inyri's so broken but Hobbie's Hobbie and I love them both--
--and there are things he doesn't think he can tell him just yet.
And he wonders when it is, exactly, he started keeping real secrets from Wedge Antilles.
Probably always, he thinks, and then he laughs, because that's his bad mood, and that's pessimism, and kriff, he is turning into Hobbie.
So he shakes his head and he tries not to think about it anymore, any of it, and he loses himself in another sim, and another, and at some point he falls asleep, right there in the sim, and he doesn't dream a thing.
He needed to fly.
Oh, but kriff, he needed to fly properly, he needed to see the black of space beyond a real X-wing canopy, needed to feel subtle vibrations from real Incom engines, needed the particular idiosyncrancies of his fighter.
There wasn't even a real New Republic sim here.
But he managed to lose himself in them eventually, first the sims from that strange 'verse without any starfighters, which took almost all his attention, because freighters and cargo ships and lightweight cruisers and oh, whatever else the odd writing said this sim had, they were all different. All trickier, but he liked having to think about flying -- stopped him thinking about anything else.
Then, when he tired of that, he moved onto the other sims -- and starfighters, real starfighters, crudely-fashioned and far too holo-gamey but starfighters. Rebels and Imps and things to blow up, which was the best part, really -- it's always the best part.
He wasn't really sure how long he spent on that sim, that very first sim, blasting eyeballs and dupes, causing pretty explosions, grinning a humourless grin every so often when the AI provided a tricky enemy that he still managed to vape. Probably hours.
After some hours -- or was it days? or weeks? or years? -- he left and headed to his room, where Hobbie was already asleep. And he watched his best friend wingmate everything sleep for a while, just watched him as he sat in bed beside him, and caught himself thinking things in that small part of his mind with that voice he couldn't stop once it started.
Things like, I still love her too much and what if I can do something to help her and I'm just being selfish and I don't trust anyone else in the galaxy to look after her, what does that mean?
And even, in a harsh whisper in his head that made him feel sick, made him want to scream: if he didn't love me, if I didn't love him back, then she would be okay.
He didn't sleep well last night.
--
And now, now he's back in the sim room, having flown one run and not so much stopped as trailed off. He's sitting in the yellow-curtained sim, staring at the blank screen, hand on the blaster at his side like it's a security blanket.
It is, in a way, for him. He hardly wears it around the bar, really, partly because of the rules, and partly because he feels safe here.
Usually.
He took to wearing it for a while when he heard about Montparnasse, to be sure, and for a few days after that girl's death, the one he never knew. Normally, though, it stays in his room -- but he needed it, today, because he doesn't feel safe anymore, and he needs it now, because it reassures him that -- he can be in control.
He wants to shoot something, anything, lots of things. Blowing things up on screen is nice, and fun, and it wastes time and he needs that, sometimes. But he wants to cause damage, real damage, to something that's real -- he wants to blast something to pieces and grin at the real if small explosion and the real smell of burning ozone and the real feeling of breaking something without feeling guilty as all hell about it.
Because that's what he feels, just now: he feels guilty, and he feels hurt, and he's regretful, and sorry; oh, he's so. damn. sorry.
It didn't help, talking to Wedge, because the point is, of course, that he didn't talk. He can't tell Wedge about him and Inyri, oh, he can't, because if he tells -- when he tells -- Wedge anything, he'll have to tell him everything--
--me and Inyri and love and breaking and then, oh gods, me and Hobbie, me and Hobbie, and Inyri's so broken but Hobbie's Hobbie and I love them both--
--and there are things he doesn't think he can tell him just yet.
And he wonders when it is, exactly, he started keeping real secrets from Wedge Antilles.
Probably always, he thinks, and then he laughs, because that's his bad mood, and that's pessimism, and kriff, he is turning into Hobbie.
So he shakes his head and he tries not to think about it anymore, any of it, and he loses himself in another sim, and another, and at some point he falls asleep, right there in the sim, and he doesn't dream a thing.