backstory; 4aby -- galactic city, coruscant
There are steps -- just a few -- leading down into the centre of the plaza and Castin's sitting at the top of them, datapad resting on his lap. It's early evening, or late afternoon, almost time for the business folk to finish for the day. He likes to come here at this time of day, to sit and code and watch Coruscant life go by, because it's quiet and sane enough to get work done (the plaza's in the upper levels, with only a few buildings blocking light, and there are rarely nonhumans around), but it's also interesting enough to be a welcome distraction, when he needs it, from variables and errors and code that just won't compile.
Sit anywhere in Galactic City, really, and something's bound to be interesting enough for that eventually.
But he likes this place. It's even got a tree.
...a small one.
But still a tree.
Hey, Blondie -- ready to test that patch of yours for real this time?
Castin blinks at the plaintext message that pops up on his screen, then grins to himself. His patch, the one he's spent the last month or so refining -- oh, it's not just his code, but quite a lot of it is, and he's the one who put it all together, after all. He's the one who finally got it to break through the firewalls of every member in his slicing group and play a joke vid on their holoscreens. Of course he's ready to test it for real.
Sure, he types in reply. Another vid? He thinks of the many anti-Empire parodies around the 'Net.
You'll see. Look up!
Amused, he does (they're going for the big public screens?) and fixes his gaze on the looping campaign video, only it's not a campaign video anymore, it's a backdrop of stars with--
He's not quite sure what he's seeing, and then when he thinks he knows, he doesn't believe it -- and then his personal comm activates.
"--just tuned in, this is not a hoax--"
Everyone's comm is activating.
"--really are reporting that Emperor Palpatine is dead, repeat--"
The tide of suits leaving the buildings around him has become a trickle, a hushed (but not silent) group slowly becoming a crowd as people stop going about their business, start listening to comms and staring at the screens above.
"--on the Empire's unfinished battle station--"
A small crowd--
"--Darth Vader and the Emperor both--"
--but a crowd nonetheless--
"--thanks to the efforts of the Rebel Alliance Fleet--"
--and--
"--still ongoing but we are free."
--Castin watches as
(flitnats and glowflies hover around an unfathomable monster, no sound but green and red flashes of lasers, a frozen moment before)
the Death Star explodes.
Things blur a little after that. He can recall it all later with the clarity of hindsight, but right now there are people and cheers and relief and horror, and some people are fainting, someone almost falls on top of him before he closes his datapad and clutches it to his chest and ducks away.
It's chaos, but it's somehow a happy, triumphant sort of chaos, because he's responsible for it all; it's all his fault. Who knew there were so many Rebel sympathisers this high up?
(There aren't, says a cynical voice in his head. They're only like this because someone else did the work for them. They'd never have opposed the Empire like this before.)
He doesn't find himself minding too much though.
There is cheering--
--and dancing--
--and a crowd descending on the statue in the middle of the plaza--
--and laughter--
--and speeders from somewhere, docking bays nearby, speeders and cables--
--and the statue is falling--
--and then the stormtroopers come--
--and Castin watches.
Castin watches it all, first with pride, with a shared sense of triumph and justice; then with mild concern as the crowd gets a little out of hand, a little too much like a riot for his liking; then with horror.
The stormtroopers' weapons are not set on stun.
He feels sick, oh gods, he's going to throw up. There's a shattered statue of Palpatine and broken (meat burning meat) bodies of humans and cries of terror and he's going to throw up, he's going to, he's going--
He clutches his shoulder bag and he retches but nothing comes out. Nothing comes out, this is all his fault and nothing comes out.
He feels something warm and liquid in his hair and on his face, and as he glances up, he thinks for a horrible moment that this is it, he's been shot, he's dead. But it's someone else's blood (he almost retches again at his relief), a young woman who probably used to be very pretty, who'll never be pretty again. A young mother whose little boy is wailing for the Outer Rim to hear, and Castin scoops him up before he sees what happened.
There is no cheering in the crowd now, no dancing, no cries of triumph. There are screams, and shouts, and blaster shots, and through it all that awful smell.
Castin runs. He runs, a crying child in his arms and his bag thumping against his side, heading for the quickest route out of the plaza (away away away) he can find.
The Emperor is dead and the Death Star is gone again and the Rebels have won the fight--
--but Castin Donn just feels sick.
The feeling never goes away.