Michael // Kylo
[Michael doesn't know how long it's been. Days. Weeks. Months. It's all a blur. He can only mark the passage of time by the healing of his wounds.
They can't go too hard on him. He isn't built for this. They can only push him so far before he breaks, and then he's not useful to anyone. Michael's only still alive because he is useful. He has a eidetic memory. He remembers every base layout he's ever walked through. Every map and battle plan he's ever seen. Schematics. Names. Codes. A living database of information.
An architecural engineer by trade, with his assistance the Resistance was able to target and effectively eliminate countless First Order bases in a series of meticulously planned guerilla strikes, rebels slipping in and out through minute flaws in near perfect designs, exploiting the slightest of weaknesses to devastating effect.
Capturing Michael (or Kaniel, his working name) was a huge blow.
The First Order doesn't know how his brain works, but their doctors and scientists have been working around the clock to find out. Interrogation. Tests. Torture. Anything to figure out how to replicate his abilities in their own troops to create the ultimate combat engineer.
Michael cooperates, sometimes. Other times he doesn't. It depends what they ask for, and how stubborn he's feeling that day. What the stakes are. He gives them just enough to whet their appetites, careful to walk the line. Biding his time.
Lying on the floor of his cell, a small, pristine hell of solitary confinement, he's not sure how much longer he can wait. His cracking isn't just an act, anymore. The pain and isolation are getting to him. His unoccupied mind goes in vicious circles. He almost looks forward to the times he's given work to do, in any other room, or in the company of others. Sometimes his cooperation isn't a calculated choice,and he's just too tired to fight that day. Too dazed by the slurry of drugs they inject or force down his throat.
When Michael's alone, he cries. Regretting everything and nothing at the same time.
He isn't built for this.
On Coruscant he drafted beautiful buildings. Lived by himself, but comfortably. Ran an educational facility for children left homeless by poverty or war, organizing outreach to outer rim planets. Had friends and colleagues.
He left everything to join the Resistance, and fight this fight he wants no part of, trading the life as a pacifist for the life of a terrorist. A man indirectly responsible for hundreds of deaths. A known rebel with a price on his head too large for any mercenary to ignore.
And he'd done it all to himself. At least that's what it feels like, in his darkest hours. When Michael's a victim, and not the ruthless architect of his own fate, and so many others.
I'm here for a reason.
He repeats it in his mind like a mantra, over and over, when he's close to giving up. Giving in. He almost did, today, not for the first time. He went over a blueprint for the next generation of Star Killer, circling and X'ing every fault until the print was just a mass of incomprehensible red lines. Useless. His handlers were mad, after that. General Hux was livid, disciplining an entire department.
Michael knows he'll be punished. He's just waiting for it to happen.
Until then, he'll enjoy remembering the look on Hux's face. In perfect detail.]
They can't go too hard on him. He isn't built for this. They can only push him so far before he breaks, and then he's not useful to anyone. Michael's only still alive because he is useful. He has a eidetic memory. He remembers every base layout he's ever walked through. Every map and battle plan he's ever seen. Schematics. Names. Codes. A living database of information.
An architecural engineer by trade, with his assistance the Resistance was able to target and effectively eliminate countless First Order bases in a series of meticulously planned guerilla strikes, rebels slipping in and out through minute flaws in near perfect designs, exploiting the slightest of weaknesses to devastating effect.
Capturing Michael (or Kaniel, his working name) was a huge blow.
The First Order doesn't know how his brain works, but their doctors and scientists have been working around the clock to find out. Interrogation. Tests. Torture. Anything to figure out how to replicate his abilities in their own troops to create the ultimate combat engineer.
Michael cooperates, sometimes. Other times he doesn't. It depends what they ask for, and how stubborn he's feeling that day. What the stakes are. He gives them just enough to whet their appetites, careful to walk the line. Biding his time.
Lying on the floor of his cell, a small, pristine hell of solitary confinement, he's not sure how much longer he can wait. His cracking isn't just an act, anymore. The pain and isolation are getting to him. His unoccupied mind goes in vicious circles. He almost looks forward to the times he's given work to do, in any other room, or in the company of others. Sometimes his cooperation isn't a calculated choice,and he's just too tired to fight that day. Too dazed by the slurry of drugs they inject or force down his throat.
When Michael's alone, he cries. Regretting everything and nothing at the same time.
He isn't built for this.
On Coruscant he drafted beautiful buildings. Lived by himself, but comfortably. Ran an educational facility for children left homeless by poverty or war, organizing outreach to outer rim planets. Had friends and colleagues.
He left everything to join the Resistance, and fight this fight he wants no part of, trading the life as a pacifist for the life of a terrorist. A man indirectly responsible for hundreds of deaths. A known rebel with a price on his head too large for any mercenary to ignore.
And he'd done it all to himself. At least that's what it feels like, in his darkest hours. When Michael's a victim, and not the ruthless architect of his own fate, and so many others.
I'm here for a reason.
He repeats it in his mind like a mantra, over and over, when he's close to giving up. Giving in. He almost did, today, not for the first time. He went over a blueprint for the next generation of Star Killer, circling and X'ing every fault until the print was just a mass of incomprehensible red lines. Useless. His handlers were mad, after that. General Hux was livid, disciplining an entire department.
Michael knows he'll be punished. He's just waiting for it to happen.
Until then, he'll enjoy remembering the look on Hux's face. In perfect detail.]