hadriel_logs | The dead know better

Entry tags:

The dead know better

Who: Lance Sweets and Maketh Tua
What: Chance encounters. Uneasy conversations.
Where: Outside the Guard post.
When: Forward-dated to June 3rd.
Warnings: Langue, mental health talk.

The sword has been hiding in the back of her closet since the incident with the doubles - perfectly cleaned and sharpened, of course - but out of sight, out of mind. A childish avoidance. Sometimes Maketh has dreams about finding it stuck through her chest again, the double laughing at her, that perfect empty pain. And then she wakes up and puts them away, because a dream is only a dream and means nothing if you are strong.

But the sword is a weapon and weapons must be used. There's no point in hiding this one away, not when it's perfectly serviceable.

Her skills are rusty anyway. And, far more importantly, her conduct has been found wanting.

That cannot stand.

So she takes the blade and goes outside the Guard post after her shift, and makes herself go through every sword drill she ever memorized. Over and over again until she no longer hesitates, until the tension is gone and only the motion remains. The blade is sharp and she must be as well. A clean, simple weapon.

Execute your purpose, soldier.

Time passes. She's stripped down to her undershirt and sweating hard, hair beginning to slip from her bun. But she's no longer afraid. If there are further nightmares, then she will conquer them.

Tomorrow, she'll wear the sword at her belt again.

It feels like an accomplishment of sorts and Maketh allows herself a brief moment of satisfaction. This, at least, she can do properly.

She snaps to attention when she hears someone approaching, moving into a ready stance. "Identify yourself!"

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His eyes narrow a little further as he watches her reaction, looking for anything that might give him more insight into her and Hux's relationship, and it's... Confusing. Complicated. That's not necessarily a good sign.

When she finally responds, though, neither of her comments are what he expects. The first sure seems logical, only Lance had gotten the impression Maketh is still angry with him over trying to stop her. And the other part--

"Why would that be a threat?" He can't keep the incredulity out of his tone this time, because of all the responses that isn't one he expected. Really? He doesn't threaten, and if he were going to it would surely be a lot more obvious and extremely unintimidating. He knows better than to even try, honestly.

Maketh glares at him. She's beyond acting like a cadet to him - eyes away, back perfectly straight, respect oozing from every inch of her. It doesn't get her anything and he doesn't understand. There's no point. "Because the man who built the Starkiller only cares about what he can take, isn't that right? Any weakness will be crushed. I was weak and he'll hurt me for that. Hah!"

How foolish. She knows where she stands with Hux. It's a relief. It probably shouldn't be.

Maketh laughs. It comes out too loud, too fast.

"I'm the closest thing he has to a command in this damn place." Maketh bares her teeth, laughing. She's laughing and laughing and it hurts, she's laughing all quiet and horse and it's beginning to feel like screaming, a little, only with less air. Stars, she hates this. She wants to go home. She wants to be somewhere else. "They couldn't kill him in the Academy. He was small but he lived. And I lived."

She nods firmly. She's shaking. The sword falls from her hand.

"I fucking lived!"

There is so much in her response that is useful; so much that indicates some of his ideas about her were correct and reaffirms that he thinks he knows how to help, if he could just get through to her about it. So much that indicates she's so close to being self-aware about some of her problems, and so much potential to help her get all the way there.

But he can't, in good faith, address any of that when she's reacting like she is physically. Right now the only thing he should do is try to calm her down, and try to do so without making it worse.

"Maketh." He voice goes a little quieter, calmer, but firm. "Take a deep breath. Whatever is going to happen isn't going to be in the next few minutes." And whatever has already happened is in the past. Right now, she needs to not work herself into any more of an upset state.

Stand up straight. Eyes ahead. Don't speak until called upon. Remember your place, soldier. Stand in line and nothing will happen to you. Nothing will --

Stop.

Maketh grits her teeth until her jaw starts to ache with the force of it. Stop that, don't be foolish, don't be weak. You have witnesses, you cannot do that, you are not weak because if you are weak then you are dead weight and dead weight gets dropped.

It hurts to breathe. There's something heavy caught in her throat, digging in.

Stop. You're being foolish. A disgrace to your command. That cannot stand.

Maketh closes her eyes tight and hits herself in the head with two quick blows. Closed fist, precise strike, just like the instructors would do. Enough to shock her back to present, to focus.

"You can go now, Doctor Sweets."

Her voice is sharp and cold, drawn tight. He's seen. She has a witness.

He doesn't move quickly enough to intervene, not expecting her actions and having put extra distance between them earlier, but he does step forward close enough to be within arm's length before he stops. And no matter what she says, he absolutely can't go now. Not after that.

"Maketh, listen." His own voice is still quiet but firm, unswayed. "I'm speaking to you as a doctor. Take a deep breath." He may not be a medical doctor but in this area his expertise is just as good, if not better than, if he were.

She has witnesses. He's seen, he knows, he knows. Maketh takes a shuddering breath. It's not enough air, somehow. Her ribs feel too small, suddenly, pulled tight or possibly shattered by some blow she didn't see coming. An enemy got under her guard and pulped her insides and now she's going to die foolishly, in front of him.

Stop. Stand up straight, soldier. Your posture is disgraceful.

Maketh coughs. Tries to breathe. She's shaking all over, one hand pressed to her temple, nails digging in. "No, no, no. I am -- I am an Officer of the -- of the Imperial C-court--"

Her ears are ringing.

Enough.

She flinches. Drops her hand.

"That did not happen."

He watches her reaction for a few seconds, a hand raises just slightly in case he needs to move to stop her from doing anything else, but hesitant to do so unless absolutely necessary. He's close enough now, after all, that if she decides to lash out he'd be in real danger.

If he weren't in professional mode at the moment he'd give her a flat look for her last comment, but as it is he completely ignores that she said it at all. Obviously he isn't going to pretend this didn't happen, especially remembering one of their conversations before over the network.

Panic attacks are nothing to be ashamed of, and not particularly uncommon, but somehow he doesn't think Maketh would accept either of those facts if he said them. So won't directly say either, and especially avoid the name; the last he wants is her getting derailed by focusing on insisting she doesn't panic.

"Maketh, what just happened I can help with, if you let me teach you a few things to do. Knowing how to handle it also helps lessen the severity." He's still speaking clinically, although it's for both their sake at the moment; this is a topic he has some personal experience in, and doesn't want that coming across in his words or voice.

It hurts. She dropped her weapon and it hurts to breathe. Less than before, no weight bearing down from the inside, but still there. She has a witness, he saw the whole thing, he saw her be weak.

He saw her drop her weapon. Disgraceful.

Maketh twitches. Forces her hands to unclench. She's very careful to look at anything but Sweets.

"Nothing happened, I am -- perfectly fine!"

She was weak and he saw.

"I am going, I -- I have paperwork."

Paperwork. Yes. Away from him.

"Denying something doesn't make it go away." Lance says, still as evenly as ever, not wanting her to just brush this off. He may not be able to help her with the major issues, but he can at least do something about this one if she'll just listen for five minutes.

"Is it better to face and overcome something that pretend it doesn't exist?" It's advice he's given so many times, to others and to himself, that it's second nature at this point.

She doesn't want to be here, wants to be anywhere else. Even in the caves. Stars, she'd take the cave and all the crawling monsters just for a chance to get out from this moment. She was weak and he saw, she was weak and he won't let it go, he's still talking--

Stop. Just stop.

She's quiet for a long moment, just breathing. Eyes closed tight. Then:

"Continue."

She barely gets the word out. It hurts to speak. Hurts to be there at all, existing. She just wants it to stop.

He's silent while she's just standing there; she isn't lashing out, so he remains where he is and waits, but he can't help but be surprised when she finally does speak. In invitation--or well, order, but he's not being picky at the moment--to talk, and therefore her to listen, is unexpected but not at all unwelcome.

Lance chooses his words carefully, trying to present this in a truthful but least threatening way possible. "I'm sure you're familiar with the idea of a fight or flight reflex, when faced with a threat. What you're experiencing is a misfiring of that reflex, triggered in a stressful but nonlifethreatening situation. It's relatively common, and there are some very simple techniques than can help stop or reverse it."

The sword is on the ground. The sword that killed her is on the ground and she is without a weapon. Unacceptable. She's proven herself weak in front of witnesses.

Maketh takes a breath, tries to let it out slowly. Stars, her chest hurts.

"Such as?"

Her voice comes out too sharp and too weak all at once, almost breathless. Shameful. She can't be doing this.

"Breathing exercises are common and effective. There are also some mental tricks, and a few occasionally useful preventative measures." He knows just about every strategy in the book, of course, although some he finds far more helpful than others.

He's also still surprised she's listening, but he's not going to complain.

"Name them, please."

She's not yelling, she's speaking in a perfectly even tone even if she doesn't want to. This situation is ridiculous, all her fault. It has to stop. She has to fix it.

"They don't really have names, but I can teach you some of the techniques if you want." That said, he glances around at their surroundings--and briefly at the dropped weapon--and although he's not really pleased with the idea of leaving the relative safety of a public area it's really not a great place for this.

"But maybe we should go inside." He suggests, tilting his head slightly towards the Guard post.

Inside. Out of the open space where anything might come and attack. That's better, isn't it? Much better. Maketh twitches. Makes herself nod.

Then kneels, jerkily, to grab the sword. It's not right to leave it out in the dirt. It's a good weapon. That would ruin the edge.

He watches her pick up the weapon, stepping back a few paces to give her space, before taking a deep breath of his own and turning to lead the way back to the Guard post. All he can think is that he really hopes she doesn't take the opportunity to stab him in the back--literally--for taking what he knows is a risk.

"Is there anyone else there right now?" He asks, after a moment, both to keep up conversation and because he actually wants to know.

"No."

Not unless something has happened on patrol and someone has come in early. Maketh keeps her eyes on everything but Sweets. It's easier if she pretends he's something else. Not a threat. Maybe an instructor, one of the few who never shot at their cadets or tried to kill any of them in drills. One of the quieter ones. She'd trusted a few of them. Not many, but a few.

She doesn't say a word until they're inside, then goes to rack her sword. It's proper. It needs to be cleaned and sharpened as well, but that can wait.

She wants her uniform. The coat helps when she pulls it on, zipping it all the way up to her throat and then smoothing the wrinkles out of it ever so carefully.

Only then does she meet his eyes.

Okay, they made it inside safely and she's putting the sword away, which gives Lance a moment to relax she retrieves her coat. Having taken a break from his exercise and now also a brief break from the intense focus dealing with Maketh requires, he's starting to feel the effects of exerting himself; his leg and ribs are both aching, although not seriously enough that he's concerned about it, and he's starting to feel cold without a jacket. Damn caves and their semi-constant ambient temperatures.

He half sits on a desk while Maketh smooths her coat, giving his leg a break, and shoves some of his curls away from his eyes in time to meet her gaze when she finally looks at him. Well, progress. "Okay. Well, first off, just being aware of what you're experiencing helps; it might not stop the feelings that go with it, but it can help keep them from getting worse. Breathing slowly and deeply in a set pattern is one of the most effective ways to actually stop an attack when you identify it beginning to occur."

Maketh shifts uneasily, not sure what to do next. Does she stand at attention or sit at one of the desks? There must be a protocol for this. Only no one has informed her of it, no one has spelled out the rules. She could do the wrong thing again. But he's talking, giving information, and she has to listen.

Breathe deeply. Easy. All right.

"You said it is a -- misfire. Of instincts."

Maketh twitches. Fights the urge to bolt.

"I have brain damage, then? Perhaps shrapnel in my skull."

Well, he can see immediately all the bad ways this conversation could go at those questions, and takes another deep breath of his own while he thinks. The answer is, of course, simple enough, but he wants to put it in a way that isn't going to prompt a new meltdown.

"Nothing that drastic, no. This can happen for all sorts of reasons, and is only rarely connected to a cause related to physical injury." Lance explains, resigned already to her asking about the other reasons, but maybe she'll just accept that answer. He can hope, right?

Edited 2017-06-03 23:05 (UTC)

"Oh."

A head injury would have been easy. She's been shot enough to make it a concern and Hadriel's medicine is primitive at best. Why couldn't there be shrapnel lodged in her skull from when she first arrived? She can't remember things being this difficult when she was on Lothal. Not in public, at least.

But that's too easy. Stop that. Focus.

Maketh twitches.

"I have been. Shot in the head. So I thought-- no. What are the other causes?"

Getting shot in the head sure sounds fun; he's heard of people surviving such things though, and her world's medicine is supposedly advanced, so he doesn't think too much of it. Although that, despite what he said, it is a potential possible explanation and he can't totally rule it out, it just seems very unlikely when compared to other causes.

And of course she asked. "They vary. Stress is a common factor, and can bring on an attack even in someone who is normally very composed. In other cases, an underlying disorder can prompt them. In yet others, they're caused by lasting trauma from past experiences." The answer is both as factual and neutral as he can manage, without going into too many details or other factors and, hopefully, without indicating which of the reasons he thinks is most likely in this situation.

Maketh twitches again, forcing her hands to lay flat at her sides. Lasting trauma. That--

She doesn't want to think about that. But here they are. And this thing - these misfires - keep happening.

"I cannot be like this. Tell me how to fix it."

She takes that surprisingly well, and Lance is a little relieved; subconsciously he'd already started tensing up in case she suddenly changed gears.

But although this is a step in the right direction, he knows not to relax just yet either. This could still go downhill at any moment, especially since he's not sure she'll like the truth on this subject. "There isn't an immediate way to 'fix' it; you can lessen the severity, but without addressing the underlying cause they'll continue whenever the conditions for one to occur are met."

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cw for self-harm

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