[ cassian spends a lot of time in springstar lately.
he's here when he isn't in kowloon; and he hasn't been in highstorm for a days. not since he left jyn and everything they'd built together behind. not since he'd murdered dokja and dropped off the shard for — who knows what, on hopes of information. for answers he has yet to be given, ones he can only hope will be worth it.
does he sleep? sometimes, maybe. he only rarely seeks out old acquaintences, people he could probably wheedle or flirt into allowing him a spare room, a spare corner, for a night. he doesn't want to answer questions. he doesn't feel the softer touch, though he's not incapable when it's necessary. he only wants to be left alone to do his work, to not pretend, any longer, to be better than he is. he isn't; he isn't; he isn't. that's what makes the relative anonymity of springstar easier, and that's what makes kowloon, surrounded by creatures of the undercity not so unlike himself, easier.
but kowloon is dangerous, and his temper is vicious, and his self-control is held together by frayed threads. this isn't the first time he's gotten into a fight down there, but it is the first time he walks away with a nasty slash to the bicep, blood soaking into his sleeve and peeking through the gash in his coat, dripping down his arm. he'll deal with it; it's not the first or last scratch he's bound up for himself. and he walks through springstar with enough brisk purpose that he expects not to be stopped. walk like you belong, and people are often willing to overlook strangeness.
action, springstar
he's here when he isn't in kowloon; and he hasn't been in highstorm for a days. not since he left jyn and everything they'd built together behind. not since he'd murdered dokja and dropped off the shard for — who knows what, on hopes of information. for answers he has yet to be given, ones he can only hope will be worth it.
does he sleep? sometimes, maybe. he only rarely seeks out old acquaintences, people he could probably wheedle or flirt into allowing him a spare room, a spare corner, for a night. he doesn't want to answer questions. he doesn't feel the softer touch, though he's not incapable when it's necessary. he only wants to be left alone to do his work, to not pretend, any longer, to be better than he is. he isn't; he isn't; he isn't. that's what makes the relative anonymity of springstar easier, and that's what makes kowloon, surrounded by creatures of the undercity not so unlike himself, easier.
but kowloon is dangerous, and his temper is vicious, and his self-control is held together by frayed threads. this isn't the first time he's gotten into a fight down there, but it is the first time he walks away with a nasty slash to the bicep, blood soaking into his sleeve and peeking through the gash in his coat, dripping down his arm. he'll deal with it; it's not the first or last scratch he's bound up for himself. and he walks through springstar with enough brisk purpose that he expects not to be stopped. walk like you belong, and people are often willing to overlook strangeness.
he is not expecting to see a familiar face. ]