thinking abt the trio (malak, exile, revan) and how they present themselves
malak, i believe, is an awkward and subservient to an almost annoying degree. he follows revan around, does what revan says. he’s not a charismatic leader and he lacks many skills that could turn him into a good leader. he’s quick to anger and lacks emotional discipline, which only worsens as his life entwines with the sith. really the only thing that keeps malak’s emotions in check (and snarky remarks) is revan. malak also has a lot of complicated feelings towards revan. eventually i believe that revan’s dismissal of him and what he believes he can offer in terms of command and leadership is what drives him over the edge (and all that sith stuff). after revan’s supposed death and malak assuming the position of leader in the sith— he becomes a bully. once he was quiet, did revan’s bidding, now he’s angry. i also believe that, quite frankly, he never shuts up. he talks back to people, rudely, and isn’t afraid of what will happen if he demands things. he’s no longer in revan’s shadow and he knows it.
the exile is not a chatty person. she makes polite conversation but she’s not overbearing. the exile is nice, goes out of her way to include people in things. she’s charmingly awkward. she’s fit for leadership, but it’s not a role that comes easily to her. the exile manipulates others to reach this goal, even without her truly realizing it. she’s not a confidant person, which is why she is so drawn to revan. her self confidence is weak, especially after she cut herself off from the force. the exile bases much of her self worth off of what she can do for others— revan before malachor, and later the crew of the ebon hawk. many people describe her as a sort of ghost, she passes through rooms unnoticed, but the impact she makes on those who do notice her is tremendous. by the time kotor ii roles around the exile is tired, it’s apparent in their face and their body language. unlike malak, they did not enjoy the attention brought by the war. there is also something to be said by her presence in the force. it’s a hole that eats away at its surroundings, something you would not expect from such an unassuming person. non force users see her as a quiet, nice but awkward woman, force users see her as a threat lurking beneath the waters of a murky lake.
the exile was a good leader but nothing like revan. revan is a confident and charismatic person who would stop at nothing to get what they deemed was needed. i believe they are a fundamentally good person, who easily gets caught up in the mindset of “means to an end”. they’re if nothing but determined. the exile and malak suffer from their inability to stand their ground, be what they need to be, revan is not that. they take what they need to get what they want. before the war many jedi would describe them as contemplative, always yearning for more knowledge. it’s not until the threat of the mandalorians emerge that they prove their leadership skills…but revan was off putting to an odd degree, and had always been. it’s as if you could see their fate etched onto them, and they knew it. they always knew. revan has an aura of understanding, knowing what is needed at all times. this was only exacerbated as the war was drawn on. their troops would describe them as a wonderful leader, good with their fellow soldiers, always knew what to say. but those in high command, or better yet malak, would not say that. they were short and shut down conversations or suggestions that did not fit with what they thought was right…after the war that same feeling was present. even if revan did not know who or what they were, they still knew they needed to get what was needed done. most likely they were more friendly and charismatic when they were amnesiactic. always knowing what to say or do. they were still an odd fellow, their demeanor switching from excitable and friendly to quiet and contemplative. and when i mean contemplative i don’t mean your average socrates, but in a way that makes a ripple through the force…
food for thought idk
27 notes
·
View notes
30. Soap
Angst, past captivity and torture, referenced character death, referenced past medical procedures [fingerprint, tattoo removal], referenced past nonconsensual drugging, vaguely implied past noncon, smoking mention
AU Masterpost / Previous / Next
The Wolf woke but didn’t stir as Harrison tiptoed from the room, listening to the other man rummage about the kitchen for a moment before lifting his head and opening his eyes. It had been a few hours since he drifted off.
His neck crunched like an autumn leaf as he stretched, uncurling from where he had pinned himself between the bed and Harrison’s cot. Glancing up at the unmade sheets made something in his stomach curdle.
Maybe he could convince Harrison to let him sleep on the floor tonight.
Standing to make the bed reminded him of the folder he shoved beneath the mattress. With the door closed and Harrison clearly focused on his task in the kitchen (there was the clatter of thin pieces of metal and the scratch of a pen on paper) the Wolf felt comfortable taking a moment to leaf through the file.
The sight of his own face made him want to snap the folder shut the moment he opened it. Dan had warned him there were pictures. Gritting his teeth he skimmed the first few pages, his own knowledge bridging gaps blotted out in black redactions.
His handler’s name was Smith. Michael Smith, born in Boston, MA and a good loyal Marine turned good loyal CIA agent. He used to like Marlboro cigarettes and Cuban cigars. (Anders always had some on hand thanks to a smuggling buddy in Florida.) Smith used to liked fresh blood and quiet fearful sounds and the Wolf’s submissive deference to his authority and intelligence.
Smith didn’t like much of anything anymore, on account of being dead.
The Wolf found a curve of satisfaction twitching at his scarred face at that thought - Smith was dead. The Wolf killed his handler. Just like the other rabid, broken bastards Smith was so sure his prized pet would never become.
The Wolf had been too well trained for his handler to see it coming when he finally had enough of a spine to bite back.
The Wolf never knew the cruel cold metal of the muzzles he had seen on other projects. He never had to be sedated or drugged outside of his handler’s sadistic entertainment. Part of him was jealous, ashamed he hadn’t had the courage to fight back. He knew most of them, all of them, were probably liquidated by now. He had liquidated some of them himself.
He hoped some got out.
(He didn’t believe any did.)
The Wolf shifted, hunching over the folder as he thumbed to the sections with photographs. His eyes glazed at the first few lines of his medical record, even the few non-redacted segments far too vivid in his memory. But the pictures caught his eye. A collection of Polaroid scans - various scars from Before. Before he was broken. Fresh bruises from a capture he only caught glimpses of in nightmares.
The tattoos were magnetic, scratching at memories trapped behind a rotted door on rusted hinges.
The vines and ivy that curled around his right forearm and bicep were vibrant green and crisp. The violet flowers were fragile and neatly lined where they bloomed across his pale skin. The cross emblazoned under his right arm, on his rib cage by his heart, was faded and blurry. Maybe if he wanted, he could look closer and make out the letters inscribed in smudged old ink.
Both were now covered in itchy donor skin stretched taught where the tattoos had been flayed away. His hands stung with the phantom burn of acid, that particular trip to medical seared into his memory more by its smell than by the pain or symbolism of having his skin shed and refurnished.
The Wolf scratched at the foreign skin on his arm, the thin lines of scarring where it had fused with his own never quite matching the color and texture. It bled all the same.
He almost closed the folder, the desperate urge to run away from the memories curbed by an alien curiosity. He had just about reached the end of his own file, but the folder was still thick with paper.
The Wolf squinted at the next face. He recognized them - another project, dead eyed and hollowed out. His liquidation date was December 3rd, 2003.
Confusion crept into his bones, brow furrowed as he turned to the next paperclipped chunk of papers. A different project, one he had personally liquidated, November 23rd, 2003. He counted the paper-clipped files - 13 different projects in total.
What were other projects doing in this folder?
He flipped further through the files, the oldest project liquidated shortly after the Wolf’s first project milestone. He didn’t need to read the blocks of redacted black to understand in his marrow what had happened. His brain felt awake in a way it hadn’t been in years, alight with understanding and anger.
He was a blueprint. A prototype. The perfect dog. And for a country that needed war to oil the political machine in blood, perfect dogs were in high demand.
The project had killed more than a hundred people trying to recreate that lightning in a bottle. To recreate the Wolf - loyal, submissive, effective. He was the first, and they wanted to make sure he wasn’t the last, no matter how high the bodies piled.
Terror flashed in his blood.
There were other bunkers. It was knowledge from Before, something he remembered like a constellation of buildings on a map. He could see it in his minds eye, feel the texture between his fingertips. More than a dozen installations buried deep in that patch of American earth. Harrison and his team were one of many. There were others bleeding, breaking under the desert sand.
The Wolf was scared of the anger, the instinct burning in his chest. A want and a need wrapped in a feeling he had long since surrendered to fear and pain.
He had a purpose, and it wasn’t heeling to a handler or keeping Harrison alive and well. The Wolf needed to make sure no one else was broken in his name. He was the first, and he would see to it that he would be the last.
AU Masterpost / Previous / Next
(An AU of my Freelancers series)
Taglist: @i-eat-worlds @whumpy-daydreams
19 notes
·
View notes