[ Though a part of him is still reconciling with news of his alleged death Cassian know it isn't something he can focus on right now. It is inevitable. Natural, even if you did it to happen before life really began. Pragmatism screams at him to leave that alone for now because it doesn't matter nearly as much as this discrepancy in what he knows to be true and what she seems to know.
And besides. His own death doesn't matter, hasn't mattered, nearly as much as the ones of his loved ones. And if he went on this mission and perished – what did that mean for Wilmon, Brasso and Bix? That is the unknown that terrifies him behind belief. Would she know? He wants to ask, the question sitting on the tip of his tongue, but the vice around his heart tightens again and he wills it not to, forcing that thought away too to focus on something else. Anything else.
Which is how he sees the way her hands shake, clinging onto the steering wheel like it's some sort of lifeline. His own knuckles mirror hers, white and drawn tight as he grips the edge of her car window. ]
Scariff?
[ His mind spins. They'd heard of activity on Scarif for a while now but it had never been anything to be worried about. Not immediately anyway. Urgency bites at his heels all the same. But no – maybe it doesn't matter. He doesn't want it to matter because he doesn't remember it and because though he's fighting and doing this work, he can feel in his heart that there is a finite timeline to this. There is only so much risk he's told himself he'd take because the rebellion would never matter more than the people he cared for. Never. ]
Then why didn't we didn't survive? If you and I here then what happened?
no subject
And besides. His own death doesn't matter, hasn't mattered, nearly as much as the ones of his loved ones. And if he went on this mission and perished – what did that mean for Wilmon, Brasso and Bix? That is the unknown that terrifies him behind belief. Would she know? He wants to ask, the question sitting on the tip of his tongue, but the vice around his heart tightens again and he wills it not to, forcing that thought away too to focus on something else. Anything else.
Which is how he sees the way her hands shake, clinging onto the steering wheel like it's some sort of lifeline. His own knuckles mirror hers, white and drawn tight as he grips the edge of her car window. ]
Scariff?
[ His mind spins. They'd heard of activity on Scarif for a while now but it had never been anything to be worried about. Not immediately anyway. Urgency bites at his heels all the same. But no – maybe it doesn't matter. He doesn't want it to matter because he doesn't remember it and because though he's fighting and doing this work, he can feel in his heart that there is a finite timeline to this. There is only so much risk he's told himself he'd take because the rebellion would never matter more than the people he cared for. Never. ]
Then why didn't we didn't survive? If you and I here then what happened?