( Her faith is misplaced, at least as far as Organa and Skywalker are concerned, and the expression he offers her in retaliation to what she's suggesting says as much. Rey might believe that her master and her general are powerful enough to withstand and combat that of the Supreme Leader, but Kylo has seen their failure firsthand, is their failure firsthand, regardless of the circumstances surrounding his defection from one side to the other. That is what she seems unwilling to see, that although he might have been guided and cajoled away from the Jedi with whispered promises and a conduit for all the power he possessed that made sense to him, he could not have taken the steps to bring him to where he - they - stand today if he did not want to take them in the first place.
It's that notion that he holds onto while leaning back away from the glass, hands balled into fists again, no adequate channel for the swelling tide of anger that continues to pitch and rise within him. It chokes him like mild claustrophobia, an innate desire to stretch his legs and arms in the confined space, and the leather that encases his palms creaks under the pressure of his knuckles. He begins to tug the gloves off, examining the burns that mar the flesh there with detached curiosity. They haven't been treated - there are even a few fibers of leather threaded through the cauterized skin - and the pain is raw agony when he flexes his fingers. )
You think because you looked into my head and saw something that you weren't expecting a couple of times, you can lecture me on the ways of the Force, preach to me about balance? About peace? About all the ways in which the Supreme Leader pales in comparison to Luke Skywalker? Your doctrine doesn't preach balance, Rey. It preaches obedience, just as you claim mine compels submission. Don't stand on the other side of the glass and pretend that you are any better than I am for believing in it.
( The thumb of his left hand presses into the tendons that stretch across the palm of his right, working at a knot in his saber hand while thrumming the little thread of pain that vibrates with each strum of his knuckle, and he takes a seat on the crude bench with his long legs bent in front of him. When he was an awkward, gangling boy, too tall for his own body, he would sit with one foot on top of the other. The Supreme Leader and the Knights - and the Order - broke him of that habit quickly enough. Now, under the high overhead glare of the light, he spreads his hands in front of him, fingers splayed to examine the burns, elbows on his knees, speaking to her directly. He keeps every atom and molecule of himself shut up and heavily defended, unwilling to let her or anyone else glimpse even a shimmer of what swirls inside of him. )
What do you expect me to say to you? ( His throat is dry and his voice hoarse, almost plaintive. His hair has turned into a very unflattering mop of frizzy waves in the damp air as it's dried, and there is mud - Kylo can feel it - that Organa missed caked underneath his ear. It's the least of his worries, presently. ) What do you expect me to give? Is it submission, obedience? Do you plan to protect me from the Supreme Leader's retaliation? ( His hands curl, and he glances down at the marred skin before returning his attention to her. ) What about the Resistance?
( 'Your friends' hangs heavily implied between them. Regardless of what happens, now or further down the line, of what angle he plays, Kylo can't imagine a world in which he is able to walk away clean. )
no subject
It's that notion that he holds onto while leaning back away from the glass, hands balled into fists again, no adequate channel for the swelling tide of anger that continues to pitch and rise within him. It chokes him like mild claustrophobia, an innate desire to stretch his legs and arms in the confined space, and the leather that encases his palms creaks under the pressure of his knuckles. He begins to tug the gloves off, examining the burns that mar the flesh there with detached curiosity. They haven't been treated - there are even a few fibers of leather threaded through the cauterized skin - and the pain is raw agony when he flexes his fingers. )
You think because you looked into my head and saw something that you weren't expecting a couple of times, you can lecture me on the ways of the Force, preach to me about balance? About peace? About all the ways in which the Supreme Leader pales in comparison to Luke Skywalker? Your doctrine doesn't preach balance, Rey. It preaches obedience, just as you claim mine compels submission. Don't stand on the other side of the glass and pretend that you are any better than I am for believing in it.
( The thumb of his left hand presses into the tendons that stretch across the palm of his right, working at a knot in his saber hand while thrumming the little thread of pain that vibrates with each strum of his knuckle, and he takes a seat on the crude bench with his long legs bent in front of him. When he was an awkward, gangling boy, too tall for his own body, he would sit with one foot on top of the other. The Supreme Leader and the Knights - and the Order - broke him of that habit quickly enough. Now, under the high overhead glare of the light, he spreads his hands in front of him, fingers splayed to examine the burns, elbows on his knees, speaking to her directly. He keeps every atom and molecule of himself shut up and heavily defended, unwilling to let her or anyone else glimpse even a shimmer of what swirls inside of him. )
What do you expect me to say to you? ( His throat is dry and his voice hoarse, almost plaintive. His hair has turned into a very unflattering mop of frizzy waves in the damp air as it's dried, and there is mud - Kylo can feel it - that Organa missed caked underneath his ear. It's the least of his worries, presently. ) What do you expect me to give? Is it submission, obedience? Do you plan to protect me from the Supreme Leader's retaliation? ( His hands curl, and he glances down at the marred skin before returning his attention to her. ) What about the Resistance?
( 'Your friends' hangs heavily implied between them. Regardless of what happens, now or further down the line, of what angle he plays, Kylo can't imagine a world in which he is able to walk away clean. )