[ There's nothing to read on the helmet. There's nothing to read on the body language either, weighed down as it is by seemingly endless amounts of metal, so when the other person finally moves, turning away, Claude frowns, feels himself tense up in expectation of something that can't be predicted, although sure - everyone knows what the Empire does to traitors and public menaces. Societal enemies. Everyone knows.
Claude knows, too.
Come, says the other man, voice dark and deep and heavily distorted by what must be a modulator, carrying the word from his lips behind the mask into the room between them. Standing up slowly, Claude glances around the cell, not sure what to do with himself. Isn't he supposed to be cuffed for a transfer? In case he'd managed to smuggle in a fork or something and wanted to try it against the thick layers of cape protecting the man's back as he opens the door.
Doesn't the Empire have protocols?
No, Claude knows for sure, they do. Knows better than most.
A bit stupidly, he looks down at his hands, wrists unbound and his range of movement unrestricted. Naturally, he isn't gonna ask his captor whether they can put some handcuffs on him, please, Claude is many things, certainly more jaded and more uncaring than two years ago, but he still isn't stupid. He lets his hands drop to his sides, straightens up, on perfect eye-level with the man's shoulder and little else as he steps forward, following behind him. Kriff, he's tall. Dwarfs everything around them, Claude included.
Scaring tactics.
Don't work on him. ]
Guess there's no point to asking where we're going.
[ He says, deliberately not phrasing it like a question, since the meaning is more because I'm gonna die either way and I don't care than because you're not gonna tell me and I do. ]
[ He turns away without answering and it's not just because he isn't actually certain himself - he wasn't supposed to move the prisoner at all - but first and foremost... that's such a typically Claude thing to do, to straighten up and demand a little space for himself, as much as he dares. That small act of defiance - even if a laughably bad strategic choice on the other man's part if he actually wants to live and maybe he doesn't, really - goes straight past all the implants in his body, the burns, the festering wounds and hits him harder than any of it. It makes Anakin Skywalker resonate.
After all, if anyone believes in facing the darkness as opposed to letting it conquer you, it's Claude.
Anakin used to believe in him.
Though he's behind his back as they walk out and beyond his field of vision, Claude takes up all available space within his mind now - behind the mental shields he's erected to keep Sidious challenged, if not to keep him out, there's just the residual image of the other man in that cell, looking older (two years, it's been only two years) and resigned to his faith. Claude. Claude.
Claude who is dead.
Claude, who is alive.
He walks onwards, past security personnel, his breathing seemingly louder than ever in the stillness between them. He doesn't know what to say. He wants them both off this forsaken planet, off and away, he wants to pick him up and hold him with the hands he's got left. He doesn't want them to be here. That's all he knows. This place, this planet, gives nothing to anyone, it takes and inevitably, you lose. They've had enough of that, the two of them.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Claude knows, too.
Come, says the other man, voice dark and deep and heavily distorted by what must be a modulator, carrying the word from his lips behind the mask into the room between them. Standing up slowly, Claude glances around the cell, not sure what to do with himself. Isn't he supposed to be cuffed for a transfer? In case he'd managed to smuggle in a fork or something and wanted to try it against the thick layers of cape protecting the man's back as he opens the door.
Doesn't the Empire have protocols?
No, Claude knows for sure, they do. Knows better than most.
A bit stupidly, he looks down at his hands, wrists unbound and his range of movement unrestricted. Naturally, he isn't gonna ask his captor whether they can put some handcuffs on him, please, Claude is many things, certainly more jaded and more uncaring than two years ago, but he still isn't stupid. He lets his hands drop to his sides, straightens up, on perfect eye-level with the man's shoulder and little else as he steps forward, following behind him. Kriff, he's tall. Dwarfs everything around them, Claude included.
Scaring tactics.
Don't work on him. ]
Guess there's no point to asking where we're going.
[ He says, deliberately not phrasing it like a question, since the meaning is more because I'm gonna die either way and I don't care than because you're not gonna tell me and I do. ]
no subject
After all, if anyone believes in facing the darkness as opposed to letting it conquer you, it's Claude.
Anakin used to believe in him.
Though he's behind his back as they walk out and beyond his field of vision, Claude takes up all available space within his mind now - behind the mental shields he's erected to keep Sidious challenged, if not to keep him out, there's just the residual image of the other man in that cell, looking older (two years, it's been only two years) and resigned to his faith. Claude. Claude.
Claude who is dead.
Claude, who is alive.
He walks onwards, past security personnel, his breathing seemingly louder than ever in the stillness between them. He doesn't know what to say. He wants them both off this forsaken planet, off and away, he wants to pick him up and hold him with the hands he's got left. He doesn't want them to be here. That's all he knows. This place, this planet, gives nothing to anyone, it takes and inevitably, you lose. They've had enough of that, the two of them.
No, he will tolerate no further losses. ]