He forgot the walls could move. On the floor with long limbs curled under him he stared at the silver bulkhead and watched it spin and distort. It was pleasant like watching a dance without the flesh and blood. Peaceful, for once in a long time the spice put him at ease again. The mercury plate stretched out and he thought he felt it touch him ,his eyes closed and he giggled. Explosive star bursts of color and euphoria chimed in his head and behind his eyelids. The Spice Music sang loud to him. This is what he lived for, small respites from the galaxy and from life. When he was the only being in the entirety of the universe, when life consisted only of personal intimacy. Complete ecstasy.
He awoke a few hours later, cold, hungry and with a headache, but he wasn’t entirely put out. He sat up slowly and stretched his back like a limber feline, dragging himself to a rise and gliding to the medbay. A few painkillers and a blotter paper of spice to tide over his stomach. He didn’t eat very much. The world came thundering back to him, his life was twisting in directions he didn’t want, but he would never stop it. He learned long ago when you tried to control chaos you only ended up it’s serf. So he let it happen, listened to his passions and flew spur of the moment. It worked so far.
Soon he found himself longing for companionship, it was a strange sensation, after you learned to be alone it seemed easy to get by. But he wanted her now, was she another passing fancy? Another Weaver who would end up taking a piece of him and drifting off? Maybe he was the one taking the pieces. A thief of emotion and dreams, what a disgusting idea. But the bald woman, he wanted her. He hadn’t slept that well in a while.
The HoloComm had somehow found it’s way into his hand with the frequency of the grey woman pulled up. His finger threatening the button. He set it aside and exhaled; time. That’s what he needed to give it. Coruscant wasn’t sacked in a day. Another strange want scratched at his spine, the hunger for ink. It had been years since his last piece, why not?
With supplies gathered and set upon his desk, an ashtray and a fresh pack of ciggaras he began to work smoothly. The gun was set up and a power cell thrust into it, it hummed to life in his hand and he smiled at the old friend. He took it up in his left hand after his lungs had began to contract and fill with smoke, the needle dunked in black pounded at the bones of his small finger. He forgot how much he missed that hurt, he worked with an unwavering attention. Soon black ink and red skin was swelling over all his knuckles, it was hours later, he took his time. It was permanent and he took pride in his appearance.
The grey and white of the ashtray grew until the pack was depleted and the gun set aside. He looked at his knuckles, this would be the first markings that were readily visible. But he could always wear gloves. Elegant black writing in Aurebesh now decorated his fingers like rings, wrapping all the way around in a stylized form.
‘Forgiven’. Maybe someday.