[Too divided in attention, too focused on the feeling of choking the life out of FN-2187, he doesn't seem to give much weight to the grabbing of the tray. Oh, that isn't to say that he doesn't notice it. Ren just doesn't care, inwardly dismissing the possibility of this mattering in the least. It doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter—
But then a transmission comes in at the same time. Just as the tray goes slamming toward his face, a communication comes in and disrupts his focus entirely. It takes too much to keep the calm, collected portrayal of himself for others—to be able to access his power to the greatest degree, as he needs to right now.
He stumbles back, and the transmission plays loudly in the room. The rebels are returning. Leading them is the identified black commander—called exactly that, but that's Poe. General Organa is leading the rest of the troops back, as well, to ensure their base isn't taken—they'll have to pull out, and try to absorb what information they have.
The hold on FN-2187 is decidedly gone, and he reaches down to push the button on his saber, expanding it once again within the room.]
You believe an agent of the First Order now, but not then. Gullible. Inexperienced. A murderer of his brothers and sisters in arms. [He's scrambling. He knows he should kill him, should give up when there is no information to extract, but he wants to drag this out, to get the satisfaction from it.
He twists his arm and stabs closer, the crossguard pressing closer to FN-2187's throat. Just a twitch of his hand would cut into the skin, and he feels the innate power of holding this traitor's life in his hands.
It feels more empowering than all the other lives he's taken somehow.]
no subject
But then a transmission comes in at the same time. Just as the tray goes slamming toward his face, a communication comes in and disrupts his focus entirely. It takes too much to keep the calm, collected portrayal of himself for others—to be able to access his power to the greatest degree, as he needs to right now.
He stumbles back, and the transmission plays loudly in the room. The rebels are returning. Leading them is the identified black commander—called exactly that, but that's Poe. General Organa is leading the rest of the troops back, as well, to ensure their base isn't taken—they'll have to pull out, and try to absorb what information they have.
The hold on FN-2187 is decidedly gone, and he reaches down to push the button on his saber, expanding it once again within the room.]
You believe an agent of the First Order now, but not then. Gullible. Inexperienced. A murderer of his brothers and sisters in arms. [He's scrambling. He knows he should kill him, should give up when there is no information to extract, but he wants to drag this out, to get the satisfaction from it.
He twists his arm and stabs closer, the crossguard pressing closer to FN-2187's throat. Just a twitch of his hand would cut into the skin, and he feels the innate power of holding this traitor's life in his hands.
It feels more empowering than all the other lives he's taken somehow.]