He should have laughed. The cackling was there, suddenly loud and clear in the space between his ears, and he should have joined it, howling wildly until his sides ached and until tears rolled down his cheeks, but then he might have really broken down (it was too late for that). Instead, he found himself stiffening and realizing for the first time just how cold it was outside, just how little the blanket was helping. His ached down to his bones, and he couldn't feel his fingers or toes. Phasma had asked him to keep an eye out for Bane, and to send him home if he saw him. But their home was gone and so was Phasma, so was Willow, so was Ire. There was no where for him to send Bane.
What have you heard about me,
he asked stiffly, still refusing to turn to him. But the mask of the ghost was gone, the veil of apathy -- the protection it gave him was gone. He couldn't pretend not to care anymore, knowing that it was Bane. His ears were pinned back, and he could feel his heart beating faster deep in his chest. Ghosts, all of them. The dead needed to stay dead. Bane should have died, just like Tsunami should have died, or else disappeared forever, never to return. There was paradise elsewhere, not here. Why did people always come back?