Chapter Text
“Commander.”
She wasn’t sleeping. Her droopy eyelids would suggest otherwise, but she knows better. Her sleep is more akin to unconsciousness these days, shot through with dreams. If she’d been sleeping, the voice—Lana’s voice, she realizes—wouldn’t have been able to wake her so easily. The dreams cling to her, fingers curled against her skin, leaving angry half-moons in their wake.
She lifts her head. She wasn’t sleeping, but it probably looks like she was. Her desk—Theron’s old desk—is a mess, littered with datapads, half-empty mugs of tea, a bottle of sleeping pills. Her skin feels tight, dry, around her mouth. Crusty. Probably drool. Force knows what her hair looks like, up in a bun, falling haphazardly around her face.
Not that it matters.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” she says, pushing herself up with the heels of her hands. “I know what this looks like—”
“Callie.” Lana steps forward, out of the doorway, and her face is… kind. It’s always kind these days. As is Vette’s, Fideltin’s. Even T7 is softer, his chirping somehow musical. She’ll shudder her way out of a dream and find him there, powered down at the foot of her bed. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
She’s never had to. Lana keeps her sharp, keen, but she also understands the power of guilt, the sheer force. Neither of them saw it coming. Caldis, arguably, had more of an opportunity—she slept in his bed, palm pressed to the plane of his stomach; the vulnerability of it astounds her, now, that he even let her get that close—but the anticipation of betrayal falls squarely in Lana’s court. She and Theron shared the job, the responsibility, but as the former minister of Sith Intelligence, she really should’ve—
Caldis blinks, shoves the thought away. Neither of them saw it coming.
There is silence for a moment. Though it’s never actually silence anymore. Even when the base is quiet, still, Caldis hears him. Sometimes even sees him. Not a Force ghost, but not a hallucination, either—a warping at the edges of her vision. She blinks again, and swears she sees the red leather of his jacket through a crack in the door. But then it’s gone, and Lana’s looking at her, brow furrowed.
“I’ve been going through his reports.” By way of explanation. That, and to keep Lana from asking how she is, if there’s anything she can do. “I probably won’t find anything, but I was thinking last night that it could at least give us a hint as to what…” What he’s trying to achieve.
Lana nods. “Anything catch your eye?”
“Nope,” Caldis says, popping the p. “His handwriting is awful. You’d think he would’ve taken advantage of, y’know, typing, but no, of course not, that would’ve just been way too sensible.”
She hopes, illogically, for a laugh, or even a half-smile, but nothing comes. She can’t decide if she prefers that.
“We’ll find him, Callie.” There’s a darkened optimism to Lana’s voice, and Caldis finds herself with the briefest envy. She can’t even pretend these days. “I promise you that.”
She smiles tightly, glancing at her hands, spread against the desk. She can feel every single bone in her knuckles, how they ache by virtue of being. How her body aches, ladened by the sudden, inexplicable burden of his absence. It smarts. Sizzles, like the electrocuffs that once bound her wrists together.
Does she even want to find him? At this point, she’s not sure. The bed is empty without him. Cold, uninviting. But wouldn’t it be just as cold, she wonders, if he were to return. Wouldn’t it be colder, made so by the knowledge that he never actually—
She blinks. Shoves the thought away.
“Was there something you wanted?” Callous. Unlike her. But—and maybe this is selfish—she just wants to be alone. Stretching, she reaches for a datapad. One of his. T7 hasn’t been able to break its encryption yet, but she still likes to hold it, still likes to feel its weight against the skin of her palm.
Lana falters. Shifts her weight from foot to foot. For a brief moment, Caldis feels bad—but then she sees that sleeve again, blurred red, and the guilt dissolves immediately.
“I wanted to inform you of an incident on Nar Shaddaa,” says Lana finally, voice cool. There are things about Lana that Caldis does not understand, and this is one of them, how easily she is able to embody impartiality. Out of the two of them, it should really be her. Wasn’t the Light Side supposed to be devoid of emotion? Yet all she’s able to do these days is lash out, wound. “I posted an agent near your clinic, just to keep an eye on things, and according to their latest report, some… riots have erupted.”
“Riots?” It shouldn’t be too surprising. She chose the Red Light Sector for a reason: popular with addicts, known for its spice distributors. When the supply dries up, the population revolts. She’s seen it countless times. “How bad?”
“Bad.” Lana produces a datapad from the depths of her robes, sets it on the desk. The screen flickers to life, displaying a graph of some kind. She’s never been good with numbers. “Fifty deaths in less than a day. That’s a twenty-six percent increase from the body count of the last riot, which came in at about thirty-four deaths. The sector is quite literally on fire.” A pause. She taps the screen, and the graph disappears. “Our agent was kind enough to forward a video. I figured you’d want to see it.”
She nods, but the video is already playing. It’s short, less than 10 seconds of film, but it’s more than enough. The neon lights of Nar Shaddaa—purple, pink; she remembers, faintly, her first time on the Smuggler’s Moon, how even her skin looked unrecognizable beneath that grotesque sky—are uniquely unsettling. She blinks, colors distorted against the backs of her eyelids, and nearly misses the whiff of smoke, blurring out of frame.
Lana was right. The sector is on fire. The sky, usually red, now bleeds angry orange over a beat-up warehouse. The streets are filled with people—mothers, clutching their children with a reeking desperation; addicts, eyes bloodshot; people clothed in rags, faces covered in soot. Someone points at the building, lips moving. She can’t hear anything, but it’s not like she needs to. She can imagine it well enough, how a child’s whimper can sound like a blaster shot in a shadowed alley.
The scene goes briefly out of focus, and then the camera zooms in, the image crystallized. A sheet hangs halfway out a window—charred, wisps of smoke curling near a blackened edge; discolored, probably, from the fire consuming the warehouse. The object of interest, however, is a symbol, emblazoned with jagged, criss-crossing lines in red spray paint. It takes her a moment to place it, but when she does—
“Is that—”
“Yes,” says Lana, nodding. “The Eternal Alliance.”
She looks at it again, brow creasing. They spent hours on that symbol—debating the utility of combining insignia, if it might be better to start fresh. Now, years later, she’s still not sure they made the right decision. But the outline of it is burnt in her memory. Sizzling, like a brand. She’d recognize it anywhere, only this is… different. Bastardized, in a way. She can’t shake the feeling that it’s somehow intentional.
“What am I missing?” she asks eventually, glancing at Lana. “Our people weren’t responsible for the riot…”
“No.” Lana shakes her head. “It’s not an exact replica. They’ve obviously based it off our insignia, but the symbol itself is not meant to be confused with an Eternal Alliance emblem. If anything, I believe—” A pause. She presses her lips together. “I believe it’s meant to function as a kind of… anti-Alliance propaganda, if you will.” Leaning over the datapad, she traces the symbol’s outline with the tip of her pinky finger. “As you can see, the resemblance is tenuous at best, overshadowed by splinters or cracks in the original design. And these lines here—”
“Flames.” She says it without thinking.
“Yes,” says Lana, sighing. “It appears as though someone means to destroy the Alliance, presumably through fire, though I struggle to envision what that might look like. In any case, they’ve clearly chosen Nar Shaddaa as a proving ground of sorts.”
“Proving ground,” she echoes.
“I’m afraid our agent was unable to gather more intel,” Lana continues. “However, I’m in the process of assembling a reconnaissance team, with the sole purpose of rooting out—”
“What about the riot?” She swallows, rewinding the footage, searching halfheartedly for the gaping mouths of the children, the whites of their mothers’ eyes.
“I’m sorry?”
“The riot,” she says again. “Who can we send?”
“To help?”
Caldis nods.
“We would not be welcome.” Lana shifts, crossing her arms over her chest. “Alliance approval is at an all-time low, Commander. The Galaxy at large does not approve of our actions on Iokath, let alone our… Republic sympathies. Assigning forces to riot control would likely be construed as misallocation of Alliance assets. Not to mention the antagonistic response of those affected—”
“Antagonistic?” She doesn’t mean to snap. But she doesn’t mean a lot of things these days. “How can you possibly know that?”
There’s a moment of silence. And then, with something akin to patience, albeit strained, “I’ve run a considerable amount of analysis, Commander. Considering our place in the Galaxy at the moment, as well as the… independent nature of those on Nar Shaddaa, it is logical to assume that any aid offered by the Alliance would be viewed in a hostile light, and generalized as meddling in affairs that are not our own.”
She’s right. Probably. Caldis will never admit it, but out of the two of them, surely Lana is the one who knows best, at least when it comes to this. It reminds her, vaguely, of how it was with Rhyss—the sky stretching forever, blue melting to black melting to pin-pricked stars. Rhyss knew everything. How to shoot a blaster. How to navigate by the dying light of Alderaan’s sun, scattering their footprints in the thin layers of snow.
It was always the same argument. So many of the memories are lost to her, now, fuzzy when she reaches out, but there are things she’s managed to retain. The green furrow of Rhyss’ brow. The Mirialan’s apathy, so carefully cultivated. If we go back there, we die.
So?
So, Rhyss would bark, shaking her head. Is that what you want? To die from a blaster wound? A knife through your throat?
It’s better than this. The downed Organa ship they discovered near King’s Pass. The wind would hurtle through the shattered viewpane, exposed to the wintry air coming off the Juran Mountains. At night, the subtle rustling of undergrowth. The twittering of birds. The groan of a far-off thranta. Better than sitting around and watching people die.
Rhyss took her time. She always did, impulsive in everything but this. We’re not just sitting on our asses, Callie.
Really? Because that’s what it seems like to me.
Of course it does. You have no idea what the hell you’re doing—
Oh, and you do? She remembers rolling her eyes, and feels the faintest spike of shame. Her only defense, really, that she was 16, young, strangely limitless. The Force was with her, even then. Give it a rest, Rhyss. You don’t know everything.
A pause. Then, in a measured tone, I don’t. But I know what it takes to stay alive, which is all that really matters at this point.
What would Rhyss say, Caldis wonders, if she were here. Would she agree with Lana? Would Theron?
“You don’t understand,” she says, trying not to plea. Trying not to sound like she did when she was 16, voice cracked with thirst. “They don’t have anyone else. They don’t have anyone to protect them, to fight back. They’re—” Helpless.
A memory. That moment of shock, staring at Theron through the redness of the force field. Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing. She rarely ever sleeps these days, but when she does, Theron lurks in the fraying edges of her dreams. The train explodes, and the last thing she feels before her body is engulfed by flame is his mouth against her forehead, ghosting the shell of her ear.
“We can’t just let them die.” There’s the desperation. The grief, yapping at her heels. “Theron was right, Lana. The Galaxy is fighting back, and—I’m not saying the Alliance is corrupt, but…” You’ve become a symbol of oppression. “We have to show the people we’re still on their side. And what better way than to—”
“To what?” Lana prompts. The kindness, now, accompanied by pity. Caldis can’t stand it, wants to wipe that damn look off her damn face. “To what, Commander?”
“I don’t know.” She lifts her shoulders in a half-shrug. “But there has to be something.”
There isn’t. But Lana still nods, trying to appease or, at the very least, placate. Her arguments with Rhyss always ended up like this, with the Mirialan giving in, just the slightest bit. One hour, she’d say. We save as many as we can. And then we’re back here, and we’re not leaving for at least another week.
“I can’t promise anything,” Lana says, reaching for the datapad. “And, in the unlikely event that I do manage to find some sort of loophole, I would recommend against any sort of definitive action. But—” A pause. “It is your call, Commander.”
Something hardens in her. Reflective, and oily black. “Isn’t it always?”
Lana laughs, but it is an empty thing, lackluster. Like the pit in her, growing larger, larger—
“Anything else? Other than—” She gestures weakly to the datapad, unable to look at it. Unable to look at the expression of terror on-screen.
Lana shakes her head. Opens her mouth, as if to say something, only to shut it. After a moment, she swallows. “Commander,” she starts. “Callie,” she starts again, gaze falling to the desk. “I hope you feel you can… come to me. I don’t claim to be overly empathetic, but—” Another laugh, this one self-deprecating. Bottomless. “I don’t pretend that his betrayal has affected me the way it has you, but he was my friend. I cared for him, as I care for you.”
Lana, it seems, is unwilling to say his name, whereas that’s all Caldis seems able to do. Almost as though she might invoke him, lure him back to her through song and ritual. She murmurs his name in the middle of the night, stuck between worlds—tossing and turning; somehow managing to fist his bedsheets, even with her arms pinned beneath her.
For safety, she told T7. Sometimes I lash out, break things. I don’t want to hurt you.
He gave her the merriest little beep. T7 = tougher than durasteel // T7 = safe with Jedi
“What I mean to say,” Lana says, clearing her throat, “is that perhaps we could lean on each other.”
Despite everything, Caldis has to smile. She and Lana have never been particularly close, probably because Theron was always… there. Always a representation of the familiar, which is to say the Republic, which is to say the Order. But none of that seems to matter anymore. Those lines in the sand, so difficult to cross, now a smear of colorless grain.
Just to hear her say it is, in a way, feat. Something to celebrate. Yet she struggles to envision what it would look like. Similar to what it was with Rhyss, probably, but didn’t she cut that tie for a reason? She doesn’t remember the pain, but knows it must’ve been there.
“I appreciate that,” she says finally. The words feel awkward, faltering. “I—”
“You don’t need to say anything,” says Lana quickly. “I just thought I’d extend the offer.”
She doesn’t know what to say. If there even is anything to say, or if she’s just trying to ward off the silence. “Thank you, Lana.”
Silence.
“Right.” Lana straightens, grabbing the datapad and, with it, that image, a child’s stapled eyes. “I should be off. But if you need anything, Commander, I’m—”
“Right down the hall,” Caldis finishes, nodding. It occurs to her, and not for the first time, that without Theron, she probably doesn’t deserve all this. Lana’s patience. T7’s watchfulness, Fideltin’s nighttime patrols. It’s cruel of her, probably, to reject it on principle, but she can’t seem to stop herself. Can’t seem to keep herself from deflecting even a passing smile. “I know.”
Her eyes fall to the desk. The collection of datapads and, in the middle of it all, her hands, pale and cold. She’s vaguely aware of Lana’s gaze—how it settles, warm and heavy, on her shoulders, so in contrast to the rest of her body, how everything in her cringes away from the smallest sign of—
“I’ll be in touch, Commander.”
The door creaks shut, and then she’s alone again.
T7 greets her from somewhere in the darkness of Theron’s quarters. Jedi = late // T7 = worried
More guilt, Caldis thinks, only to shove the thought away. Out of everyone in the Alliance—everyone but Theron, but there’s no real use in sentiments like that anymore, if there ever even was—T7 is the easiest to put up with. He always has been, but especially now, when the slightest warp in tone leaves her irrationally disgusted.
“Sorry, bud.” Moving into the room, she closes the door behind her, resting her head against the cold, flat surface. “I got caught up in some stuff.”
His quarters look just like they did this morning. Full of him, yet not quite. A jacket strewn across a chair in the corner. More datapads, casting the room in an eerie blue light. A half-empty cup of caf. And then, of course, evidence of her intrusion. A training staff. An unopened bottle of sleeping pills. Covers thrown back, crumpled, dark with sweat stains.
They didn’t always see each other. In the wake of Iokath, they always seemed to be doing… something. She was heading up a briefing, he was out on recon—she thought it legitimate, how busy they were back then, but now she has to wonder if he was maybe just avoiding her. If maybe he’d reached his limit, wasn’t able to keep pretending that he loved her, that—
But they always found each other at the end of the day. Sometimes she’d wake to the insistent press of him against her back, a chaste kiss to the crook of her neck. She’d twist in his arms, drag her fingers through the hair at his nape. Long day?
He’d groan, hiding his face against her. I hate Lana. Have I mentioned that before? I feel like I’ve mentioned that before.
She’d snort, dropping a kiss to his temple, his forehead, whatever part of him was closest. Maybe once or twice. Drawing closer, so she could slip her foot between his calves, twine their legs together. Am I gonna have to put you two in a timeout?
A muffled laugh. Then his mouth against her, trailing its way up her neck, along the curve of her jaw. Depends on your definition of ‘timeout’.
She blinks. Shoves the memory away.
“I got caught up in some stuff,” she says again. Pushing herself away from the door, she crosses to the bed, collapsing atop it with a little huff of air. “Did you find anything?”
T7 twirls in place and, for a brief moment, something stutters in her. But then he stills, and all that hope drains right out of her. T7 = searched all day // T7 = found no sign of Theron Shan
It occurs to her, and not for the first time, that he probably doesn’t want to be found. And even if she were to find him, she’s not exactly sure what she would say. Hasn’t she already said it all? I love you. Come home. And, in turn, hasn’t he? I thought you’d end the cycle of war. But however this ends, I just want you to know that I loved you from the moment I saw you—
She still doesn’t know if he meant it. If even that was a ploy, another twisted attempt at getting to the heart of her. So maybe that’s what she’d ask him. Did you ever love me, or was that all part of the act? Just to hear him say it again, one last time. You know I love you.
T7 lets out a mournful whine, crossing the room. T7 = sorry // T7 = try again tomorrow
She has to smile at that. Shaking her head, she moves a hand, splaying it against him. “You did good, Tee. You always do.”
He nudges one of her shins. It reminds her vaguely of the stray she and Rhyss found one summer, huddling under one of the trees in the grove, how it would ease a wet and trembling nose into the palm of her hand. T7 + Jedi = still best friends?
She laughs. It’s small, half-hearted, yet still the most genuine she’s been all day. “The bestest. And that’s never gonna change.”
He beeps cheerfully, rocking back and forth. T7 = glad // Jedi = T7’s favorite organic
“Well, that works out perfectly, because it just so happens that you’re my favorite droid.”
She lifts a leg, sliding a boot off. She never really found Jedi robes all that constricting, but her Alliance uniform—
Have I ever told you just how much I like you in this? he asked her once, dragging his palms down over her arms, thumbing the creases of her elbows. Because I do. I really, really like you in this.
Why? She made a face, looking down at herself. It breathes well, I guess. And it’s lighter than my robes. But it doesn’t feel as flexible—
Callie. His fingers under her chin, tilting her head up. That smile of his, piercing straight through her. Electric, even now, lost in the fuzz of memory. Just take the compliment.
She gives a sound of annoyance, shoving the memory away. Her days are hard enough, but sleeping here, surrounded by his things—she wakes up expecting him there, sprawled out next to her, face half-covered by the sheets. Sometimes she reaches out, as though she might find him still: warm to the touch, and blurred from sleep.
“Tee,” she says, if only to fill the silence with sound. “Do me a favor, will you? Check the holo for any mention of a riot on Narsh.”
A moment of silence. Then: T7 = found something // T7 = play on Jedi’s datapad?
“Please.” Kicking her other boot off, she tucks her legs beneath her. “Thanks, bud.”
A chirruping noise. In the corner of the room, her datapad—though she struggles to remember if it’s actually hers, or if it’s one of Theron’s—flickers to life. Another moment passes, and then a hologram appears, hovering above the desk with the faintest visible static.
The woman looks familiar, and Caldis squints, tilting her head to one side. Probably someone from one of the local news channels. She hasn’t been to Nar Shaddaa for a while, but she still keeps up with the feeds, if only to convince herself that she hasn’t entirely abandoned the clinic. Some nights she can’t sleep, no matter how many pills she downs, and the strangely hypnotic reports of crime bosses and swoop races are better than—
Well.
“Contrary to promises made early this morning by Cartel security,” the reporter is saying, “riot control has not managed to suppress the uprisings. Sources suggest that plans are being made for other attacks, likely carried out by what the Hutts have termed a ‘terrorist cell’. We’ve reached out to Cartel officials, but have received no further comment.”
The hologram shimmers. Coalesces into a throng of people, similar to the one in the video. She recognizes some of the children, how the dirt smeared under their eyes warps like tired shadow. Yet something has changed. There’s always a kind of desperation to Nar Shaddaa, Caldis knows, but this is… fearful. Chilling.
The crowd ripples, and a body is revealed, small and burnt. There’s a piercing sound, like that of a wail, and she flinches. Like the sounds in her nightmares. Sounds she’s made herself, twisted in Theron’s sheets. She’s watched too many people die to remember them all, but in some cases they stick with her. A name, a face. A hand in hers, fist pudgy, but when she looks down there’s nothing but ash—gray, like the surface of Ziost, and dry.
Master Jedi, Fideltin will say, knocking lightly on her door. He can’t possibly stand watch every night, but he always seems to be there when she needs him. Always willing to lend his voice when she needs to hear something other than her own screams. Are you alright?
Fine, she’ll grit out. Just a bad dream.
Once he brought her tea and honey. She didn’t say it to his face, but thought all the same that his time on Nar Shaddaa had somehow managed to soften him. Or maybe he was always this way, and she just didn’t realize. At this point, she doesn’t really know.
“The scene before you,” the reporter continues, “was one of many that occurred early this morning. According to our sources, Cartel security tried to contain the blast, but was unsuccessful in dousing the fire that consumed what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. As of now, officials are unsure as to the goals of those responsible. However, considering the casualties, which we’ve been told are unprecedentedly high…”
A flash of movement. A woman, probably around Caldis’ age, pushing through the crowd. The footage has been muted, but that doesn’t make her sob any less wrenching. She falls to her knees beside the body, hands fluttering, restless. Desperate to reach out, yet too afraid of getting burnt, of pulling away with the child’s skin beneath her fingernails.
Caldis swallows. Looks down at her fingers, twisted in the fabric of her trousers. For the briefest of moments, she’s on Nar Shaddaa, face warm with the aftermath of flame. Then she blinks, and she’s on Alderaan, falling to her knees beside a similarly small body. The snow is cold against her kneecaps, and a whine rips through her. When she clamps a hand to her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, her palm comes back slick with blood.
Callie. She can still hear Rhyss’ voice. The gentleness of it, only ever for her. There was nothing you could’ve done.
I felt it. And, sometimes, she still does. How easily a life is severed, light blinking into dark. It was right there. I could’ve—all I had to do was—
Callie.
It was in my hands! Caldis whirls to face her, gravel crunching underneath, hoarfrost the remnants of an early spring. She remembers it biting into her skin, leaving trails of blood, faint enough to be accidental. It’s this—it’s hot, like sunlight, and if I hold onto it for too long it… scrubs me raw, and all I had to do was—
Callie. Firmer this time, cutting through the panic. You need to breathe.
How, she wants to ask, and why. Why, when the body before her isn’t. She looks down, and the child’s blaster wound is red, and angry, and yelling.
It wasn’t your responsibility. Gentle again. Rhyss crouches in front of her, dragging her fingers through Caldis’ dark hair. She catches a snag, winces, huffs out a quiet breath. You can’t save everyone, Callie. And you’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you try.
But I can help, she whimpers, half-begging. For what, she doesn’t know. Forgiveness? Peace? All of the above? How can it not be my responsibility, when I’ve been given…
What? A curved brow. Say it.
It’s a gift. Her voice breaks. It has to be.
Then why do you sound like it’s a curse?
Not a curse, Caldis thinks, but a gift.
She blinks, and is back in Theron’s quarters, filtered through the harsh light of the datapad. The scene has changed, body replaced by the skeletal remains of a burnt building. The holo flickers and, after a moment, the reporter steps back into view. “Unfortunately,” she says, as though finishing a previous thought, “the attacks show no sign of letting up anytime soon.” A pause. “This is Kyla Draste for Red Light Reports signing off.”
Silence. The reporter fizzes out of sight, giving way to blue translucence, lingering in the air.
Caldis exhales. Looks down at her hands again, fisted atop her thighs. It doesn’t take much to conjure the hilt of her lightsaber, smooth against the skin of her palm. Doesn’t take much to evoke the redness of that force field, draped in shadow. She blinks, and Theron’s standing across from her—a familiar sight, now strange, unwelcome.
The Alliance outgrew you, he says. Now it’s rotting from the inside, the galaxy’s fighting back—
Theron. His name, soft in her mouth, somehow tender. Not at all what it sounds like in the middle of the night, ripped from her throat. Please.
So much for your dreams of peace.
Caldis blinks, and she’s back on Odessen. T7 chirps, rocking back and forth. Newsfeed broadcast = complete // T7 = play another?
She leans forward. Presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. Tries to shove the memory away, but his voice persists. The quiet humming of the force field; the rhythmic whirring of the train’s engines, clicking along the track. She blinks, and all she sees is that body: the one on Nar Shaddaa, but also the one on Alderaan, how small they looked in the face of death. You’ve become a symbol of oppression.
Not a curse, Caldis thinks, but a gift.
“You up for a trip, Tee?”