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What was the value of a promise?
It was such a small, empty thing. It could not feed an army. It could not clothe or equip them. It could not splice wires, or forge documents, or load a blaster, or drop an enemy. And every single one from her childhood had drifted off, uncollected or betrayed, and faded into scars. There was little to be said for them, really.
And yet, Jyn had asked him for one.
She stepped across the bunker. It was small, and made of duracrete, reinforced by sections of quadanium. The old turret was beyond a wall that curved at either end, blocking the line of sight from the door, but allowing it in the opposite direction. She took her time edging around it, holding her knife at the ready. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here. There most likely wasn’t; otherwise, she’d already be dead. Couldn’t be too careful, though.
A thought popped into her head, and she swallowed. A familiar anxiety -- one that had been growing in her for the past year, maybe longer -- coiled in her gut, and a half-formed question teased at her.
The turret was a corroded husk, a mass of exposed wires and jagged edges, discolored and rusted and flaking. Toward its top, the metal was twisted and bent outward, like a blossoming flower. She frowned up at it. Her boots crunched, and she looked down, lifted one foot. The floor was littered with bits and pieces. How long had it been, since the Clone Wars? She’d been a toddler, when it had ended, but she still half expected to find bodies. Gulping, she felt for her blaster. It was secure against her thigh.
There was shouting outside. Already, already.
She’d asked him. She didn’t understand this; not completely. Oh, she grasped the weight of Reese’s betrayal, and the danger that he posed to her in particular. She grasped Saw’s desire to protect her (and, despite him raising her up as a soldier, he’d managed to do a better job of it than her real father). What she didn’t get was being stuffed away now, in this, when he could use her, when she could help, when that was what she burned to be doing. He was always talking her up to other people. He might be reserved in his praise to her face, but she was good , and she knew it, and she knew that he thought so, too, and anyway, she’d just taken out her fair share of ‘troopers. So, why not let her at the traitor? The guy already had an inkling who she was. Catching an eyeful of her fist right before it struck his face wasn’t going to change that.
The light in the shell was low, a pale orange that sharpened the shadows and bathed the walls in pallor. There was another sort of light outside, shining through the slats on the forward wall -- soft itself, but different enough to draw a contrast. It cast bars on the hollowed out control console, and on her face. She pressed her back to one of the side walls, an exposed beam of quadanium palpable through her shirt, and craned her neck, keeping her shoulders squared and set back. She peered through the end of a slat.
Saw was crouched behind a partial wall several meters ahead of the bunker, one knee drawn up and forward. His shoulders were flush with his cover, and his head was turned and tipped upwards. His posture was, in some ways, a mirror of her own, and of course it would be (because she’d learned everything from him), but there was something about that now, in this moment. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t watched him like this in years, hadn’t had the opportunity, what with all the fighting she’d been doing herself. Maybe it was that nagging feeling, that question lingering on the edge of her thoughts, prolonging the surge of anxiety.
Across the way, she caught a flash of movement, and of light. Heard the whine of a blaster bolt. Above Saw’s head, there was an eruption of sparks and duracrete. He ducked, and in spite of herself, Jyn flinched. He called out. She couldn’t make out what he said. She could hear her own breaths, however, and her fist tightened around the handle of her knife, and her palm ached. Her other hand hovered and trembled over her holster. She should be out there! She longed to be. She could be helping him, should be helping him. Reese would be down already, if she were involved, she was sure of it.
Saw had her back. He cared about her. He was hard and gruff, sure, but that was survival, and this was a war, against an enemy that was well worth fighting and destroying. He was kind to her, at night, and in the quiet times between engagements. And when she’d been young, he’d kept her safe, even as he’d trained her and shaped her into the woman she needed to be. He’d made it pretty clear over the years that she was important to him. One time, he’d even told her that she was like a daughter to him. Well, it went both ways, and it was torture, having to watch like this, having to wait and hope.
An image of her mother popped into her head. Lyra’s outstretched arms shook, and she shifted on her feet, back and forth, and then she crumpled to the ground, and men were shouting, but Jyn’s ears were stuffed with cotton.
What if Saw lost? What if Reese managed to kill him, and she was left here, all alone? Would she have the chance to take revenge? Would she make it back to the rest of the cadre? What would she do without him?
The two men exchanged another round of blaster fire. Saw scooted back, pivoted, curled around the opposite end of the wall. Jyn gritted her teeth. She wondered if others would come up on them. She wondered why they hadn’t already. Another call out, this time from Reese; an answer, unintelligible, but tinged with pain. That said it all, really, and she understood. How could a Partisan choose the Empire, when every single person around him had had their lives ruined by it?
Saw hesitated. Or, more accurately, he waited. Reese faltered. Expected the pace to stay even, maybe. He shouldn’t have. He’d been with them long enough to know better. Jyn watched, heart skipping, as he exposed too much of himself. Saw moved. Light streaked through the air.
Reese jerked, and fell to the ground.
Jyn sighed. Her hands relaxed. Saw was all right. This would make him more paranoid, yeah, but he was all right. And that meant that she was, too.
He was slow in moving to the body. It didn’t make sense to her why he would be; it exposed him, and if anyone who really should have been there suddenly showed up, well… He had to have reasons, same as he always did. It was hard to see the planes of Tallent’s body, at this distance and in this light, but if she squinted, she could get the general idea. Saw knelt beside him. Touched him -- on the neck, it looked like. Bowed his head. Stood up again. He looked back, over his shoulder, toward the shell, toward her. His expression was shrouded.
Still here , she wanted to shout. Still waiting. She rotated, moving to stand fully before the front wall.
His gaze dropped to the ground, and his shoulders slumped. His hand rose, until it was only a couple of decimeters from his face, and it might have shaken, and then his fingers curled toward his palm, and his arm dropped. Her knuckles struck the wall. What was he doing? Why was he standing there, like that? In the air, she could smell the crisp, acrid scent of blaster fire, carried over to her on a breeze.
He turned, and walked away.
Her mouth went dry. Breaths, through her nose, fast. Something cold and heavy in her chest, in her stomach. No . With her free hand, she reached up to the bottom slat. Her thoughts raced. No. He said wait until daylight. There must be more to it than this. There had to be something he hadn’t told her. Clean-up, maybe. Suss out and eliminate anyone who agreed with or supported Tallent, or who might know what he seemed to know. Saw would come back to her when he was done, when he was sure it was safe. That was the plan. It had to be the plan. He’d told her… He’d said…
The cold swept through her. The realization was thick and sharp and she choked on it: he hadn’t said it at all. She’d asked him if he was coming back; she’d asked him to promise her. And...he hadn’t.
Her chest heaved. She staggered backwards, into the console, and wound up half-sitting on it. Her entire body was heavy and weak and it was hard to breathe and she felt sick to her stomach, and the dull side of the knife was digging into her thigh, and there were bars of light in her eyes, so she closed them. She closed them, and swallowed, and forced herself to suck air, slow and steady, through her nose.
Hold it. One, two, three, four. Out through the mouth, one, two, three, four. Too early to tell. It wasn’t that, yet; there was time. There was an entire night. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t said it; it was implied. In through the nose, one, two, three, four. He looked after her. He’d plucked her from a nightmare, given her structure and purpose, and had become what her father couldn’t be and, as far as she could tell, had chosen not to be. He had stood in front of her, and he’d stood behind her, whichever the moment required, and it was one of the two now, and she just didn’t know which. Out through the mouth.
She sheathed the knife. Got to her feet, moved back to the forward wall. She wanted to look outside again, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned, and walked to one side of the shell, and then spun and walked to the other. It was an expanse of fewer than two meters. It was vast, with her tingling limbs, and it was cramped, and it was claustrophobic. One, two, three, four. She slid around the curve. The door was secure. She checked it anyway. What if someone blasted the panel? No, no, no one knew she was here, and no one expected anyone to be here. It was abandoned. Just like her . No. The blood roared in her ears. She went back, came back, checked her blaster, took out her knife, considered the way it felt, admired its weight, its balance. The slats drew her back to them. She peered outside, and all she saw was the body. It began to rain. The drops bounced off of it. She watched, and watched, and watched. In through the nose.
It was as it had been before. She was eight again, tucked into the rock and the soil, into a tomb. Shocked and frightened and shoving it down and waiting, waiting, waiting, clinging to a flickering light. Nursing wounds. Crafting scars.
At some point, she sank to the floor, back to a wall, in a spot where she could check her corners and spy a sliver of door. Her breaths weren’t steady, but she wasn’t counting anymore. She shifted, and hugged her knees. This was stupid. He’d be back. He wouldn’t have given her a timeframe if he wasn’t going to be. He was just tying up loose ends, that was all. He wouldn’t really leave her. He wasn’t like Galen. She had to believe that, and yet it was hard. He hadn’t answered her. And the way he’d looked back, that strange, pregnant moment… Thoughts and what-ifs turning, turning, turning.
Her head knocked against duracrete. She started, her eyes popping open. Her mind was fogged. Her hands darted to her weapons, and her gaze locked on the door. A jolt -- awareness, tension. And then, on its heels, embarrassment. She’d been on longer runs than this, and had managed not to crash. Falling asleep was something kids did.
She relaxed her muscles. The light had changed; the rain had stopped, and early morning sun filtered through the slats. Motes of dust floated in its rays. She rose, shakily, and blinked.
The corpse was gone. There was nothing, and no one. Her gaze was drawn upward, toward a ship, rising into the atmosphere. It wasn’t one of theirs, but the sight of it stirred panic in her, all the same.
Daylight. He’d be there. He was coming back. He wouldn’t leave her, not like… There was something rupturing, there were fingernails under a scab. She went and stood in front of the door, and closed her hand over her crystal, and something hard wrapped around her heart and squeezed. Time passed. The rays of Tamsye Prime’s sun migrated. They weren’t visible in this part of the shell, but their movement made the shadows shift.
She sniffled. She reached up, and dragged the back of her hand across her eyes, and it came away smeared with tears. It had been years since she’d truly cried. Even when she awoke trembling, with bombs going off in her head, with shockwaves rolling over her body, with the sound of her father whispering stupid words and the sight of her mother running back to die, she hadn’t cried. She was made of tougher stuff than that. Saw had shown her that she was.
Saw, who wasn’t there. Saw, who wasn’t coming.
It was happening again. Damn it all to every hell that existed, it was happening again. And this time, there was no family friend coming to collect her. In fact, it was the damn family friend who was abandoning her.
All of his lessons, all of his faith, and trust; all of his pride in her, all of his glowing, gloating words, to people he needed to intimidate or impress. Had any of it ever meant anything at all? She was shaking. Was it just the way of men to buy loyalty with pretty words, to pretend that someone mattered up until the point where they were no longer useful and could be discarded? She’d been a fool, apparently, to believe that Saw was different (and she’d known on some level, hadn’t she? That had to be why she’d felt the need to ask him last night). There was a lesson in there. It was being carved into her heart.
Off in the distance, something rumbled. She had to leave soon, if she wanted to make it off the planet alive. Numbly, she wondered if she really did. She wondered what the point would be. Nowhere to go. No one to turn to. No one to care about, or to care about her. And yet, there was also a part of her that was burning, bright and hot and growing in intensity, sharing space with the dull ache in her chest.
Another rumble, closer this time. It felt like she was underwater. Her legs and feet were dragging. She pressed the side of her head to the door and listened, and it occurred to her that she should go and check outside again before she left, but it had taken so much effort just to get to here, and she wasn’t completely sure she could muster it again. The burning shouted forward , and she had to listen to it.
Why had he done this? Why had they both ? What was wrong with her? No one wants a soldier who cries and falls asleep . No, no, that was silly, she never did that except for now, and no one was here to see it. She was good, she was good.
Who told you you were good?
Clumsy fingers, stuttering over the door’s panel. The lock disengaged with a click and a beep. Everything seemed to have slowed down, and sounds were muffled, and it felt like her body wasn’t there, like she wasn’t in it. There was the old wound, open and throbbing, and the new one forming right beside it, and there was that ball of heat, and that was all that she was. The rest was a shell, piloted by something or someone else.
How could he? How could anyone?
She had no idea what she was doing. She was barely the one doing it. She certainly wasn’t thinking about it. The fire in her belly grew, and she moved in a direction. Something was changing. Something was hardening. Might have been on the verge of it a long time ago, held back until now. The spaceport was near. There was smoke in the air. There were Imperials coming. Right, left, right, left. Distantly, she was aware that she was gripping her weapons too tightly. The knife’s handle was going to leave marks. Would she feel them?
If Saw had been able to leave her so easily, if her father had been able to, then anyone could, couldn’t they? Of course they could. Tallent had started this whole mess by doing almost the exact same thing.
Never to her face. Should have been a clue. All of it was empty, every single thing they had ever said. Their actions had gone against it all.
A promise couldn’t open up an Imp’s throat. It couldn’t recognize a ship, or break into it, or hot wire it. It could enlist an ally of the moment, but it couldn’t keep him. It didn’t even want to.
It wouldn’t keep her warm at night, or keep a roof over her head, or keep her out of jail. It wouldn’t make friends, real ones, for her. It wouldn’t quench the flame flickering behind her rib cage, or answer her need, the need that inexplicably kept her alive, and it wouldn’t do a thing about the twin scars scratched onto her heart.
She cried, again, privately, in the back of the traitor’s ship, after it had fallen into hyperspace, telling herself that it would be the last time. The last time she’d cry. The last time she’d let someone do this to her. Her eyes were open, and she knew, now, what to look for.
What was the value of the a promise? Nothing.
But maybe someday, if she were lucky, she’d find someone she’d never have to ask for one.