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It‘s raw carnage.
What I can observe of my surroundings is just plain – no, not slaughter. There‘s a word for it, used in Republican parlance, and it is „overkill“.
I try to follow the source of it, with every step a painful effort. Yet it is the best I can manage at this time.
When I am close enough to see him – and not just the havoc he is wreaking – it comes to me: the similarity to something I‘ve seen before.
It‘s like Starkiller Base all over again. It‘s like that godforsaken planet breaking apart, caving in on itself to reveal a red-hot molten core exploding outwards: That‘s him, I‘m thinking. This all-annihilating explosion, that‘s what is waiting at the core of him, hardly concealed by all his tantrums and temper explosions like a high voltage life wire wrapped in low-current cables.
Men – and women – are dying by the dozens and I couldn‘t care less about it, because of the simple truth that every last one of them knew whom they held captive here and none of them ever asked if it was done according to regulations.
Something like this would never have happened under the command of the First Order.
The slaughter proceeds to the next level, approaching the hangar we are heading for. I‘ve never seen him like this, and just now I am taking a moment to analyze when exactly the surface cracked, so to speak. Or, to use a stronger, but again Republican image, when the shit hit the fan.
He came here. He found me, locked up in that cell. Helped me up. Looked at me.
Did I let it happen? Did I let him look inside of me? Did I lower my shields?
I don‘t think so.
There was the merest movement on his part, him turning around, looking at someone coming up behind him.
Him making a sound like an angry beast, then going still beside me.
The guard letting out a small, silent breath.
The cold.
Suddenly, everything had turned cold, cold as my insides, as cold as my subjective perception of the cell temperature.
Then he got up.
He hadn‘t turned on his weapon before, most likely for stealth‘s sake.
He was doing it then, keeping his eyes on the guard the whole time.
That‘s when my curiosity overwhelmed my bone-deep exhaustion and I turned around to see the expression on the guard‘s face:
Utter terror.
It felt glorious.
The first smile in months is tugging at my mouth right now, and it feels like a genuine, if somewhat manic one.
That first guard died quickly, silently. But as we were leaving the cell block behind, more and more resistance came our way – pun intended.
I think both of us would have been veritably furious if there hadn‘t been.
Not that we weren't anyway.
As I walk on, the ground is slick with my enemies' blood, body parts and entrails litter the floor between the bodies. The alarm klaxons are music to my ears and I delight in the red pulse of the lights blinking in sync with it.
It occurs to me that, later, I will have to tell him of the similarity of his actions to the first known rampage of his much-admired grandfather, the killing spree that one went on after the untimely death of his mother.
That little smile is tugging at my mouth again. I am not some squeamish Councilor. I delight in the sight of our enemies hacked to pieces, and the last thing on my mind would be to reprimand him on the carnage he is wreaking for my sake. I will accept this gesture as what it really is – an expression of the depth of his passion for me.
He is not a Jedi, and I am no Republican. We have nothing to do with those twisted circles of reprimanding and regretting and all that guilt and blame. I don’t see lives destroyed and hopes annihilated when I look around, I just see stepping stones on my way to freedom.
The path is clear now, I see him standing next to his ship, breathing hard, trying to calm himself even as I approach.
As he turns around, I cannot see his face, but that is not important. He can see mine, and that is what counts at the moment:
That he can see the smile on my face, the gleam in my eyes as I say “You killed them. You came for me and you killed them and now those bastards are dead and they will never hurt me ever again.”
I reach out with my hand and lay it on his weapon arm. He makes a small sound behind his helmet, like a laugh. His weapon is still turned on, making that fragmented, angry sound that is so like him. My smile grows wider.
“Let’s go home now, shall we?”
There’s that laugh again. I feel sweet, clean coldness emanating from him and let it replace that other cold inside me. I feel his minor movements beneath my hand and it is like feeling the ground on Starkiller Base vibrate beneath me right after that shot was fired.
The red glow that lights his polished helmet from beneath disappears, the angry buzzing dies down as he puts his weapon away. He raises his voice, then, and only now do I realize that he has not spoken before.
There is a rasp to it that’s audible even through the modulator, not unlike the one heard after a climax of exceptional intensity.
“Are you alright? I’m sorry I got sort of… distracted.”
I just shake my head, still smiling.
“Don’t think about it. Seeing this was worth ten years of therapy. Just get us out of here and I’ll show you how grateful I really am for this!”
He takes a few seconds to take in the meaning of my words.
I understand. He is just beginning to return to himself.
But then, there’s his hand behind my back, helping me get inside the ship, leading me to one of the bunk beds so I can lie down on a soft surface for once. I keep his cloak for a blanket, and he says nothing about it, just starts preparations for take-off.
Slowly, I can feel the tension in me unwind, coil by slow, painful coil.
I realize I am drifting down into sleep and I have no intention of fighting it again. I am safe now, protected by one of the most dangerous beasts the galaxy has to offer.
I am safe.