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Fulcrum had been captured.

“If we want to extract anything useful from him,” Thrawn muses, his voice deceptively level, “perhaps we’ll give him reason to give in.”  

“A threat, then?” Captain Brunson asks, with a tilt of the head. “So far, such tactics haven’t—” 

“Not a threat,” Thrawn cuts in smoothly, less an interruption and more a patient lesson. “Despair.”

... ... ...

Agent Kallus—ISB-021, he repeats silently to himself—is trained to withstand rebel torture. The Empire is far superior, in that department, but Kallus still sorts through his training for any tactics that may prove helpful. He doesn’t know much about the rebels, true, but has decided to protect what he does until his final moments. He knows the Empire well enough to know that the most valuable secrets in the galaxy wouldn’t buy him any mercy, even if he did possess them. As long as that’s the case, he reasons, he may as well die an honorable death. The rationalization helps.

He doesn’t know how long Thrawn has kept him confined. Any attempt to account for time only makes things worse. He now makes a concerted effort to lose track.

When Kallus closes his eyes, escaping the interrogation cell for precious moments, he sees a face. He doesn’t let himself think the rebel’s name, only recites his own assigned number again and again until he goes numb with it.

The door opens; ISB-021 keeps his eyes softly shut. He breathes in, out—feels the sensation, really takes note of what it felt like to be alive, to be breathing, the expand and contract of his ribcage, because he’s certain that soon he’ll no longer feel such things. He repeats his Empire-assigned number with each inhale.

“Agent Kallus. I have something you’ll want to see.”

Thawn’s voice, always so calm, so controlled, makes ISB-021’s eyelids flutter. But they don’t open. ISB-021 focuses only on his breath, on his number, and on being alive for one more moment.

“Open your eyes, Agent Kallus.”

ISB-021 doesn’t. As he knows the Empire, he knows Grand Admiral Thrawn, and Grand Admiral Thrawn is likely here to kill him. Or order it done. Either way, ISB-021 has no desire to open his eyes and see the muzzle of a blaster. That wouldn’t make for much of a last sight.

A face fills his vision, existing only in his mind’s eye, although ISB-021 still doesn’t allow the face a name. A name is a person, is an attachment, is a weakness—weakness when ISB-021 can least afford it. The face provides a vague comfort.

“Agent Kallus.”

A command, this time—ISB-021 doesn’t yield, although he thinks some prisoners might jump, might open their eyes reflexively. He doesn’t. ISB-021 won’t crack; he won’t give Thrawn or the Emperor himself the satisfaction, even if whatever secrets he holds aren’t worth that much, anyhow. Those secrets will die with him, and the whole of the Empire can just wonder what they were.

“Agent Kallus, I do need your attention. I do very much need you to watch your rebel friends die.”

And then it isn’t Thrawn’s voice, not anymore—it’s several voices, raised in alarm: the Jedi, Kanan Jarrus; his young apprentice, the Bridger child; the Mandalorian girl, Sabine Wren; that brilliant rebel pilot, Hera Syndulla; and—

ISB-021’s eyes flutter, then open. He looks, watches as the Ghost spins, trailing flame and out of control, across a holo. Laser-fire spatters the hull, and their voices reach a frantic pitch as the ship begins to break up.

“They came looking for you,” Thrawn says; ISB-021 hates those unaffected words. “A rescue mission gone abysmally wrong.”

That face jumps back into focus in ISB-021’s mind; one scream rings far louder than the others, penetrating all defenses and lodging somewhere deep in his chest.

The Ghost comes apart, glimmering blue bits of holo data; the voices fall abruptly silent.

Kallus stands; shouts, hoarsely, involuntarily, one name: “Zeb!”

Thrawn doesn’t smile, only looks on.

... ... ...

Agent Kallus still doesn’t disclose any rebel secrets, huddled in the interrogation room, but Thrawn deduced long ago that he doesn’t possess anything of real value, anyway. His reaction is the only real intel Thrawn was after.

“Garazeb Orrelios...” Thrawn muses, knowing that Kallus sits, content now to rot, several floors below in the detention level. He examines the rebel’s file. Lasat. Honor Guard. Hard-headed. Good in a fight. No real gift for strategy. Most things he knows already, learned in the course of his general study of the rebels.

He has to admit, of all the things he expected he might discover, this isn’t it.

“Don’t fret, ISB-021...” he murmurs, to himself. “They’ll come for you—for real, this time. Perhaps you’ll even get to see him one last time. Wouldn’t that be a mercy?”

... ... ...

Kallus can remember the heat of that strange, glowing stone. He even thinks he can feel it, sometimes, cradled against his chest.

What he doesn’t feel is the warmth of a large body pressed against his side. He doesn’t think his imagination could conjure that lovely sensation, and knows that trying would break him.

The crew of the Ghost came back for him. He can’t decide if there’s any comfort in that thought, or only grief.

The interrogation room is small, and as bare as his old room had been. He’d never seen the point of personal possessions—not until he’d had something he treasured.

Kallus longs for that treasure, the meteorite that sat beside his bed, that he stared at for long hours without knowing exactly why, that he picked up and held, held close , and never wanted to let go.

He longs for what that piece of stone represented, so much so that it hurts.

No one returns to interrogate him—he has nothing more that’s worth the Empire’s time. There’s no torture, either, only neglect and crippling isolation. He thinks, sometimes, he’s been forgotten entirely. That wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks.

No one’s looking for him. Being remembered is good for very little, now.

... ... ...

“Look, I know Kallus!” Zeb’s voice fills the Ghost’s common room. “He wouldn’t just lay down and die!”

Ezra and Hera exchange a glance; it’s Kanan who says, “We’ve known Thrawn to kill people for far less. And we barely escaped, as it was.”

“We have to go back!” Zeb shouts, his fist connecting sideways with the wall. Chopper’s annoyed clattering is the only noise that follows.

Ezra says, “Maybe Zeb’s—” and is cut off.

“Without Fulcrum’s warning, we wouldn’t have made it out.” Hera’s voice doesn’t waver; holds no trace of sentimentality. “Now we have to carry on. We have to make his sacrifice mean something. Like we always do.”

Her calm, the way she avoids using his name, says only “Fulcrum,” makes Zeb bristle. His lip draws back, ears flatten; he steps forward.

“Zeb.” Kanan’s sharp tone reigns him in, and he goes still. “There’s nothing more to do, at least not now. I’m sorry.”

Zeb remains tense for a moment more, then slumps. His ears droop. “I can’t just... Karabast! It’s my fault he even...”

“Agent Kallus made his own choice,” Kanan says, rising to put a hand on Zeb’s shoulder. Though Zeb considers shrugging it off, he can’t find the motivation. “You can’t blame yourself.”

Zeb finds himself back in his room, then, with no memory of the walk there. He sits on the edge of his bunk, wiping down his rifle again and again and again, recalling a time when he used one such weapon as a makeshift splint. He remembers how fragile the human’s leg felt, not at all like a sturdy lasat limb. He recalls how very breakable Agent Kallus had felt in his arms.

Thrawn could break him—easily. Physically, if never in spirit.

“Karabast!”

Why are the others so quick to give up? It’s improbable, sure but he can feel that Kallus is clinging on. Isn’t that supposed to be a Jedi thing? Why can’t Kanan and Ezra feel it, if not Hera and Sabine? Or is he going mad?

“Karabast...” He buries his face in his hands; hopes Ezra will have the decency to leave him alone in their room, at least for a time.

He had recruited Agent Kallus—accidentally, but still—on that ice moon above Geonosis. He’d done that. Memories of that misadventure have always stirred a faint warmth in his chest, and he’d found himself proud that Kallus had, through that experience, from Zeb , found something worth rebellion.

Now he only feels cold, and frightened.

... ... ...

He feels cold, and time doesn’t exist.

Kallus sleeps when he can, and when he can’t he simply bears with it. The room is never dark, always cold. He hears his own breathing, shivering, sometimes his own heartbeat , the sounds of life accentuating the fear of death.

He huddles, conserving warmth.

... ... ...

As days turn into weeks, Zeb doesn’t forget. He stews, sometimes loses his temper. He doesn’t break ranks, but he doesn’t forget.

Talk of Fulcrum’s loss grows infrequent. Even Kanan drops the platitudes, although Ezra still spares Zeb sympathetic—pitying, sometimes, though neither of them would use that word—looks or gestures. Hera carries on, as Hera always has and always will.

As days turn into weeks, Zeb knows that lean odds are becoming abysmal. He knows what happens in Imperial prisons, even if Kallus had clung stubbornly to some threads of faith in the system.

“You will be given a trial,"  Kallus had vowed, back on that moon above Geonosis.

Kallus will receive no such fairness—Zeb would bet his very claws on it.

Yet when he closes his eyes, the feeling is still there. Flickering, weakened now, faint, but there —deep in his chest, buried behind his ribs, held safe . That the two Jedi can’t understand confounds him, but he knows .

He knows that Kallus is still alive. He refuses any notions to the contrary.

“We’re headed to the edge of the Chommell sector to pick up some fuel,” Hera says one day, brisk. “It’s a pretty deserted area, but the Chimaera’s been spotted nearby, so we have to get in and out quick . I want everybody on their toes, got it?”

Zeb’s ears perk. Thrawn’s ship...   He nods along with the others, and heads toward his station; he passes Ezra, and one moment of eye contact tells him that the kid feels it .

“Don’t worry,” Ezra says, before Zeb can snarl any threat. “I’ve got your back.”

Although it may be a simple statement about the coming mission, Zeb feels the greater weight behind it. Stunned, he nods, and then Ezra has passed—then Zeb is in the turret, body moving through the familiar, indelible process of powering up the Ghost’s weapons. The ship slides along through the endless calm of hyperspace, then springs free—white to black, a smooth exit but a jarring transition.

Zeb’s eyes widen as it hits him: Kallus is here . Before he thinks, he’s leaping down from the turret, toes splaying and legs bending as he lands awkwardly, too heavily, too hastily. He’s up and into the Phantom II in a few long strides, clearing the ladder with one leap and hauling himself up into the fighter.

“All aboard,” Ezra calls, from where he’s already in the cockpit. Zeb thinks he should say something, something, but nothing comes to mind. Ezra doesn’t wait, flipping controls and sealing off the hatch; detaching the Phantom II. He opens a com line. “Phantom to Ghost, this is Specter 6—proceed with the mission, then get clear.”

“Ezra, what are you doing?!” Hera sounds furious , and Zeb flinches despite himself.

“Just a quick pickup. Meet you back at base,” Ezra says, and terminates the transmission. He glances at Zeb. “Pretty sure she’ll kill us both, if we even make it back. Hope this feeling of yours is worth it.”

“So do I,” Zeb growls, and has no doubts that it is.

The Chimaera shouldn’t have detected them, not at this distance. Still, Zeb’s claws tear the back of the copilot’s chair as he stares over Ezra’s shoulder and out the view-port.

“It looks like there’s a debris field near the Chimaera’s location,” Ezra says, a critical eye on his instruments. “Some of it’s collected in a ring around the system’s third planet—too sparse to hide, say, the Ghost, but it should be alright for us.”

“Fine,” Zeb growls, and more fabric tears. “Just get me onboard. I’ll handle it from there.”

“I’m coming with you.” Ezra sounds as though it’s obvious. “We didn’t even grab Chopper, so finding him will be hard enough, never mind getting him out.”

Zeb starts to object, but can’t manage it. The enormity of what he’s just taken on is starting to fill his senses, blocking out all else. But there’s no turning back—that never strikes him as an option. He bears his teeth; ears flatten.

I’m comin’, Kal. Just hang tight. A little longer. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait this long.

... ... ...

Thrawn stands, nonplussed, aboard the Chimaera’s bridge.

They’ll come for him—for Agent Alexsandr Kallus, ISB-021. The rebels never leave behind someone they consider one of... “their own”.

Those attuned to the Force can tell when a person has ceased to be—though Thrawn doesn’t profess to know how that feels, exactly, he’s aware it's a skill that so-called Force-sensatives possess. Alexsandr Kallus still lives for that reason only—though Thrawn thinks it’s hardly “living”, what Kallus has been reduced to. No matter—things will be concluded, soon.

“Keep a close eye on that debris field,” he reminds the helmsmen, who murmur ascent. Thrawn has selected this place specifically—his intelligence says that the rebels will try to raid a nearby fuel shipment; he’s placed his flagship close, but not close enough to infer direct involvement with the fuel. The debris field, to the starboard, should provide sufficient cover for the Ghost to sneak up on him.

Come along, then, he thinks, and doesn’t smile—doesn’t, but almost. Come. It’ll be a lovely reunion, and I’m honored to play host.

The Chimaera glides through space along a predictable path, all but parading itself in front of the debris. Thrawn calculates where the rebels are likely to strike from; he decides they’ll try to board from beneath. As much as he wants to lure them out, it would be unwise to expose the belly of the great ship—then they might manage to get aboard without being detected. Not that they would succeed even then, or so much as escape, but it would be... irritating. Thrawn motions, indicating that they should circle above one of the planets and then loop back around to resume their mock-patrol.

Come along. Come give your dear comrade the solace of dying beside you.

... ... ...

“It’s like he’s just inviting us aboard,” Ezra says, watching the Chimaera pass above them. He eases the Phantom out of the cloud of dust that forms the planet’s ring, then zeros in on one of the ports on the Chimaera’s underside as it glides back toward the debris field.

“Y’ don’t think he is , do you?” Zeb peers up as the Chimaera blocks out any glimpse of open space. “Y’ don’t think he already knows we’re here, do you?”

“Thrawn’s good, but even he couldn’t see us coming,” is Ezra’s reply, and the ship lurches as it attaches to one of the docking ports. Ezra makes quick work of the security panel, and the access hatch pops open with a hiss. Ezra pulls himself up first; Zeb bounds behind. “We need a computer panel. Something to tell us where they’re holding him. Damn, I should’ve dragged Chopper along, for sure...”

“No need,” Zeb growls, ears flicking forward. He can feel it, like invisible threads stretched through the winding, dungeon-like hallways of the Star Destroyer’s guts. His claws twitch, recalling the pulse of energy through his bo-rifle as they sought Lira San.

The Force. This is the Force.

Ezra doesn’t question, understands, follows when Zeb takes the lead. He has his lightsaber in his hand. By luck or chance or the mercy of the Force, they go unchallenged. Zeb’s legs hum with unspent energy—longing to leap, to bound forward at a lasat’s impressive top-speed, perhaps even faster, but he holds himself in check. There’s hope, though precious little, that they might extract the Imperial prisoner without detection. He knows they can’t squander that chance, no matter how small it really is.

Hang in there, Kal... I’m here, finally! Just a few minutes more, hang on!

... ... ...

Thrawn frowns. He peers at the data pad that’s just been handed to him—the one that details the rebels, the Ghost , going about their business plundering fuel two systems away.

They wouldn’t... Have they really given up on their companion? Or perhaps... But no, they wouldn’t reveal themselves stealing fuel if they were going to loop back and attempt a covert assault on his own ship. Besides the tactical flaws in that approach, they have a foolish habit of prioritizing people over resources. This doesn’t...

Thrawn glances out at the debris field; for a moment, he nearly feels foolish. Has my bait gone untaken? A tempting treat gone stale, no longer worth the effort? Or perhaps Agent Kallus was never as valuable to them, after all? Never was counted as one of their own? 

But Kallus’ reaction to the destruction of the Ghost told him otherwise. Even if the valiant Captain Syndulla and most of the other rebels are prepared to write him off, Kallus had responded to one dying voice in particular, one person who wouldn’t pass up a rescue attempt.

Garazeb Orrelios...

Thrawn’s eyes widen, just marginally.

“Redirect security to the detention area,” he tells a stormtrooper, who nods. “Our guests may have already arrived.”

... ... ...

Zeb’s fingers splay, his hand pressing against the entrance to the detention block. Ezra fiddles with the panel beside the door, but curses when a spark singes his finger.

“We don’t have time for this...” Zeb growls, glancing back down the hallway. They won’t go unnoticed for much longer.

“Here,” Ezra says suddenly, standing. He points, and Zeb looks up to see an air vent directly above them. Ezra leaps, missing, then tries again and hooks his fingers in the grate. His feet kick out as he pulls himself up and into the shaft. “I’ll go through here, then let you in.”

Some part of Zeb objects, objects loudly , to the idea of splitting up. But he nods. “Fine. Just hurry it up.”

Ezra gives him a thumbs-up, then vanishes. It’s all Zeb can do to shift anxiously from foot to digitigrade foot. His ears swivel, looking for any sign of approaching hostiles—and it doesn’t take long for the faint tramp of boots to become audible.

“Karabast... karabast! Hurry up, kid...!”

Zeb grabs his bo-rifle, back pressed against the door; his ears, no longer perked, flatten against the deafening approach of troops. The first stormtroopers round the corner, shout back to their comrades, and then are silenced by a few quick shots from Zeb’s bo-rifle. Then the lasat stumbles, the support of the door vanishing as it slides open behind him.

“A little late?” Ezra guesses, too sheepish for the circumstances.

“Move!” Zeb snarls, shoving Ezra back and slamming a hand into the door’s control panel. It obeys, shuttling out the advancing stormtroopers and their fire.

Ezra runs the door’s control through with his lightsaber; says, “That’ll buy us a few minutes. Any idea where he’s at?”

And Zeb realizes, suddenly, that he knows —that Alexsandr Kallus is near, so near he might be able to hear a shout of his name. But Zeb doesn’t shout, only hurries forward, shouldering his bo-rifle as he does. He can taste despair, thick on his tongue.

“Here,” he growls, hand pressing against a door. There’s light beneath the door, and a sickly smell from within.

“It’s an interrogation room...” Ezra breaths, circling Zeb as he examines the entryway. After a moment, he ignites his lightsaber; angles it to slice through the door.

Zeb steps back.

... ... ...

Kallus opens his eyes. The lids stick.

There’s noise outside—not unheard of, but unusual. He’s lifted, for a moment, from the omnipresent nothingness, reminded that other living beings exist . He wonders what’s caused the commotion.

Maybe it’s the firing squad coming for him at last. The idea makes him smile.

A blazing green thing appears in his door, and Kallus startles. He blinks, convinced his vision is failing at last, or dreams have bled into reality, or perhaps he’s just still asleep. He thinks to hide his face, but can’t look away from the brilliant viridescence.

Perhaps Death wields a lightsaber.

The door shudders, then a section of it collapses outward. Kallus glimpses the boy, but then a large, violet shape is shoving past, growling, “Karabast!” as the smoldering edge of the hole singes his shoulder. Their eyes meet, hazel to green, and now Kallus knows he’s lost his mind.

Garazeb’s ears droop, and he rasps, “Kal...” Then he’s upon Kallus, and it’s all Kallus can do to wrap his arms around broad lasat shoulders, reveling in the sudden and all-encompassing warmth. He buries his face and breaths in musk, feels the rub of fur against skin, knows he’s dead and doesn’t mind in the slightest.

“Uh, we gotta go!” calls the boy, though go where Kallus can’t imagine. He gives a faint, startled noise when Garazeb—Zeb, he reminds himself, Zeb—scoops him up. He tries to speak, to question, but his voice has long since fallen to disrepair.

Zeb can manage him with one arm, and Kallus curls tight to try to make the task easier.

Blaster-fire lights up the hallway, and the boy yells; leaps back, taking cover in the doorway of the interrogation room. Blaster-fire... Kallus tries to process that, rusted gears turning and corrupted frames of training drills flashing through his mind.

Death isn’t... he thinks, and feels breath expanding and contracting his chest. He feels the pound of Zeb’s heart within that broad chest, behind taught muscle. He hears Ezra’s voice rise in panic as he dives out into the hallway, engaging the stormtroopers who’ve flooded in. This isn’t...

“Don’t move,” Zeb growls, close to his ear, and then extends his bo-rifle; the electrostaff crackles to life.

Of course... Kallus thinks, and closes his eyes as tightly as he can manage. He can’t shoot... not efficiently, at least... with only one hand.

Then there’s noise all around—the sizzle of blasters, the crunch of stormtrooper armor, Zeb’s grunts and growls of exertion. Only when it all fades back to nothingness—not quite, silence filled by Zeb’s heaving breath, the feeling of his sweat-matted fur, the sensation of his heart pounding—does Kallus peer around again.

This is indeed the entrance to the detention area—the interrogation rooms out front, before the holding cells. He remembers, now, that he never was moved into one of those cells. He looks up at Zeb, seeing the clench of the handsome jaw; the furious green eyes, alright with raw survival drive.

Kallus comes alive, then; wriggles, then thrashes; throws an elbow, to which Zeb shouts in surprise and alarm. The lasat stumbles, then goes down onto his knees, letting Kallus slide to the ground but keeping his arms around him.

“Hey—hey! What gives?!” he snarls. “Calm down! We’ve gotta get you—” 

“You’re supposed to be dead—!” Kallus chokes, the first understandable words he’s managed for he can’t say how long. And with them, he breaks; knows he’d be crying, if his neglected body had the moisture to spare. He stares at Zeb, pleading, and sees the lasat’s ears droop with understanding.

“Oh karabast...” Zeb breaths, and moves in. He rubs his face roughly against Kallus’—a marking, Kallus thinks indistinctly. Affection. Zeb does it again, the friction stirring up heat. “I’m not dead, Kal. Now we’re gonna get you out of here, okay?”

Not dead... The words echo through Kallus, and he clings—wraps his arms around Zeb and thinks he’ll never let go. Zeb chuckles nervously as he tries to stand back up.

“Can’t walk, right?” he grunts, bundling Kallus up with him. Kallus shakes his head. “S’okay. We’ll manage.”

“Guys—!” Bridger’s voice rises in a warning. Zeb turns, and Kallus too sees .

“My, this was... unexpected,” says Thrawn. He approaches calmly through the carnage, innumerable stormtroopers crowding in at his back. “That you’d come aboard alone... I mean, that makes the whole thing almost not worth the effort. If I walked away with only a lasat’s pelt after hoping for the whole Ghost and her crew, I’d have been very disappointed. But the Padawan has value, at least.”

Zeb snarls a curse, ears flattening. Bridger has his lightsaber drawn. And Kallus can only realize, slowly, Thrawn’s meaning: that he was bait . That not only was the crew of the Ghost alive—because holos can be faked, of course they can, why didn’t he think of it—but that Thrawn’s let him live to serve as a lure . The Ghost hadn’t been destroyed coming back for him, but that is exactly what Thrawn had planned to see happen.

“Kill the lasat and the spy,” Thrawn says, with a dismissive wave. “I want the Padawan alive, though.”

Zeb snarls defiance, snapping open his electrostaff as the stormtroopers charge. The first several fall, but their numbers overwhelm him as he fights one-handed, body twisted to afford Kallus the most protection. Bridger is shouting for him, but by the sounds of battle he’s quite preoccupied. The air grows hot, too hot, with weapons’ discharge.

“Karabast... karabast!” Zeb snarls, and one of his powerful feet slips; goes out from under him. He twists, broad form blocking Kallus off from the stormtroopers and their blasters. There’s a sudden flurry of weapons’ discharge, a howl of pain from the lasat, and Kallus is pitched forward across the floor, ripped from Zeb’s grasp, dizzy, aching, disoriented. The body of a stormtrooper stops his brief tumble, and he feels wet warmth spreading beneath him—his own blood or someone else’s. His eyes flutter, find Zeb, sprawled, unmoving, and all at once Kallus feels deathly cold.

“Zeb! Zeb! Cmon, buddy, get up!” The young Jedi is screaming, fighting like his legendary kin of ages long past. But Kallus knows it’s futile as Thrawn, seemingly unaffected, moves toward him. What was the child’s name? For a moment, Kallus can’t recall. Poor thing. Poor thing.

Half instinctually, half involuntarily, Kallus goes perfectly still. His breath is shallow—neigh undetectable. Stormtroopers step over him as though he’s only one more body, closing around the boy. Thrawn has stopped advancing, content now to watch as the Padawan is pinned against a wall; as his lightsaber, that ingenious invention, half-blaster half-wizardly blade, is knocked aside. Thrawn picks it up leisurely, and then glances at where Kallus lies. There’s no interest in his scarlet eyes, and he turns away again.

“Your rebel cohorts may not have bothered with poor Alexsandr Kallus, but I’m certain they’ll make the effort for you.”

Binders are slapped onto the boy’s wrists; he thrashes, fighting like a feral loth-cat, but it does no good. It can’t do any good. The scene blurs before Kallus’ eyes, and he sees the pale blue of Onderon’s sky; sees the stone and dust. Smells blood. Just like then, he can’t move. He hurts.

Purple. A breeze—there can’t be a breeze within the guts of a star destroyer, but on Onderon there was breeze, a light, hot wind rolling in from the jungle—ruffles purple fur, and Kallus sees a lasat. It’s not Saw Gerrera’s mercenary; this lasat lies in front of him, an ally shot down like the members of his unit on Onderon. If not the last lasat, one of very few, now dead, dead because of him. A bo-rifle rests nearby, knocked out of the lasat’s hand; Kallus remembers the feeling of a bo-rifle in his own hands, the trusted weight of it, the pleasant balance, the strength, the honor.

He also recalls how a bo-rifle feels strapped to a broken leg, a makeshift splint on a frozen moon. Too-large hands—hands that could mangle the fractured limb, hands that could rip it from its hip socket, hands that could kill him—winding bandages around the rifle and the femur. Lasat hands. This lasat’s hands.

Zeb… 

Kallus’ eyes flick up, watching Grand Admiral Thrawn pace across the room. He’s talking quietly into the com on his wrist. The Padawan, Ezra Bridger, still fighting, is being shoved toward the holding cells deeper within the detention area.

A few steps closer. Good.

Zeb did come back for him. Kallus savors that simple fact—Thrawn’s lie became truth. And Zeb died, in coming back for him. Lie into truth. Madness into clarity. 

The least Kallus can do is die with him.

A few steps closer. Good. Attention on his com. Good.

Kallus risks dragging himself a few inches forward. Bridger is making so much noise, struggling, scratching, kicking, biting—those stormtroopers not actively restraining him can’t help but watch, can’t resist taunting him. Someone hurries off to find a tranquilizer. Kallus edges a bit further; lets a hand, limp, rest on Zeb’s bo-rifle. He knows this weapon. By touch, he locates the catch that will spring the electrostaff; locates the trigger of the rifle.

Closer. Speaking, hushed. Distracted. Looking everywhere except the ground.

Watch your feet, Grand Admiral, Kallus thinks. You’d never live it down if you tripped over someone’s dropped blaster.

Kallus moves, an impossible surge of a failing body: gets off a shot, not perfect, good enough, which rips open the side of Thrawn’s middle, just below the ribcage; flicks a switch and swings the electrostaff. Thrawn throws up his arms to defend, shielding his head, but the weapon still delivers a punishing jolt of electricity to crossed forearms. The Grand Admiral shrieks, pain and surprise mingled, and the stormtroopers scramble. They open fire, but fatigue and a massive weight shove Kallus down, below the barrage.

“I was gonna do that,” a voice growls, bathing his ear in hot breath; Kallus freezes, gasping in the thick scent of lasat all around him, feeling the press of a furred body atop him.

“Zeb!” Bridger’s voice—there’s also the hum of a lightsaber, now, and shrieks from the stormtroopers. Zeb rolls over; bundling Kallus into one arm and picking up the bo-rifle with his free hand. Bridger has gotten free of his cuffs, somehow, and the stormtroopers are in retreat; Thrawn has vanished, though leaving a swath of blood in his wake. The room blurs as Zeb starts to run, and Kallus has to close his eyes so the resulting dizziness doesn’t overwhelm him entirely.

“Back on track, now,” Zeb growls, softly. “We’ll get you out of here, Kal.”

“Ghost to Specter Six, come in!” Kallus scarcely makes out the crackling words, and Bridger’s response is entirely unintelligible. He knows that’s not a good sign—knows consciousness is slipping away despite his best attempts. He focuses on the rough texture of fur and powerful scent of lasat, trying to anchor himself in the present, and even still loses ground.

Might not wake up. But he’s warm, and so unafraid. Sorry, Zeb... if I don’t wake...

And he’s gone.

... ... ...

Kallus thinks his hand is trapped under something heavy—something collapsed. The pressure is almost painful, and certainly not something he can escape from unassisted. He breathes slowly out, wondering what kind of nightmare he’s about to open his eyes to. Captured again, most like. Doesn’t know if he can deal with that.

Kallus gathers his strength; cracks open his eyes. Then they fly wide, because Zeb’s sleeping face fills his vision. The lasat’s head rests beside him, and Kallus' hand—warm, stiflingly so—is held down by nothing more terrible than Zeb’s own. 

“Agent. Good to see you’re awake.”

Kallus cranes to see—albeit through blurry eyes, and with an ache in his neck for his troubles—Hera Syndulla. The pilot stands above his bed, her arms crossed.

“Thought you might not pull through,” she says.

Kallus clears his throat; tries once to speak and fails, then manages, “Zeb? And Bridger?”

“Ezra’s fine,” Hera tells him. “A few scratches and a blaster burn on the leg. Zeb took a few more hits, but nothing life-threatening.”

Kallus turns away from her; gazes, instead, at the lasat asleep on the edge of his bed. Zeb's ears are relaxed, his breath even and his eyes softly closed.

“He tried to stay awake until you came to, but it caught up with him,” Hera says, warmth seeping into her tone. “He’ll be annoyed, when he wakes up.”

“He needed the rest,” Kallus murmurs, his hand flexing beneath Zeb’s.

Hera says, “We’re back with the fleet—safe, for now.”

“Thank you.”

Hera shifts uncomfortably, at that. “Thank Zeb, when he wakes up. He’s the one who never gave up on you.”

Despite everything else, that takes Kallus off-guard—to think that the lasat still came for him after... he thinks; resolves to ask, later, exactly how long he was captive. Probably an entirely unreasonable length of time.

Hera confirms that suspicion: “It’s impressive you kept your sanity. That you are alive, at all. It’s been almost two months.”

Kallus tries not to groan. Hearing that makes it all the more real. But he bares it; after two months in an Imperial interrogation room, a bit of unpleasant information isn’t anything to become hysterical over.

“I’ll go fetch the medical droid,” Hera says, and then leaves. Kallus draws a long breath; exhales.

“Hey. Kal.”

The voice makes him start, and Kallus looks over to see one keen green eye cracked open, watching him. The lasat’s ears are angled forward, almost playful.  Emotion crawls up Kallus’ throat, threatening to choke him, but he swallows it back.

“What's this?” Kallus murmurs. “Playing dead?”

Zeb chuckles, his hand flexing around Kallus’. Then he pulls himself forward, scarcely lifting his head, and butts his forehead against Kallus’.

“Glad you woke up,” he growls, and his voice is thick. “Glad you’re here .”

“Thank you, for coming for me.”

“Yeah. Always.”