Chapter Text
Enjolras runs through a grey hallway that looks identical to the twenty grey hallways he ran through before. He’s panting and running on adrenaline, and even with the Force whispering in his ear and soothing his muscles he knows he can’t keep this up much longer.
Fortunately, he thinks he’s almost back at the little hangar where Cosette landed their ship, a stolen old Imperial shuttle they lovingly renamed Republica. At the very least he’s on the same level again.
His commlink beeps with a short message: Courfeyrac has made it back to the ship, and immediately after Combeferre follows up as well.
His treasure swings in the sachet around his hip. He’s almost there, and can finally see the durasteel blast doors that lead to freedom. “Cosette, fire up the engine!”
His order is acknowledged and a low rumbling sound fills the hallway. Enjolras finally lets himself believe they made it. That this emergency evacuation, losing people and equipment, was not entirely without merit. That there is still hope for the Jedi Order and that the Empire won’t last forever. Most of all, that they made it out safely.
(There is still a space battle going on outside that they’ll have to manoeuvre through, but he’ll worry about that later. Or not, seeing they have Cosette’s magnificent piloting skills on their side.)
He’s close enough to make out Cosette’s outline through the transparisteel window, close enough to see Combeferre boarding.
He’s not close enough to pass through the durasteel doors as they suddenly slide shut.
As he skids to a stop to prevent a head-on collision, he hears the ominous rush of air that indicates he’s now trapped in this hallway. A look around confirms it: all other passages are locked.
Enjolras releases a breath and his frustration to the Force.
His prize dangles at his hip. Enjolras learned about the unfairness of life on the day of the Jedi Purge, when he was one of the lucky few to have escaped the slaughter. Since then he encountered it many times, but still he cannot comprehend how things could go so wrong.
In this case it’s obvious, though. A cough distracts him from his thoughts, from finding a way to break through the durasteel that doesn’t involve wasting precious minutes melting the metal with his lightsaber.
An Imperial grey uniform greets him, with an inclined nod and wary eyes. Those eyes are calm, determined, and chilling. The officer aims a blaster at him, and from this distance Enjolras can’t be sure it’s set to stun.
He activates his lightsaber. Aided by the Force and armed with the exquisite weapon, it should be easy to dispatch the officer. Yet something in the man’s stance makes him reconsider his chances for an easy victory. This is not someone to give up.
And, a teeny tiny part of his brain drawls, he is the one trespassing. An enormous ship like the Executor is bound to employ a security force. This man is doing his duty, nothing more.
Sometimes Enjolras makes his own life needlessly difficult.
The first blaster shot grazes his shoulder and burns through his clothes, but not his skin. That’s good.
It’s a warning shot though, and Enjolras knows that if he doesn’t surrender, the next one will be to his face.
He deflects the bolt to the wall.
In the time it takes for the Imperial to aim again Enjolras activates his comm. “Go! Take off!” he shouts into the device.
“Not without you!” comes Courfeyrac’s stressed reply.
If he weren’t a Jedi, Enjolras would curse. As it is, he bites one back as he twists out of the way of another whitehot blast.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine!” Not a complete lie, but not the entire truth either; he’s heard the horror stories of what the Empire does with its prisoners. Added to his own memories of the Jedi Purge and the fact that this is Vader’s flagship, he knows he’s not in for a pleasant time.
Courfeyrac knows as well, and is shouting louder than the average cantina band to get his attention and compel him to return. And Enjolras would love to, but he’s kind of busy with holding off the Imperial (he’s a surprisingly good fighter, given that he wears the grey of an officer instead of the white of a soldier) without killing him and Courfeyrac is a distraction.
So he yells a final “Go!” in the comm before shutting it off by slicing through the device with his lightsaber. It’s a tad drastic, but at least this way the Empire can’t use it to trace calls back to the Rebellion.
And at this point Enjolras knows he’s not going to get out of this one. While he can easily overpower one officer no matter how well trained, he’s sure more are on their way and he still hasn’t found a way to open the blast doors to the hangar. And he can’t pilot on his own.
That doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy for them.
He fights and he tries to be careful, tempers his natural Form V, tries not to take another unnecessary life. But the officer has advanced with some sort of heavy duty cudgel into melee range. He’s got to hand it to him: the man is fearless when confronted with a lightsaber.
Enjolras holds him off until finally, finally, he hears the Republica’s engines start. He relaxes the tiniest fraction: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette have escaped. That he paid the price is of no importance. He’s only just a bit disappointed they didn’t take off with the tiny cube swinging about in the sachet as he jumps out of the cudgel’s way.
He fights and the Force is with him until suddenly, it isn’t anymore. Enjolras has just enough time to process the special Force-dampening handcuffs now locked around his wrists before a blow to the head knocks him out cold.