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So this was how it would end.
His arms still hurt, under his armpits and down his biceps, from where he struggled against the troopers’ vice-like grips as they dragged him, kicking and screaming, until his voice gave out into broken sobs and his feet refused to support his tired weight. The dragging had been more literal then, down the corridors of the destroyer and past his colleagues who’d stared as they passed, and he’d been thrown roughly onto the cold, hard floor of a cell.
This is where Lieutenant Lyste found himself hours later, his throat raw from crying, tear tracks still staining his cheeks, angry red marks on his fists from pounding at the door, begging for someone to listen, to let him defend himself, to grant him some semblance of mercy. He’d run out of tears long ago, and eventually even his dry sobs had subsided until he ended up sitting silently on the ground against the wall, staring into nothing. He'd thought briefly of dragging himself onto the sorry excuse for a bed, but it wouldn't change much, as the surface had no padding to speak of, only unforgiving durasteel identical to where he was already sitting, leeching the warmth from his backside, a dull ache starting in his muscles where he hadn’t moved in longer than he cared to count.
Won’t be a lieutenant for much longer, he thought bitterly, digging his nails into his arms where they were wrapped around his torso. His whole career down the drain, and he was only twenty four. Might not even be alive much longer, really, said a second, more cynical part of his brain. Not even twenty five yet. His birthday was next month. He’d had plans to go planetside with some of his closer coworkers to celebrate. He’d even considered asking Agent Kallus if he was interested in joining them, although he hadn’t worked up the courage yet.
Oh, he shouldn’t be thinking about him now. The bile rising in his throat at the memory of his accusations, his calls for guards to arrest him for following his orders, was threatening enough that he swallowed and finally shifted, pulling his legs up and hugging them close.
Would someone tell his parents? Surely there was protocol for notifying next of kin, even for traitors who are dishonorably executed. How much would they tell them, though? Would they tell them that their bright, young, promising son had been accused of high treason? Would they tell them everything, from his sneaking around the ship to shooting one of his superior officers to his final, desperate moments where he begged for his life? Or would they deliver a cursory, impersonal message that their son, Yogar Lyste, was lost in the line of duty, along with a scant box of his personal effects? Will they mourn? Will they bother? It’s been so long since he’d been home, he wouldn’t be surprised if they react with mild disappointment before moving on with their lives. It’s not as if he’d been much of a part of it, anyways.
He pressed his forehead into his knees. He'd gone through the events of the day over and over, but he still wasn't able to make sense of it. From Kallus' cryptic pointers to… whatever had happened in the hangar, it just didn't add up. Why would Kallus tell him that Pryce was the main suspect if he was going to accuse
him
for trying to stop her? And that officer boarding the shuttle looked rather familiar, to the point where…
Wait, he knew him. That officer, a bit younger than him, with bright blue eyes and tan skin and a scar on his cheek–
Oh god, that was one of the Rebels from Lothal. How could he not have noticed?
…How did Kallus not notice? If he was right, that band of Rebels was the one Kallus had been tracking for years now. Surely he would have recognized him as he ran across the hangar to tackle Lyste to the ground and–
Don't think about that.
He didn't see the Rebel’s face, surely. He had been more focused on one of his officers assaulting his superior. Everyone had seen him stun Pryce, from Kallus to the troopers to Colonel Yularen himself. There was no denying that he did it, and he didn't think that anyone would care necessarily why he did it.
Imperial tribunals were infamously quick and to the point. There was evidence and witnesses. There was no getting out of this.
Oh, he really was going to die, wasn't he?
He pulled his knees in tighter. This was it then, he was going to be executed over a miscommunication. They were going to come in here, drag him out in front of Grand Admiral Thrawn who will declare him a traitor, and then they'll kill him and box up his quarters, ready for his replacement by the end of the day. He really wished he'd gotten around to washing his laundry the day before like he'd planned, because now it'll be sitting out when they come to clear everything out.
Strange that something as simple as that would be one of his final regrets. Worrying over his soiled uniforms shouldn't be at the forefront of his mind, but here he was. It was about his dignity, maybe, about the opinions of the people he respected, of the people he was sure wouldn't respect him much longer. Certainly not after the show he made at his arrest, he reminded himself, being dragged through the halls with troopers on either side, begging through his tears. He wouldn't be getting much respect from anyone now, especially not from the one man whose respect mattered most to him.
And there he was, letting his thoughts drift to Kallus again. His throat started to burn with the threat of renewed tears, although he was sure he had nothing left to give even if he tried. All he wanted was to earn Kallus' respect. Ever since he was first assigned to him, he seemed to be the pillar of everything Lyste strived to be– he was honorable, loyal, dedicated heart and soul to their cause, and… well. Lyste thought he was rather handsome.
There was always a little part of him that said maybe, if he could just prove himself, Kallus would look at him the way he always hoped he would. If he could conduct this mission right, if he could stop those rebels, if he could catch that spy…
Stupid.
His drive to impress Kallus had pushed him to this. He'd thrown himself into it with nothing but a few passing words from his idol and this is where he ended up. If he made it out of this–
–He wasn't making it out of this.
…He wished his mother was here.
It was a childish thought, but an earnest one. He tipped his head back against the wall, new tears somehow welling in his eyes. In this moment, all he wanted was his mother's arms around him, her soft voice telling him it would all be okay as she rocked him gently side to side, as she did when he would cry as a child. He cried a lot as a child, and it was a habit he worked hard to break so he could make it at the academy. All his efforts seemed to go to waste now, though, as those tears slipped down his face. He hadn't spoken to his mother in years. He hadn't had the chance recently to tell her that he loved her. He wouldn't get that chance now. He hoped she knew.
He hoped it’ll be fast, however they do it. Firing squad, maybe. No, the anticipation of that would be unbearable. Lethal injection wouldn’t be so bad, but he wasn’t sure they would give him such a mercy. He’d heard that execution for treason could be brutal, in order to set an example for any others who might want to betray their Empire. Just as long as it wasn’t the airlock.
Well, whatever it was going to be, he would be finding out soon.
The hiss of his cell door sliding open was a sure sign of that.