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jinmukangwrites · 2 years ago

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Bad Things Happen Bingo; holding on to what i haven't got

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: cold-blooded torture

Fandom: Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order/Survivor Rating: Mature Warnings: torture, panic attacks, seizures, kidnapping, angst (with happy ending), survivors guilt. This one is a doozy, dead doves and all that Ao3 Notes: please keep warnings in mind. Gods please let people like this one. (Also remember when I made a post that I was writing brutal whump with Yoshi's Island OST - Flower Garden on repeat? Y e a h

Summary: While mourning over Cere's body, Cal doesn't notice Darth Vader is still in the archive. Vader decides to take personal interest in Cal's capture and torture from there.

~~~•~~~

Grief overwhelms Cal. It fills his senses, blocks everything else around him out. His mind feels like it's trudging through Koboh bog tar; sinking ever further from the surface, suffocating yet not dying.

Holding Cere's corpse in his hands feels like dying.

Seeing Bode betray him, lie about who he is, feels like dying.

Echoes of her last few hours linger at his fingertips as he clutches her, weeping over her, tears splashing on her forehead.

He's so caught up in his sorrow, in the oppressive weight of guilt, he doesn't notice that someone else is still in the room until it's too late.

He doesn't hear his mechanical breathing. He doesn't feel his heavy footsteps vibrate through the ground with every step towards him. Nothing matters to him at this moment. Only Cere matters, like clutching her to his body and weeping would bring her back to life. This is his fault, he knows it's his fault, that truth consumes him, swallows him whole.

An indescribable pressure closes in around him. His brain kick-starts, fight or flight filling his veins quicker than any old STIM canister, but it's already all for naught. His body is dragged away from Cere by a pressure around his throat. He chokes, scrambling to find purchase, struggling to see through his tears, until he finds himself on his knees at the feet of the most terrifying man in the Galaxy.

Cere's murderer. Trilla's murderer. The man responsible for countless lives lost.

Darth Vader holds a single hand out, fingers delicately curved beneath his gloves like his hand is physically around Cal's throat. He looks exactly like how he did in the echoes lingering on Cere's body, cape singed, armor torn, wires sparking. Cal attempts to grab his lightsaber, his blaster, anything, but Vader doesn't allow him the chance. His air supply is completely shut off as Vader lifts his arm, bringing Cal with it, so his toes could no longer even touch the ground. The pressure increases around him, pain spreading down his throat and to his gut, intensified with his lingering mourning. The pressure on his throat is bruising, his chest aches for air and the corners of his eye-sight is fading to a reddish-black. He kicks his legs weakly, grabbing at his throat like that would ease the suffocating; albeit only succeeding in clawing his neck with his fingernails.

"You-," Vader says through the growing pounding in Cal's ears. There's humor in his tone, and Cal wants to rip him apart. How dare he sound so amused after tearing Cere away from him. "-should have surrendered."

The pressure increases a third and final time, and Cal feels himself slip away.

-o-o-o-o-

When Cal comes to, he's being dragged.

His head pounds and his throat feels like that one time he snuck into Greez's spice supply thinking he had a higher tolerance than what he actually did. There's a sharp pain at the back of his neck connecting to his spinal cord, and he realizes it's because his chin is hanging down to his chest. He tries to reposition himself in his groggy headspace, but everything feels so heavy and disconnected. It takes him entirely too long to realize his hands are locked behind his back.

The people dragging him are none-too-gentle. His shoulders feel like they're about to be ripped out of their sockets and he's becoming more and more aware of the chaffing around his wrists.

He groans, though to anyone else it might sound like a whimper. He desperately tries to open his eyes but they feel cemented shut. The loss of control over his own body sends a spike of anxiety through his entire being, though it's not like he has the strength or coordination to do anything about it. He can't even lift his chin from his collar-bones, let alone fix his legs so he's at least able to walk himself to whatever fate he's being dragged to.

Instead, the tops of his shoes continue to skid on the metal plated floor.

Suddenly, the movement comes to a stop and two pairs of arms hold him tight, their pieces of armor digging into his flesh. Voices filter through the fog, and he puts every ounce of concentration he has into making out the words.

Only bits and pieces—fractures—get through to him.

Cell block. Fifth story. High security. Vader.

He doesn't need to open his eyes, he knows where he is.

With that realization, everything becomes clearer. His eyes open groggily, and the stormtrooper commanders that stand before him are like a punch to the gut; as are the lights of the surrounding scenery. He's violently reminded that he hit his head pretty hard on the way down after fighting Bode... he most likely has a concussion.

Hopefully Imperial medics made sure he wasn't going to get lasting damage from that before carting him off to Nur. The Fortress Inquisitorius.

His mind stutters. Bode. Bode. He's a Jedi. He betrayed Cal. He called the Inquisitorius to Jedha and...

A pool of anger swirls in his gut, but he's too nauseous to do anything about it. He pushes it aside, as much as he doesn't want to. He needs to focus on the now, because the now won't wait for him to catch up.

"Alright," The stormtrooper commander says, sounding a bit smug under that helmet. His voice, like all the other voices of troopers, is distorted in a way only stormtrooper helmets could do. "You can proceed."

They do. Cal can't lift his chin, but he glares at the commander as the two troopers holding him by his biceps resume their march. The commander stares back as they leave, a self-satisfied tilt to their posture.

He can't fight these troopers, and every enemy in this building knows that. Not only is he concussed and half-suffocated, but he's sure the restraints they've put on him are reliably Force-suppressant even if he was in the right headspace to access the Force. There's a lack of weight around his hips as well, meaning they've already confiscated his lightsaber and his blaster.

It's almost mortifying to put in perspective, but he can't help it anyways. Renegade terrorist Jedi Cal Kestis, responsible for countless stormtrooper deaths and involved in three Inquisitor empty chairs, victor of several actual renegade Jedi battles, one of which was from the High Republic, and one of the highest bounties on the Haxion Brood's most-wanted list... reduced to this. A man who only needs two troopers to drag him to his fate, and he gets the feeling there's only two because he'd be a bit awkward and heavy for one.

Any one of the people in this fortress could end his life right now. The same trooper he'd previously thoughtlessly Force Push off a cliff could show the same thoughtlessness now by holding a blaster to his head and pulling the trigger.

He wouldn't be able to do a thing about it.

Though, a small part of him wonders if that would be a mercy compared to whatever Darth Vader has planned for him.

Just the thought of that monster knots his intestines. Cere...

He killed Cere.

And took Cal alive.

And the guilt slams back.

He forces himself to not think about any of that right now, shoving it next to where the anger for Bode simmers. He can't think about it, not when there's nothing he can do about it. He instead focuses his attention on his surroundings. It's further into the fortress, that much is clear judging by the more open auditorium-sized rooms around him. There are less windows here that show the ocean it webs under and more walkways that go over seemingly endless pits that glow an intimidating orange below.

He doesn't recognize the area, however. He wonders vaguely if it's because he's in an entirely different section of the Inquisitorius, or if a bit of remodeling had to be done thanks to his last visit.

The walk goes persistently forward, down corridors, across bridges, through scanners manned by droids that look like they'd love nothing more than for Cal to make a big enough ruckus for them to get involved. He tries to keep track of the twists and turns, but his muddled mind struggles to remember more than the last three details before replacing it with new information.

Luckily, he does eventually manage to get his chin disconnected from his chest, then his feet underneath him to walk on his own power between the two troopers—one of which expresses a small sigh of relief that must be from no longer having to bear Cal's weight. However, it's just in time for them to enter a cavernous chamber several stories high, walkways hugging the walls at each level where there are lines of cells that glow red with shield doors.

They take Cal to a lift located in the center of the room, then the lights below flash red before Cal's stomach lurches with the movement of the now rising elevator.

As they ascend, Cal glances at the cells around him. Most look empty, though he catches sight of a sapient creature here and there. He wonders if any of them could be Force Sensitive, though it's more likely they're prisoners of various small rebel groups with information the Inquisitorius needs to squash their groups completely. He can't assume other prisoners are like him, not when the Fortress only used to jail exclusively Force-sensitives. There's not enough of them left to keep a place like this running, so now it's just a prison for people who pissed Vader and his minions off personally.

They stop five floors up where a KX Security Droid waits at a connecting catwalk. Cal has no time to prepare himself before the droid grabs him by the back of his jacket and drags him forward, relieving the two troopers of his weight.

He loses his footing and swears to himself. At this point, it's more shocking if a KX Droid handles its prisoners gently rather than their constant aggressive need to show you just how powerless you are while under their wardenship.

The droid moves too fast for the sluggish control of his body to catch up, and once again he's dragged across the floor until they come to a cell with the shield barrier down. Cal has only a moment to think that this is going to hurt before the droid hurls him into the cell.

He crashes against the floor, landing on one shoulder and rolling until his back hits the furthest wall that isn't actually too far back from the cell's entrance. By the time he recovers, blinking stars from his eyes, the red barrier is back up, effectively cutting off any hope of being anywhere different.

The droid walks away, beginning a patrol of its level, while two troopers take guard outside the red door at either side, backs towards him, blasters held aloft.

Cal sighs, forcing his body to move until he can awkwardly push himself to a sitting position against the far-wall. His wrists ache at the rough handling, he had almost hoped they'd remove the cuffs before shoving him in one of these things.

He sits there nice and quiet, seething silently, until one of the troopers turns to look at him. He glares right at their soulless visors, and they verbally swallow before turning away.

Finally, he decides to explore, now that the guards know he's not going to act fearful or intimidated by them. He looks around the cell and it's depressingly empty. The only things in the cell itself is a line of lights in the ceiling protected by what must be the highest strength glass the Empire could get their hands on, a small chute in the back corner where certain businesses could probably be done (awkward business if Cal doesn't get his hands free), and a nearly miss-able seal in the wall which he bets opens occasionally to give nutrients prisoners usually need to stay alive whilst in captivity.

He leans his head against the cell wall and sighs deeply, closing his eyes as exhaustion lingers.

There's not much else to do besides sleep, even with a concussion. He has no hopes of escape, nor of anyone coming to find him if they've even noticed Vader had taken him. The only thing he can do is save and gather his strength. He has a feeling he's going to need it.

-o-o-o-o-

He doesn't sleep. Every time he gets close to it he sees Cere's corpse, laying there in the wreckage of her life's work. He sees Bode shooting Cordova in the gut.

The guilt is suffocating here. The pressure of betrayal a deep, endless pit.

So he does the next best thing, he meditates, even without being able to reach out to the Force. The small act of closing his eyes and focusing within instead of the chaos of the world has become second-nature to him. His connection to the Force has always been damaged since Order-66, and he's still learning how to recover till this day. Meditation has been a near constant part of his life, from when he was a lanky teen trying to find his place on Bracca, to a less lanky but not-at-all more confident adult trying to find his place in the Galaxy.

He doesn't know how long passes like that, he hardly ever is, only that a small part of him that's still aware of the outside world suddenly shouts at him to leave it, there's danger nearby.

His eyes crack open, and there stands none other than Darth Vader, accompanied by two purge troopers and a small train of white plastoid armor lining up behind.

He doesn't feel much stronger than what he was before, but his determination to not back down to this monster is as strong as ever. He gets his feet below him, then works himself up so he's standing. His head spins at the change in elevation—his tailbone makes sure to tell him it very much didn't appreciate sitting still for so long—but he forces his face to remain firm in resisting the hopelessness that desperately wants to crash into him.

Vader regards him for a second, before nodding at the SK Droid to remove the shield barrier.

Almost immediately, Vader once again squeezes the Force around Cal's throat and drags him closer. He chokes, his throat already burning thanks to the previous spout of abuse, but it only lasts a second before he's released into the waiting arms of two Purge Troopers who promptly get a good enough grasp on his arms that definitely suggests an unwilling frogmarch in his future.

His head aches.

Vader turns heel, without saying a word, his new-and-or-repaired cape swishing around his intimidating size as he does so. Cal's handlers instantly follow, but this time he luckily manages to keep his footing despite the fast pace Vader leads. Troopers form in behind them, and Cal knows it's more for show than about actual worry that he'll try to escape. Vader wants to parade him, show him off to the other prisoners and any potential disloyal officers and troopers what happens when you go against the Empire.

Look, this all says, behold, a Jedi, a traitor and a terrorist, reduced to another prisoner at my hands. He could not beat me, what hope to you have?

The truth of it is obvious; Vader wanted Cere dead, and he wanted Cal an example. The fact of it sits heavy in his stomach as they get to the lift and they place Cal at its center for every meager prisoner to see. He's only alive because he's an easier target than Cere. A more well known name. They will project his capture to the Galaxy. Every friend, every bounty hunter, every person who looked up at his wanted poster, will know the last Jedi has fallen.

"You are not the last Jedi, Cal," Cere's voice says in his head, an echo from a long time's past.

"It feels like it," he snaps back. "Who else other than me are still fighting?!"

"Sometimes," Cere says gently, "laying low and trying to live a normal life is a win enough against the Empire. Not everyone can be as strong as you."

Yeah, and look where that's got Bode.

Anger swirls at the thought of Bode, but anxiety replaces the emotion as he looks ahead at Darth Vader. He's not completely sure Vader can sense emotions, but the Fortress Inquisitorius is the last place he'd like to give that an experimental test to.

The lift comes to a stop, and the march continues. They take him out a different doorway than what he entered, and the corridor isn't a long one. After all, it's only more work for the captors if the interrogation room is further away from the holding cells.

Eventually, they turn into a room that Cal knew he'd eventually find himself in. The chair sits at the center, controls of all kinds lining the walls, the front of the chair left clear for taunting and gawking.

Well, at least Cal doesn't have to wonder where he'll sit.

The Purge Troopers haul him forward, arms tight around his own as another trooper unlocks the bindings behind his back. Cal only has a second to appreciate movement in his shoulders before he's turned and forced into the chair, arms holding his own down to the rests where thick bindings lock in place. Cal carefully keeps his fingers from touching the chair, breathing steadily and keeping his chin high as the rest of the restraints are locked in place. Even with his gloves, he can feel memories of horror trying to reach out to him.

"Consider yourself lucky, terrorist," one Purge Trooper hisses quietly, only for Cal to hear. "It's not every day Lord Vader personally attends an interrogation."

"Nice to know I have a fan," Cal replies coldly, throat aching. His voice is rougher than he imagined it would be, but it's not surprising, it did take a beating.

The Purge Trooper tenses, like he'd want nothing more than to slug Cal for that one, but with Vader in the room he keeps to protocol.

Once every latch, every strap, is wound around Cal's limbs, leaving him completely pinned and helpless to anything anyone in this room wants to do to him, the Purge Troopers retreat further back into the room, leaving Cal a straight on view of Vader who stares heartlessly back.

"If you want to know where other Jedi are," Cal starts, pushing through the soreness of his neck and his pounding skull, "or where Saw Gerrera is, then all this is a waste of time. I have nothing to say to you."

Vader's mechanical breathing is all that answers him for a few moments, until Vader takes a step forward. "You are naive to think that is all this is about."

Cal can't shrug, there's no give in the restraints to do so, but he can at least tilt his head and sigh. "A guy can hope."

Vader doesn't laugh, but the amusement is clear in his voice when he replies, "you will discover that hope is pointless here."

He turns and regards a nearby trooper. The trooper takes the silent, near movement-less signal to turn to the controls.

Cal doesn't see what they do, it's a blur of things powering up around him. Twin arms connected to the chair extend out in front of him, and despite him knowing what to expect thanks to Trilla's echo, it does nothing to prepare him for the pure agony that rips through him as the plates connected to the arms press against his chest.

He had no delusions of being able to withstand this with his dignity intact. He's experienced this before, through an echo yes, but for those minutes he was Trilla. He knows that the pain immediately consumes every sense, every thought. He knows that it will take his sight, his hearing, his ability to control his voice, all within a heartbeat. Staying stoic though this is a pointless dream.

It still hurts more than what he thought it would. There's not a single cell on his body that seems to not be in instant pure agony. It's all he can feel, it's all he can think about. It's constant and brutal, he knows no matter how many times he's put in this chair, now matter how long they keep this going, it's a pain he'd never get used to.

His entire body seizes at the torture, limbs flailing and tugging at the restraints but going nowhere. He screams, the pain consuming whatever bravado and strength he had gathered up almost immediately.

By the time the pain stops, his body goes boneless in the restraints, muscles spasming against his control. The restraints dig through his clothes and into his skin, his struggling promising bruising. There's blood in his mouth, he's bitten his cheek.

Luckily, his gloves are doing their jobs. The echoes are strong here, and while he's gotten better at picking and choosing what ones he allows to enter his mind, powerful ones can always sneak up on him when he wishes they wouldn't.

He pants, his throat rough and eyes blurry. He has no idea how long that session has lasted, but he forces his eyes to look up and through his fog-covered sight he sees the vague form of Darth Vader, exactly where he had been before it started, staring at Cal like he was nothing more than an experiment to observe.

Cal glares the best he can at Vader; he desperately wants to use some choice insults on the monster, but his throat feels scratchy beyond belief, like he'd swallowed pins. So, instead he gathers the blood in his mouth and spits it to the floor.

Vader doesn't react vocally. He just raises a hand—it takes Cal every ounce of strength he has left to not flinch—but instead of choking him with the Force, he waves at the trooper at the controls again.

The chair whirrs back to power, and the pain devours him once again.

-o-o-o-o-

He's tossed into his cell like he's an afterthought.

His limp body crashes on his side near the center of the floor. He doesn't move from that spot for a long time, not when he can still feel his muscles twitching. Stars, it hurts to breathe. They did three sessions on him before finally removing him from the chair and replacing his cuffs, mercifully in front of his body now instead of behind. Vader had left some time during the third session, which rubs Cal the wrong way only a little.

By the time he feels like he has the strength to move more than his left ankle, he slowly pushes himself up so he's sitting. Two stormtroopers, their white plastoid colored pink thanks to the red shield barrier, guard his cell, so Cal makes a mental note to try and hold back on any grunts or potential future weeping. He can't control his dignity in a torture chair, but here? Here's the only place he probably can.

He looks around himself and notices the hatch at the far side of the cell is open, and just like he suspected there's a small serving of rations waiting there for him. Dried meat, dehydrated vegetables and fruits, a cup of water that one of his guards note that if he doesn't return the cup he won't be getting any more, and a fist size chunk of bread. In honesty, Cal's shocked by the amount of food here. Decent food too. Could it be because the Empire knows that to keep prisoners alive they need just as much nutrients as everyone else? Or maybe this is all he gets until whenever tomorrow is, or longer.

He decided to not risk it, choosing to sip on the water slowly to soothe his sore throat and avoid aggravating the inside of his bitten cheek. Then he nibbles on little tears of bread, leaving the meat and greens for later just in case.

He hasn't realized how hungry he is until now, however. The last time he ate was... was when Cordova was fixing the Compass. How long ago was that? At least a day. Realistically maybe two. His lips are chapped, something he hasn't noticed until now, and once he finishes the bread his stomach still feels empty.

He sighs and leans against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his bound arms up and over so they're near his boots, allowing his forehead to rest on his knees. His entire body aches, and his muscles feel more sore than that one time he got triple pay for scaling an entire star destroyer on Bracca to fix a loose wire on the lift.

He just has to remain strong. He can't let the Empire win, not when they've already taken so much from him. He'd rather die first.

But he also has the horrible feeling he doesn't get a choice in the matter.

Every so slowly, the soreness and exhaustion pulls at him, luring him into an uneasy sleep regardless of the thoughts that creep up when his mind slows enough to no longer be able to fight them off.

-o-o-o-o-

Luckily, he doesn't remember what he dreams about, that way he can at least feel a little rested once he's yanked out of sleep by the unfeeling grasp of that kriffing security droid.

He only just manages to push through the lethargic mud in his joints and muscles to stay on his feet once he's manhandled into the waiting arms of two Purge Troopers.

Cal bites off a groan, fists clenched in front of him while the two troopers grab him by the arms and march him off towards the lift. He desperately wants to ask how long he's been asleep, how long he's been here, but he keeps his jaw tight as he recognizes the direction they are dragging him to.

Guess his presence wouldn't be graced by Lord Vader this time. Tragic.

They make quick work strapping him back into the chair and he doesn't resist like how he's sure the troopers would love him to. This time, they're not professional about how they handle Cal, tightening restraints to the point of pain, taunting him, the expected. There are several other troopers in the room to stand guard at the walls, but it's the two Purge Troopers who do the most manhandling. Cal can't tell if they're the same troopers or not from the day before (supposing it had been a day). He wonders if that should be something he should worry about, if they switch out who tortures him then no one can get bored of his torture besides Cal.

Once Cal's painfully strapped in, he closes his eyes and leans back against the headrest.

Get it over with, he silently begs, clenching his jaw.

Once it becomes clear Cal isn't going to stoop down to react to the trooper's taunts today, a quick series of buttons and levers are activated. The chair whirrs up, and the pain begins.

He had almost hoped a night's rest between sessions would make it so it didn't hurt as badly.

He's wrong.

-o-o-o-o-

Here the thing with the pain. It feels like being unmade. It burns more than a lightsaber. Punches harder than a Mogu. It has claws sharper than a rancor. It grabs and drags its victims under an ocean of misery quicker than any Oggdo Bogdo's tongue. Cal knows without a doubt that it's the most pain he's ever been in. All encompassing, like he's jumped into a pool of acid but worse. Every muscle, every tendon, every joint, it all feels like he's being burned away by the heat of a supergiant sun, or sucked into the endless black-hole within the Deep Core.

Cal nearly blacks out in the third consecutive round this time, but he thankfully manages to hold it together long enough for the sweet sound of the chair powering down.

He's once again completely limp within his own body, like he's in an echo, trapped in someone else's head with no access to the limbs.

Whatever soreness he felt the day before, it's worse now. The thought of moving a single joint sends warning sirens in his throbbing head, he'd feel any attempt at movement he makes.

He blinks black spots from his vision, but quickly realizes a group of black spots stick around and form a familiar silhouette.

He releases a shaky breath. "Can't keep... away can you?" He asks, his voice low and gravely, breathless.

"You are a stubborn one," Vader notes. "Many before you have succumbed by now."

"S-so I can leave?" Cal asks, forcing a fake cheerfulness through his certainly damaged vocal chords. He ignores the comment that others had given up by now. How long did Trilla last? Cere?

"And lippy."

"What do yuh-" he's slurring, frustration pools in his stomach at that realization, "you want ff- from this?"

"Nothing," Vader says coolly. "What happens from here is entirely up to you. You can continue to resist, and you will continue to suffer. Or, you can give in, and we can find a place for you within the Inquisitorius."

"This," Cal pushes out, lips twitching into something that feels like a smile, "is the weirdest... juh- job interview I've eh-ever had."

"Your strength is formidable," Vader continues, and Cal celebrates a little victory at the tightness that forms in his own voice. "But you are naive. Join the Inquisitorius, and we can complete your training. You'll have armies at your command."

"I've already comp... completed my training."

"You are a Padawan," Vader replies, "your master died during the Purge, did he not?"

Annoyance flairs in his chest. Padawan. The Empire still insists calling him as such, even his wanted posters call him that. "I'm-m a Jedi Knight," Cal says, forcing his voice to remain even. It takes effort, but he's slowly regaining himself.

"Are you?" Vader asks. "Which Jedi council member approved your knighthood?"

Cal grinds his jaw for a moment before answering. "Cere. The woman you murdered."

He lets the anger get the best of him right there. However, he lets it wash past him, and Vader doesn't note on it.

"Unfortunately, she was not a council member, so your knighthood is invalid. She wasn't even your Master, she had no authority to approve such a thing."

"Yeah but, doesn't that look bad for you guh... guys?" Cal asks. "I mean... a Padawan took down three of your students."

"It does not matter what you are titled," Vader replies. "Whether you are a Padawan or a Knight, you have little understanding of the true power of the dark-side. What embracing your anger can accomplish."

"I'd rather," Cal says, anger rising once again. He swallows. "I'd rather rot in your prisons than join you."

Silence settles between them, Vader's mechanical breathing filling the room. Not a single trooper moves, not even to shuffle their feet. Cal lifts his chin, his neck and spine protesting, but he has to show that he's not afraid. He's in pain. He's admittedly angry. He's grieving. But he's not afraid.

Finally, Vader turns to the trooper at the controls. "Begin level two, only stop before his heart does."

Then he turns and leaves, cape flapping behind him.

Cal nearly panics then and there. Level two? There's multiple levels and he'd only been on one? Begin it now?!

He sucks in a breath of air, squeezing his fingers into his leather gloves. The chair erupts into life around him, and the world explodes into pure, unimaginable agony.

-o-o-o-o-

He opens his eyes, and he's on the floor of his cell. His mouth feels numb and tastes foul... like... like bacta. He runs his tongue across the inside of his cheek, but stops when it's his tongue that reveals itself in sharp pain. He... he bit his tongue.

He can't remember much before blacking out. Only that the pain was indescribable and the breaks never felt like enough. It's the kind of pain that your brain immediately tries to forget, which is helpful right now but won't be the next time he's strapped to that kriffing chair. He won't be able to remember what to prepare for, it will shock him each and every time.

Level two. Level two.

He doesn't know how long he's been out, long enough for his muscles to stop spasming at the least. His arms are back to being bound in front of him, and when he slides his eyes across the empty cell, he sees the food latch open, nutrients and water waiting for him, completely replaced. A ping of regret at not eating the entire thing the day before flashes through his mind, but he gets over it quickly. The thought of moving and eating makes him want to throw up whatever bile is in his stomach.

So he ignores that as he begins to notice another problem regarding human biology. He supposes it's a mercy that he hasn't lost control over his own bowels while being tortured, though his body probably didn't have much in it to lose in the first place. The bacta they used on his tongue must have given him some hydration whether that was intentional or not.

He breathes, in and out, frustration becoming a familiar emotion. He tries to reach out to the Force for strength, but like fingers slipping through fine sand, he grasps nothing.

He experiments wiggling his feet and moving his hands. Pain follows, another increasingly familiar reality for him, but eventually he works up enough resolve to slowly raise himself to his hands and knees. It's slow, and torturous, but he persists because pushing through the pain seems preferable to embarrassing himself by not making it to the waste chute.

When he finally makes it to his feet, he realizes this is the first time he's stood on his own power since... since before he came crashing to his knees clutching Cere's corpse. Every other time it's been him being frogmarched or dragged between bouts of laying or sitting on the ground.

His balance is out of it. He quickly places his hands against the nearest wall as pins and needles shoot up his calves and thighs. Each step is miserable, the heel of one foot barely making it past the toes of the other with each movement. Yet, eventually, he manages to get himself to the corner with the chute. Thankfully, it's in the back corner, so he has some semblance of privacy as he solidifies his balance and removes his hands from the wall to awkwardly unbuckle his belt and undo the buttons of his pants near his groin.

At least it's only a number one.

Once he manages to redo the buttons and belt with his bound hands, he shuffles away from the chute and just... stands there. Everything hurts, and standing is doing nothing to help, but he can't help but think about the next time he'll be taken from this cell, and how much weaker he'll be once he's back in.

Two days. Two days of this, and he's already considering the possibility of never standing on his own two feet on his own power again.

So he stands there, breathing, suffering every wave of pain and exhaustion that crashes into him, determined to make him lose his balance.

He wonders where everyone is. If they're okay. Merrin, Greez, BD, B-

Merrin and Greeze and BD-1 only.

He wonders if they got away alright. Surely, if his friends were captured too, Vader would have known to use them against him. So they must have left, probably to retreat onto Koboh or some other relatively safe planet.

They left without you.

They can't have known where he'd gone either. Not when he left in a rush to chase after Bode. For all they knew, he could be wherever Bode is. There's no reason for them to think Cal returned to the archive, concussed and aching, just in time to be captured.

They left without you. Again.

Maybe they'll find Bode; find a way onto Tanalor without the Compass, and when they see Cal's not there the announcements of his capture should be widespread.

And.

And what? Infiltrate Fortress Inquisitorius when Darth Vader himself is overseeing his torture? If any of the others tried to get to Cal when he's this deep in Bantha-fodder they'd be killed. Or worse, strapped to the chair. Would they make him watch? Or would he be none-the-wiser until their broken bodies are dumped at his feet.

They wouldn't risk coming for you.

No. He hopes they stay away. Keep safe. Lay low. Cal will... Cal will get himself out of this. As long as he's alive, there is always hope, yeah? Darth Vader doesn't seem determined to kill Cal. He seems to think a lifetime of torture until Cal gives up living is a worse, more fitting fate. He'll get himself out of this, and the others will be safe. He can't be responsible for their deaths, not like... not like how he's responsible for Cere's.

Why would they risk coming for you? They've already proven there's things worth leaving you behind for.

His vision swims at the thought of Cere, only this time he can't chase it away. It feels like he's been eaten alive by the guilt, then spat back out. It's his fault. He brought Bode to Jedha, and he dragged Cere into this. Thoughts of Tanalor, the peace it promised, it all seems so useless now. A waste of time. Every time Cal tries to do something good, it ends up getting better people killed.

Prauf. Gabs. Bravo. The twins.

Cere.

Who's next? Who else will die for your heroics?

He can still hear her voice, gasping his name as she dies alone. He should have been there. He should have stayed to help fight.

Merrin? Greez? You tie Merrin down, and Greez lost his arm because of you.

His back hits the cell wall, his stomach is heaving. It's taking all of his power to keep the guilt from becoming verbal. Calm down, he begs himself, Calm. Down.

What about Mosey? Moran? Turgle? Toa?

He bites the inside of his cheek, right where the previous wound had been before the bacta healed his mouth. His eyes sting.

Dana? Pili? Scoova? Grock's already dead, it's because you couldn't stop the Empire. It's because you got involved.

No one can save him.

No one should save you.

It'll only get them killed.

You will get them killed.

-o-o-o-o-

"Gag him."

"What? Why? I like hearing him scream."

"Doctors orders. Apparently him biting his tongue off would hinder Lord Vader's plans."

"Fine. Keep still, terrorist. If you bite me I'm making sure you get no water tonight."

"That would also hinder Lord Vader's plans."

"Oh shut it, boot licker."

-o-o-o-o-

Cal's earlier fears are confirmed when he wakes up, tossed into the center of the cell.

He can't move. The thought of moving, let alone standing makes him want to weep.

At this rate, he's going to waste away here knowing yesterday was the last time he ever stood.

Maybe he's being dramatic, or the constant fear of this place is finally getting to him, but he can't help but think about it.

He... he's never leaving this place.

He can't conserve his strength, not when the torture eats it away. He can't memorize a path out of here, not when he doesn't ever leave further than the hallway next over. He can't kriffing stand.

And his friends aren't coming for him.

Something catches in his throat, and he curls up on himself, clenching a fist and biting on his knuckles to muffle the sudden fit of sobs that want nothing more than to burst through his mouth. He can't cry here. Here, he needs to be strong. Here, he has to maintain whatever self-respect he has. The torture is expected to break him, demean him down to a sobbing wreck, the worst versions of himself. But in the peace of the cell, he has to prove that he's not affected and that nothing the Empire does will affect him outside of that chair.

He chokes down the sobs, biting his knuckles until it hurts more than the hopelessness.

-o-o-o-o-

Twice more. He's brought to that room twice more with nothing changing. Nothing new. Nothing surprising. He gets dragged to and fro in a daze each time, having no strength to walk himself. They continue with the second level of the torture-chair, doing a small handful of rounds each session, gagged, depositing him back in the cell barely conscious.

It's a brutal system, torturing him, then allowing him to sleep, eat, get rid of bodily waste, then torture him again. He knows what the point of all of this is; it's to break him. The fact that Darth Vader had taken personal interest in his torture is clear enough that he's determined to make Cal an apprentice.

But Cal still wishes there were at least questions to refuse. Something to protect. Ultaniums offered to make everything hurt less.

But no, this is just cold-blooded torture. Vader only wants to push Cal until he breaks, and it doesn't seem to matter to him if breaking means Cal losing his life... or losing his soul.

Cal will never let that happen. Not even to make the torture stop.

If clinging to life and light, no matter how agonizing, is the only way for him to resist the Empire, then he can't let go of it. Ever.

Doesn't stop him wishing that he was anywhere but here.

But he can't go anywhere. And no one is coming, because they're better off without him.

-o-o-o-o-

A day passes, a session of torture, and Cal finds himself waking up to being dragged towards the room with the chair. Panic forms at the thought that he was so exhausted from the last session that not only did he sleep for entirely longer than what he intended, but he didn't wake up when they came to grab him again. He's a light sleeper, always has been. He should have been up the second the enemy stepped foot in his cell, let alone when they grabbed him.

He grunts, his heart pounding against his will. No, no he can't go back to that damn chair, not when he swears he's just returned from it.

Every waking hour is turning into agony, deep exhaustion drowning him so he has no time to just be awake and alone.

An animalistic part of himself wants to dig his heels in, struggle and beg. He can't do this again so soon, he hasn't realized until now how needed those hours alone in his cell are. He needs to prepare, he needs to stretch out the aches, he needs to not be helplessly and fully restrained.

The panic turns into full-blown terror the second he's hauled into the torture room. Not because the sight of the chair has added to his current fight or flight, but because Darth Vader is here, standing there impossibly still, soulless eye-visors practically seeing right into Cal.

It takes monumental effort to calm himself, swallow down the urge to cry out and struggle. He can't- he can't break like this, here and now. He can't, not in front of this monster. He clenches his jaw and fists, trying not to let anything show through the cracks as his escorts surprise him by not taking him to the chair, but by bringing him to Vader's feet, shoving him down to his knees. Hands grab his shoulders to keep him upright as another hand grabs his hair, forcing his head up for his face to be in full view of his captor.

Vader regards him for a moment, silent and at ease.

Cal's no threat. He's less than a threat. The troopers could push him down and Vader could break his neck with the heel of his boot without his mechanical breathing changing a single fraction of an even pace.

"I can sense your fear," Darth Vader says in that annoyingly regal accent of his.

Cal doesn't respond, he doesn't trust himself to right now, especially for anything quippy. Instead, he focuses on his breathing, using these precious seconds to prepare himself for the impending torture. If Vader is here, they must be planning on upping the ante.

"Silence will delay nothing," Vader continues. "We have been examining the remains of the Archive, looking for something in particular; a word I have heard of, but did not know what it entailed. Much of the Archive has been destroyed, but just as much had been confiscated and it was only a matter of time until I found what I was looking for." Out of his robes, he pulls a datapad and holds it up like it's something Cal's supposed to recognize.

"What," Cal croaks, "does that have to do with me?"

He's almost surprised he can talk.

Vader takes a moment to answer, as if reveling in the dramatic effect. "The choice of your apprenticeship was a very much discussed topic within the Jedi Council. You could not be taught by anyone, but by a Jedi who had mastered patience, compassion, grace under pressure. Jaro Tapal had been a choice many saw coming."

The conversation throws Cal off. He... what? He takes a moment to consider the words, and his stomach grows into a horrifying pit. "You were a Jedi," he whispers, voice shaking.

"No," Vader says, a touch sharply, "I killed that man myself. However, that man I used to be had worked with Tapal before during the Clone wars. At first, he had paid no mind to you, having heard rumors but found no use of you for himself."

Cal's breath caught in his chest. Vader had been a Jedi. He had worked with his Master. He. He had met Cal. Cal desperately goes through his faded memory of his life before Order 66 for any Jedi who had seemed off to him, like they were destined to become one of the cruelest men to ever live. He comes up with nothing. He's so consumed in this revelation that he almost misses what Vader says next.

"Psychometry."

Cal feels his blood run cold. His mouth goes dry. "W... What?"

"Psychometry," Vader repeats, humor lacing his distorted tone. "The word I had heard of, yet didn't know the full meaning." He waves the datapad again. "The thing the Jedi Council called you blessed for. You have the rare ability to touch an object and experience the emotions living creatures had imprinted on it. You experience these memories as if you were that creature yourself, you feel the pain, you feel their emotions. Sometimes, if a memory is strong enough, you have no choice but to enter it. All it needs is skin contact."

Cal can't breathe.

"I wonder, what memories have you been so persistently avoiding in that chair?"

Cal can't breathe.

"Remove his gloves."

And something breaks in Cal.

"No-" he gasps, curling his hands to his chest as a trooper approaches. "No please-"

He's pathetically weak as the trooper grabs his hands by the cuffs. He can't even try to fight back, but growing terror doesn't understand that, it's almost like it's not him anymore. He tries to pull back, shouting at them to stop, to not touch him, to leave him alone, but no one listens. Soon, his gloves are ripped from his hands and the first sob breaks through. His two escorts waste no time hefting him up and bringing him to the chair, and for the first time Cal tries to dig his heels in.

The sudden fear of what they were about to do gives him the ability to tap into a hidden pool of strength that he didn't know he had when the cuffs are removed.

"STOP!" He grabs onto the Force and with a scream, everything goes slow and red.

All except Vader.

The slowing effect barely seems to have gone noticed as he waves a hand, dispelling the slow on himself then grabbing Cal with the Force around his neck and shoving him down to his knees once again.

It's like the universe is only Vader and Cal. Troopers move around them, but at a fraction of the speed they should be going in. Cal barely pays attention to them, choking and gasping for air through the panic as Vader approaches.

"Strong with the Dark Side," Vader muses, victory in his voice. "You will make a fine Inquisitor. Surrender, Padawan, and there will be no more need for the chair."

Cal shakes his head, a new sob tearing through his closed throat.

"Very well," Vader says just as the red begins to fade and the universe catches up to speed. "Suffer longer. You will be mine sooner or later."

Cal's yanked to his feet the second Vader releases him. All of his strength is gone, and he can only whimper and cry as he's strapped into the chair once more. He tries to curl his fingers into his palms, but eventually his hands are grabbed and pulled flat. He screams in frustration, straining against the restraints, until Vader gives a signal and both of his hands are pressed flat against the chair.

His vision erupts into white, and soon his existence becomes nothing but a thousand screams all at once.

-o-o-o-o-

Her name is Leodra, and she's screaming. She's a nobody, she only survived the Purge because she's nobody. She's not a fighter, she's a researcher, and instead of being at the front lines of the Clone Wars, she was off on some Outer Rim moon trying to figure out what made the flora there pink instead of blue.

But she got caught, her yellow bladed saber hardly did anything to defend her when she barely had the skills to use it in the first place.

This is only her second time in the chair, and she wishes nothing more for it to end. Her tortures already look bored with her immediate sobbing, her pitiful attempts to fight back.

She's screaming, and the black robed Inquisitor decides she's not worth the effort, and runs their red bladed saber through her chest before the chair even turns off. She's nothing, and she dies like it too.

-o-o-o-o-

Corbey pulls at the restraints, he doesn't know why he's here. He's not a terrorist, he barely even knows what the Force is.

"Why were you harboring a traitor?" The trooper demands, and Corbey chokes a panicked laugh.

"What? That old guy?"

"He's a wanted criminal, and all reports show you've been providing him shelter for weeks now."

"He's been helping on the farm, I..." he swallows thickly. "I didn't know he was a Jedi."

"I see. Did you catch where he left before your arrest?"

"No I- I have no idea where he went."

"Pity."

A trooper shoots him in the chest as the Inquisitor turns and walks away.

-o-o-o-o-

Mar hates this. This pain. The torture. The being hunted just because of how he was born.

The anger swells in him, and in that anger, this pain, he can feel tempting power at his fingertips.

He dips into the Dark Side, lifting the trooper at the controls into the air and slamming them down. The chair power downs, and he sags. His torturer smiles.

-o-o-o-o-

They can't believe Bele turned them in. They thought Bele was their friend, but the Inquisitorius burst into their hideout and took them away, Bele standing outside the doorway without a single tear to show for it.

Betrayed. They will die here.

-o-o-o-o-

They're not coming. His friends aren't coming for him. Nothings worth it anymore. The Order is gone, and there's no getting out of this.

What's the point?

The Darkness swaddles him gently, and his anger blows out the lights.

-o-o-o-o-

Memory after memory assaults Cal. He'll never get used to the feeling of dying—Cal's probably the only one in the Galaxy who knows what it feels like to die in so many ways—but it's the ones where the Dark Side is tapped into that terrify him the most. Every time, it feels good. It feels like winning. It feels like taking his fate into his own hands.

Memory after memory. Jedi after Jedi. This chair has taken so much, and it's shoving it into Cal against his will.

Jedi who tried to hide. Jedi who tried to fight. Civilians caught in the crossfire.

He loses itself in them. One after another. He's not Cal, he's Veri, she's Antian, they're Gisray, Tora, Vee, Darrleon, name after name, face after face, death after death.

Then, Cal's yanked out of it.

He's laying on the ground of the torture room, curled up on his side suffering. Every muscle is screaming out in pain and exhaustion suffocates him. There's a woman above him, hand on his shoulder but face turned toward the troopers standing around her. Darth Vader is nowhere to be seen.

"-zure passed, I need him in med bay-"

He can feel the Force, but it's tainted. It's broken. He broke it.

His eyes start closing, and everything goes black.

-o-o-o-o-

Cal dreams of the Mantis.

Up until this point, his time sleeping had always been silent, darkness. If he dreamt, then it was never remembered.

Yet, right now, it seems the added mental torture of his stay has allowed the dreams to slip through.

He sees Greeze, he's yelling at Cal to give up on the Empire. They're too strong, and at the rate they're going, they're all going to get killed. He can't take Cal wherever Cal wants to go anymore, not when it's already cost him his arm.

He sees Merrin, she's refusing to meet his eyes, she needs to leave. The Empire is too small for her, she needs to see more than the Empire. Cal is too small for her, or at least not enough to convince her to stay.

He sees Cere, she's laying dead in his arms. As he weeps over her, her voice creeps into his mind. This is his fault. He led the Empire, Bode to the Archive, the Archive that he never cared enough to ask about in the first place.

He sees BD-1, he's mourning over Cordova's corpse, not turning to Cal when Cal calls for him desperately.

Leave you, they all say, not worth it.

He sees himself, strapped to a chair, all of them stand before him as Bode turns on the controls. As the torture begins, Cal begs for them to help, and one by one, they turn their backs on him, and he's left to the suffering he's brought upon himself.

They're not coming-

They're better off without him-

His fault his fault his fault his FAULT-

"I was happy," Greeze shouts, "and you dragged me back in!"

"If it weren't for you, I'd still be alive to continue my work," Cere says, ice in her dead eyes.

"When I'm with you," Merrin hisses, "I feel trapped."

Please no- please don't leave him-

But it's for their safety, if they leave him, they won't get hurt-

He doesn't care, he doesn't want to be here anymore, he doesn't want to be alone anymore, he doesn't want to hurt anymore-

You will die here. And none of us will miss you.

-o-o-o-o-

His eyes sliver open. He's laying on his back, arms to his sides, but there's a pressure around both wrists. Groggily, he turns his head to the side to see a medical cot placed below his body, his wrist strapped to the side railing. Around him, bright lights and sterile smells assault his senses. He's in a new room, one he hasn't been in before. It's small, housing only a few other cots like his own, but they're empty. There's a door in front of him, and a woman standing by his side, her uniform making it clear she's an Imperial medical worker.

She's standing tall, her back turned slightly toward him, a blaster raised in her hands and aimed at the closed door.

He blinks, confused at his new setting. There's... there's a scuffle going on outside that door. Blaster bolts are firing, stormtroopers shouting. Cal desperately wants to find out more, ask what's going on, but it feels like he's trapped in a thick cloud of fog. Everything aches, down to the center of his brain. He recognizes this feeling and something bitter curls in his stomach. He hasn't had a psychometry seizure since he was fifteen. He's been doing so good.

No, focus Cal. There's a scuffle. A medical officer pointing her blaster at the door. He's tied to a cot in a new room. Focus. Focus. He looks at the restraints and something terribly hopeful fills his veins. They're medical cuffs, not Force-suppressant. He doesn't know if that's careless on the Empire's part, or if Vader actually did do his research and knows that his seizure was caused by the Force, and wounds caused within the Force must also be healed by it.

Maybe that's why, despite his exhaustion and the typical after-effects of his seizure, he feels more... aware. Present. He feels the Force nuzzle his consciousness, a sickening taint to it but there nonetheless. That, and perhaps also the medical officer being too good at her job.

He doesn't know what's happening, but he can't waste this.

Push through the pain, Cal, it's what you're good at.

As the shouting gets louder outside the door, Cal twists his wrist, clumsily trying to grab onto the cuffs with the Force and break himself free from the bed.

It feels like he's a Padawan again, and frustration causes him to press a bit too violently. The cuff breaks free, yes, but the arm of the cot gets bent outwards, nearly hitting the medical officer.

She shouts, shocked at his sudden movement, and turns to point the blaster at him instead.

He lifts his free hand to- to he doesn't know. Push her away and have her come back again? The adrenaline is surging. He wants her gone. He wants them all gone.

He grabs her throat with the Force and lifts her by the neck. Anger easily fuels him.

She chokes, a flash of fear swimming through her wide eyes, but she manages to point her blaster at him and fire. He drops her before her aim could be true and she gasps, the bolt hitting the cot near Cal's head.

The second he's no longer holding her by the throat, the horror of what he'd just tried to do washes over him. He... he's not like that. He's not like Vader-

Then, the door bursts open.

She spins around, coughing, her blaster pointed at Cal. "Stop! Or I'll-"

No more words leave her mouth as a blaster bolt goes straight through her heart.

She crashes to the ground, dead.

And standing in the doorway, flipping her blaster around her pointer finger and blowing on the barrel, is none other than Mosey Cimarron.

She steps into the room, bodies behind her, and the light reveals that she's wearing stormtrooper armor sans the helmet. She's broad-shouldered, and tall; the armor helps press down and disguise any curves, so he bets that no one thought she was anything other than a run-of-the-mill trooper until someone got her to speak.

He's so shocked by her presence that it takes his brain a second to catch up as she strides into the room, jamming her blaster into its holster.

"Good, ya got the idea already," she says, the twang to her voice sounding like heaven. She's smiling as she gets to his other, still restrained hand and unlocks the cuff. "Can you stand?"

"No," Cal says, dumbfounded.

"No prob," She huffs, "sorry if it hurts."

She bends down and wraps one of his arms around her shoulders and hefts him up. He groans, but allows her to continue to heave him out of the cot and upright. His legs feel like jelly, making him lean practically all of his weight onto her side while she holds his arm around his shoulders. He grabs onto the plates of her armor with his other hand, shaking with effort to keep himself upright. The world spins, and he must be mostly dead-weight on her.

"My, you weigh less than I thought ya would," Mosey says, not sounding bothered at all, and Cal almost laughs. He's sure she deadlifts bags of Nekko feed that weighs more than him several times daily.

However, instead of laughing, he allows questions to slip through. "Why are you here?"

She begins walking out of the medical room and Cal struggles to keep his feet from dragging. "Ta rescue you, 'course."

"Alone?!"

She laughs. "Nah, you really think Pyloon's regulars would sit quietly when the Empire starts ta brag how they caught our Jedi?"

His mind spins, he's not sure if it's because of her words, or because of the still present concussion, or because of his seizure, or because of the torture-

"Wha... Who else-?"

"I got the find you job, Moran and Dana are gettin' yer saber. Ashe and DD are on the Mantis with Greeze at the wheel, jamming comms while that Merrin lass cloaks the ship."

Cal feels breathless.

They came. They all came?

"Believe it or not, Cal, but people care about'cha. We're gettin' ya out'a here."

"Okay," he chokes on a sob, it's all he has energy to say. Mosey doesn't mention it.

She supports him as they rush out of the medical room and into the long, endless maze of hallways outside. Cal has no idea where he is, but Mosey walks with the confidence of a woman who never puts less than 200% into anything she does.

"Rendezvous point is just a little while away. Had ta switch things up when you ended up in the med-bay instead of in the cell, but hey," she laughs, "works for us."

Shouts echo down the hallway and Mosey swears, sidestepping suddenly into a nearby corridor and pressing them both to the wall. A small group of troopers rush past, shouting orders, and once they're out of sight Mosey heaves them both out.

Eventually, they make it to what looks like any old hallway to Cal, but there are two more beings in stormtrooper armor that don't quite fit in. One is clearly short and feminine, the other has blue skin once he removes helmet.

"Getting dicey, Mosey," Moran says in that always so posh and calm voice of his. He almost looks bored despite what he's just said. His eyes land on Cal, and he lifts an eyebrow. "No thank you, hm?"

Cal hiccups a laugh. "It's so good to see you all."

Moran gives him a small smile before Dana walks up with her helmet dropped to the floor and hands Cal his lightsaber, as well as his blaster. Neither look broken or tampered with, though he should still look them over more thoroughly once he's out of here.

Dank Ferik. He's leaving here.

"We got him," Dana says, lifting a hand to a comm in her ear. "Ashe, is the way clear?"

A moment of silence, and Dana nods.

"Let's get out of here," Moran says. "As much as smuggling a Jedi out of the Inquisitorius will help my reputation, I still don't want to be here any longer than we have to."

He approaches and grabs Cal's other arm. Then, with Dana leading the way, the four of them make their way through the Inquisitorius.

They eventually come across some sort of empty hanger, giant doors hanging above as a ceiling, a last barrier between Cal and freedom. If that's not proof of Merrin's growing strength in her abilities, Cal doesn't know what is. Last time, she could only mask the Mantis but not completely hide it enough to risk landing in the Fortress.

The air warps with a tinge of green, and a ramp suddenly lowers from seemingly thin-air.

Merrin, stars, Merrin stands at the top, looking exhausted but determined. "Hurry!" she shouts.

She doesn't have to tell them twice.

They're seconds away from the ramp when the Force screams at Cal.

He reacts on instinct, shoving himself away from Mosey and Moran so he falls back and they trip forward.

Burning agony rips through his shoulder, a glowing red blade running him through. The saber slides out, and he gasps, struggling to keep upright as he turns around and sees Darth Vader entering the hanger, the lightsaber returning to his hand.

"Cal!" Merrin screams, dropping the cloaking and running out into the hanger, staff drawn and fire at her fingertips. Cal drops to his knees, and multiple bodies get in front of him while Merrin grabs him under the arms and starts dragging him to the ship.

"No..." Cal gasps. His legs are useless and the pain in his shoulder is blinding. "No-"

Three of his new, close friends stand before Vader. They don't stand a chance. It all suddenly crashes down on Cal why Cal didn't want to be rescued. Why he'd rather be victim to an eternity of torture than be rescued.

Vader is going to kill them.

Fear tears through his chest. Anger. All that piled up frustration. The guilt. The shame. The helplessness. The Force cries out another time, but it's not because anything is warning him. It's screaming at him to stop, but he doesn't listen. Power lingers in these emotions, power he needs to make sure his friends don't die here because of him.

He pushes himself out of Merrin's grasp. He has no strength, but movement still finds him. Everything hurts and nothing hurts at all. It's like he's numb, and all that exists is the lightsaber he ignites in his trembling hands.

This monster took Cere from him. He will not let it take anyone else.

"Cal?" Mosey asks as he steps past her.

Merrin screams at him to come back, but it's drowned out by the screaming in his head, a haunting choir of voices, everyone the Empire has hurt, everyone Cal couldn't save.

"Your anger," Darth Vader says as Cal approaches. He doesn't even feel the hole in his shoulder. "It has been awhile since I've felt such anger."

"I'm not letting you hurt them," Cal snarls, twisting his single blade in his hand. "I'm not letting you hurt anyone ever again. I'm setting you free."

Vader readies his stance, yet there's amusement in his voice when he continues. "Let that anger drive you," he says. "However, anger cannot last forever, for now it might make you a fraction of a match for my power, but it will not sustain you. Surrender, Cal Kestis, and I will teach you to fully harness the Dark Side, I may even leave your friends with their lives."

And Cal screams, charging forward and smashing his saber down. Vader blocks easily.

"Don't you dare speak of them!" He brings the saber up, then down, putting more power into the swing than what he's ever been capable of doing before.

Vader blocks every strike, eventually forcing Cal to start blocking strikes of his own. It's a blur of movements, he's no longer Cal, he's just the blade he holds. Red lines his vision and the screams get louder as he starts using the Force against Vader. Pushing his blade away from his target, tugging him down so he lands heavily on a knee, slowing the flow of time so he can attempt to get in a few good hits.

Vader has both of his hands on his saber, and his mechanical breathing has picked up pace, and yet, Cal thinks he's not quite putting his all into fighting Cal.

Suddenly, a burst of green flame hits Vader at his shoulder. Vader shouts angrily, heavy footsteps stumbling away as Merrin joins the fray, her face one of pure fury.

However, before any kind of fight could commence, Merrin grabs Cal from behind and the world erupts into bright green.

They stumble onto the main section of the Mantis and Cal's stomach flips as his body realizes the Mantis is already in the air and taking off. Cal shouts angrily, the exhaustion and nausea returning with vengeance, but he pushes through it, trying to get to the ramp of the Mantis to finish the fight.

"Let go!" he shouts as Merrin and Mosey both grab him. Mosey is on the side that wields his still burning lightsaber and she wrestles it out of his grasp. "I have to stop him," he snarls, "I have to put him down-"

"Entering hyperdrive!" Greeze shouts. "Hold on!"

Stars blur outside the cockpit window, but the haze hasn't left Cal yet. He finally breaks free of their grasps, though that could be partially because they let him go. He begins to pace the main room, growling to himself like a cornered predator.

Everyone stays silent as he seethes, until Merrin is the first to break the silence.

"He would have destroyed you, Cal."

Cal whirls on her. "He's a monster, I had him and-"

"You're as pale as a sheet," Moran cuts in, "you're shaking. You would not have won that fight. We understand that-"

"What do any of you understand?!" Cal shouts. "He tortured me- for days- no rest- he killed so many. Trilla, Cere, he killed them and you're going to let him walk away?!"

"That's not fair, Cal," Merrin snaps. He looks at her eyes, and they're wet. "I do not know what you went through under his hands, but do not think you're the only one feeling Cere's loss."

Cal freezes. Her voice wobbles, and at the cockpit Greez's lips press together. She continues on, her voice rising in anger. "He's taken so much from us and I know you're hurting, but if that continued, we would have lost you too! That was not you, Cal. This is not you! I cannot lose you too!"

And all the anger, fear, guilt, it washes away just like that. She's crying. He hadn't- he didn't want to make her cry-

"You won't," he whispers before everything slams back into him.

His vision swims and he stumbles, the numbness forming back into intense agony. His joints, his muscles, his head, his shoulder. He attempts to steady himself, but everything goes black before he can even begin to fall.

-o-o-o-o-

He wakes gasping for air.

His lungs ache for it, and his body immediately begins to shiver from the cool air hitting his soaking body. There are hands on his shoulders, ripping something off from his mouth and he sucks in greedily.

"Thank the stars this tank still works," a voice says. Toa? "High Republic technology is truly fantastic."

"It better have! You know how much it costs to fill up a tank this big with bacta?"

Greeze's voice.

"Will you both be quiet, he's coming to."

Merrin.

Cal groans, forcing his eyes open to see his situation.

He's practically naked, wearing only a thin pair of briefs to cover his privates, but the thin material and the moisture layering his body like a second skin doesn't leave much to the imagination. That's alright, Cal's not a prude. Plenty of people over the years have seen him wearing less clothes than this, there's not much of a choice when you find yourself consistently working with groups of people with little time for hygiene while on missions.

He looks around him, familiarity washing over him. He's collapsed at the center of a familiar, circular room deep into the Forest Array. The very chamber he had first discovered Dagan Gera in. Besides the aching in his lungs from mechanically controlled air and a minor headache, Cal feels not a single ounce of pain right now. He feels tired, hungry, weak as a newborn, but not in pain. He had been in the bacta tank.

And sitting before him, holding his shoulders, is Merrin, looking directly back at him. Toa and Greeze stand a little further back watching him like he's about to combust into flame. He gives a weak smile. "How," he croaks, "how long?"

Merrin smiles back. "Two weeks. But you're fine now, good as new."

He nods, swallowing thickly. "Is everyone else okay?"

"Kid," Greeze says, stepping forward. With Cal on his knees like this, he's eye-to-eye with him. "The only one we're worried about right now is you. How are you feeling?"

Cal swallows. "Tired, cold... but I... I don't hurt."

"Not even this," Merrin says, poking his shoulder lightly, getting bacta all over her hands.

Cal looks down at his shoulder, and sure enough, a new scar stares back at him. Circular, roughly healed like a permanent blister. He laughs weakly. "Didn't even notice it."

Merrin nods, seeming to approve of his current state of health, before she's suddenly pressing forward and wrapping him in her arms. He almost protests, her clothes are going to get all slimy, but his protests die when he feels her chest heave a heavy, heavy breath.

Cal carefully, slowly, hugs her back, closing his eyes and burying his face in her shoulder, breathing her in.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Don't do that again," she replies, voice watery. "Do not do that again."

He almost wants to joke that it wasn't really up to him, but he thinks better of it while she pulls away and visually composes herself.

"You will be weak and tired for a while," Toa suddenly says, a blush on her green cheeks. She's avoiding looking at Cal. "The bacta only gives you enough nutrients to live, not enough to gain any weight and muscle back. Please do not push yourself scaling cliffs for a little while, okay?"

Cal laughs, grabbing onto Merrin's hands so she can help him stand. "Yeah, fair enough."

"Parked the Mantis nearby, kid," Greeze says, beginning to lead the way out of the chamber. "Have a change of clothes waiting for you, and a hot shower back at the saloon."

Cal leans on Merrin, but he manages to keep his feet under him and walk mostly on his own, using Merrin mainly for balance.

As they walk through the Array—there's a distinct lack of any enemies nearby, he wonders if the others had cleared it for good—Cal carefully lowers his voice so only Merrin can hear.

"Bode?" he asks.

Merrin's lips thin momentarily. "Gone. But we will find a way to Tanalor without the compass once you're better."

"I'm sorry," Cal says. "If I hadn't been caught-"

"Don't," Merrin says, voice tight. "Do not insult me by thinking I would have rather left you there to rot. Bode can wait. He's not going anywhere. You must heal."

He nods, not finding it within himself to argue.

"What was that," Merrin suddenly asks, "that strength you found?"

Cal pauses, before sighing. "I don't know," he lies.

"If it happens again, tell me," she says.

Cal nods. "Okay."

They get to the Mantis parked outside, and when the ramp drops a familiar little droid comes rushing out.

Cal bursts into a smile as BD-1 leaps at him, nearly knocking him off balance as he struggles to catch him with one arm.

"I know, I know, I missed you too, buddy."

With Merrin, Greeze, Toa, and BD-1 all herding Cal into the Mantis to be carted off to Pyloon's Saloon, Cal can't help but think about his time in captivity, and how it all feels like a dream. He never thought he'd walk again without being marched from one doom to another, but... here he is. BD-1 on his lap, Merrin curled up by his side, Greeze at the controls of the Mantis, Toa standing awkwardly in the cockpit, but Cal knows she means well.

Back at the saloon, Mosey, Moran, Dana, Turgle, Scoova, Zee, so many faces welcome him back after he gets changed into decent clothes. Caij congratulates him on surviving, and mentions his bounty just got upped by the Empire itself. There's something in her voice that Cal can't quite pinpoint, but he simply jokingly asks if they also updated it from "Padawan" to "Knight". Caij shrugs.

"Ya really think I care about the details, slick?"

And Cal breathes it all in.

Home. Maybe this is what home feels like.

Or maybe it's not, but one thing is for sure, he's so glad to be back. He knows nightmares will haunt him, the guilt of Cere's death and the memory of the Dark Side swimming in his veins, how it felt good to use it.

But for now, he's alive.

And maybe Cere's right. Maybe, staying alive is victory enough against the Empire. At least, right now, with his friends and family all around him, the torture chair lightyears away, it feels victory enough.

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