#princessofwar

The good thing about hiding out in the slums was that it wasn’t organised into blocks and districts like the city proper (like home had been); it was a maze of shacks and ditches and shanties, the perfect place to get lost in. The downside was that he didn’t know this place any better than they did - and, if these soldiers were stationed here often, they’d have some idea of how to get around. He, however, did not, and found he had no way of knowing where he was. Didn’t matter; keep running. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what awaited him up ahead. Didn’t sense anything worth worrying about, and so kept running. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Hopefully, the soldiers couldn’t, either. He was pretty sure he could hear and sense them falling farther behind. He let himself slow as buildings began to thin out, as dirt-trodden ‘roads’ made way to dried out plains of yellowed grass. He staggered a few steps, then bent forward to rest his hands on his knees as he gasped. He had to consciously remind himself that that was a poor way to regain breath, and stood to correct his mistake. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in measured, increasingly deeper breaths until his lungs weren’t wailing quite so loud. His throat still burned from the run, and he swallowed, hoping to soothe the dry, scratchy texture, even a little bit. He pushed his hair out of his face, ignoring the sheen of sweat that dripped between his fingers as he did so. He looked around, squinting against the light that somehow filtered through the bleak grey clouds that gathered overhead. Nothing but dirt, dust, and grass for as far as the eye could see, in every direction except for behind him. Braig turned fully to face the dilapidated town, mouth still hanging slightly open as his tired body worked to cool itself off and return functions to a normal pace. His brow furrowed, and concentration lapsed in the wake of exertion, and he winced and sucked his teeth as the bolt-burn on his shoulder let out an inaudible shriek through his nervous system. He seemed to scrunch in on himself as he pressed his palm against the wound. It sizzled and oozed and crackled all at once, and he grimaced as he felt the gritty texture of dirt, likely lodged there during the chase. It hurt, but he didn’t want to heal it up, here - that would require him to go into a meditative state, and he wasn’t sure that was such a good idea with Imps on his tail. He glanced to the comm on his right wrist, and was about to tap the button to signal R7 to his position when a distant, buzzing rumble caught his attention. His head snapped up, pupils shrinking to pinpricks as adrenaline hit him hard.

It wasn’t a voice, but it was a very familiar sound.

Speeders.

Of course, they would have speeders.

Braig was already backing up when his fingers found the comm button; its cheery beep seemed grossly out of place given the current situation.

“R7, you there, buddy? Gonna need you to bring the sip around- Like, now-!” He was about to turn and run when the first speeder breached the perimeter of the slums. Braig knew there was no way he’d ever be able to outrun a speeder, not when it was that close, and there was no cover; He caught the birth of a whistle before he shut his comm off. R7 and Tess would be on their way, so all he had to do was hold off until they got here. They just might stand a chance if they could get into the air. He took a deep breath, then drew both sabers, letting them come to life in his hands as more speeders emerged from the alleys he had lead them through.

He had been right; He noted with a bleak huff of amusement that these soldiers really did know the lay of the land here better than he did. No real surprise there; he’d only been here for a little less than a full day. No, the surprise came when the final speeder pulled into view. The others had formed up in a wide semi-circle, spaced evenly and caging him off from the city. These were all white, gleaming in regulation plastoid, just like their faceless, inhuman riders, who all sat stock-still with blasters trained on him, but not firing; That was strange. He didn’t sense enough fear from any of them to justify being literally petrified, in fact didn’t sense much fear at all. They had numbers on their side, and the reputation of the Jedi wasn’t as imposing as it had used to be, but it was more than that… His brow furrowed, and he was about to search deeper through the Force when it hit him like a sewage-coated brick. He almost staggered back, instead compensating the sudden loss of balance by shifting his weight and adjusting his stance. The Force spat at him like a feral cat as the dark grey speeder settled to the centre of the perimeter, its rider’s dark robes billowing out like noxious smoke in its wake. Black leather boots stepped into the dust, a cloak of an equally dark shade swishing around the dark figure’s ankles as they walked.

“What do you know, a real life Jedi!” They said, in a sing-song voice that brought to mind curdled lullabies and ash-covered nursery rhymes. “Perhaps I should call a zoo - you don’t see too many specimens like this, any more.” A sneer decorated a washed-out face, once an almost sky blue, now a dishwater grey. That was what really knocked Braig off kilter - he remembered that face.

He bared his teeth, an instinctive reaction to accompany the snarl building up in the Force around him, but the battered old thing in his chest gave a painful tug when he made contact with those wide, gold-tinted eyes,

(’Padawan Braig, are you sure these jackets will be warm enough? I don’t want to freeze before I can find my crystal.’ Looking down to that earnest face, so full of naive fear and yet brimming with eagerness at the journey ahead of them; clutching fistfuls of his own sleeves, the youngling had alternated between staring out the viewports of the ship, chattering with the others, and posing countless questions and concerns to him, their chaperone, and Braig had smiled down and told him that ‘of course, I’m sure, you’ll be fine–’)

“Ry'Za,” he said aloud, breaking the trance of memory. The Nautolan scoffed, tossing their head to the side. The saber in their hand shrieked to crimson life, and it confirmed what Braig never wanted to be true. Another fallen to the dark side.

(’Look, look, I did it, I found one!’ Bounding out of the frigid caves, little mitten-wrapped hands clutching their crystaline prize to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the galaxy, and, perhaps to them, it was. ‘I found my crystal! I can be a real Jedi, now, just like you!’ The smile that was directed up at Braig was pure and brilliant, but lasted only for a moment before Ry’Za’s attention was pulled back and away to the chatter of the other younglings; they would still be carrying on long after the last of their group emerged from those tunnels.)

Braig wanted to ask what had happened to that bright-eyed little one, but he knew already that he wouldn’t like the answer; He wanted to ask where that pride in being a Jedi had gone, but he knew there hadn’t been anything to be proud of for a long time.

He wanted to ask what Palpatine had done to turn such brilliant hope into such burning hate, but he knew he had enough nightmares, as it was. All he could do was stand and stare as Ry’Za strode forward, the point of their angry red blade scouring the ground with every step.

“If any of you hit me,” they announced, scowl of distaste melting into a feral, toothy grin, “I’ll kill you.” They said so in such a casual tone that it could have been a joke, but nobody laughed. Braig didn’t have time to; a violent red arc was intercepted by a slash of purple. Sabers clashed again and again. Braig ducked, slashed at Ry’Za’s knees; missed. Ry’Za sprang back onto their free hand, then pushed off to flip back onto their feet. Distance now between the two Forcefuls, the troopers let loose. Flurries of green erupted in an unforgiving gauntlet. Braig stumbled back, throwing sabers up to deflect the onslaught. It should have been easy. But exhaustion was a cruel mistress, and the burned gauge in his shoulder crueller still; a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and his jaw clenched as he called upon the Force to give him a second wind and force the pain to the back of his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out like this, especially not when the Force gave a malicious howl of frenzied excitement over his head. He leaped backwards to avoid being cleaved in two, and even then his sabres came up in an X to intercept the attack. Frustration and pain made a home for themselves on his face, a twisted mockery of the delighted grin Ry’Za sported. This couldn’t go on. He had to get the upper hand, or all Tess and R7 would find when they finally showed up would be a few miserable scorch marks in the grass (where were they?).

Muscles coiled and released as Braig lunged - left hand flipped to reverse-grip, right slashed up at Ry’Za’s chest. Deflected- Turned to parry another round of bolts (realised he was now stuck between Ry’Za on one side, and the troopers on the other - not a good position to be in), flicked his wrist to block, flourish, bring blade down on Ry’Za’s wrist - missed, but only barely; a satisfying hiss from his opponent.

(’Do we get to pick our crystal colour? …. Because I want mine to be green, like Master Yoda’s. I want to serve the Order as long as he has.’)

Another blast from the side. Braig took advantage of Ry’Za’s pain; sabers joined together with a practised flick- hand curled around the darksider’s damaged wrist and dug into singed flesh (a snarl from Ry’Za), pivoted. Knife-edge of his boot met Ry’Za’s knee with a satisfying crunch, throwing them off-balance and into the path of an incoming stream of bolts. Only a few made contact, striking the side of the ribs, the shoulder, the arm. It seemed to be little more than an irritant, and Braig found himself wondering what kind of armour the Imps were doling out, and how he could get his hands on some. Ry’Za reeled from the impact and came up spitting like a feral beast.

“I told you if you hit me, I’d kill you!” There was the fear he had been looking for, rank and vile in the split second before Ry’Za raked their hands through the air and sent three of the speeders careening sideways, crashing into each other with a noise like confused thunder amid the screams and yelps of the men who had been riding them. The dusty air filled with a metallic, sulphuric scent as smoke billowed upwards. Braig used the brief distraction to glance up to the skies, hoping to see his ship somewhere on the horizon, but there was nothing. He looked back down as Ry’Za turned to face him, raising his brows and tiling his head to the side to accompany a shrug.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he chastised the former youngling, and Ry’Za snarled before lunging again. The rage and hate that burned off of him was suffocating (’Padawan Braig?’), fuelled each strike like an exploding star. Slash, block, block, step back- Pivot, turn. Strike, duck, jump back roll duck block strike slash parry (’What is it, Ry’Za?’) At some point, Ry’Za had caught on to Braig’s bad shoulder; most attacks were aimed to that side.

It hurt.

The remaining storm troopers had exchanged looks before helping the survivors from their wreckage before taking aim and firing, though more hesitant this time, lest they once again strike their superior (’Were you ever afraid of the tunnels, when it was your turn to go?’)

Braig’s jaw ached with how his teeth clenched at the smouldering ache in his shoulder. The snarl on Ry’Za’s face morphed into a twisted grin, dancing into a hissing, savage, bloodthirsty cackle. Braig’s blood curdled at the sound. (’Mm, well…’) He jumped a few paces backwards, landing in a roll and bringing his saber up just in time to intercept another near-lethal blow (’Maybe a little. Just don’t tell anyone, okay?’). Ry’Za’s laugh morphed into a chuckle as they pressed down, inching shrieking plasma closer to Braig’s face. Gnarled yellow teeth bared in a victorious smile as the angle shifted suddenly. Braig let out a hiss– His shoulder screamed its own pain through his nerves as the pressure was forced to his freshly-weakened side. His arm buckled.

(’Hey, Padawan Braig?’)

He threw one saber aside, putting both arms behind one to release the strain. He found himself looking up to Ry’Za, and wondering when the little youngling had grown so much - but part of his mind rationalised that the height difference wasn’t just because Ry’Za was taller. They were also forcing Braig to lower his stance, closer and closer to kneeling as though he was waiting for execution - he almost was.

(’You can just call me ‘Braig’, you know.’)

He looked up into those wild, dead eyes, searching for any trace of familiarity, of warmth, of light. Ry’Za only grinned again and leaned in until Braig could feel the rank dampness of their breath mingling with the heat of the saber blades as it danced across his face. He had to squint against the blinding light.

(’Oh, okay. Braig?’)

Ry’Za hadn’t noticed the discarded saber. They likely thought it had been cast aside, and would be ignored for the rest of the fight. And, if Braig had been interested in fighting fair, they would have been right; but, he hadn’t lived through the war by fighting fair.

(’What is it?’)

He pivoted abruptly- Weight was thrown to his rear leg as he turned. Forward leg stayed where it was, taking advantage of the force Ry’Za had been exerting to send the young Inquisitor toppling off balance.

(’Will we see each other again?’)

Braig’s free hand found strands of the Force.

Pulled.

(’Hm… I don’t know.’)

The discarded saber’s locking mechanism clicked, its blade howling as it flew threw the air.

(’I hope so, though.’)

Devouring amethyst bloomed from Ry’Za’s throat, right over where their precious armour had ended.

(’Yeah…’)

Their dying scream was little more than a gurgle accompanied by a puff of steam.

(’I hope so, too.’)

They collapsed to the dust in a heap; their saber rolled slowly to a stop at Braig’s feet as he pulled his own into his hand. 

Silence fell, and Braig felt his shoulders rise and fall as he panted for breath. To him, it seemed as though he was staring at that corpse, the black of their robes making a fitting funeral shroud. The Force around him seemed to grow emptier all the time, and he nearly managed to shudder before a bolt flew by his head, and he jumped back just in time to take another bolt to his leg. 

He snarled as he fell to the ground, bracing his landing on his forearms to keep from smashing into the ground. He looked up through rivulets of sweat and strands of hair to glare at the troopers, struggling to stand even with the Force bolstering his efforts. Blasters were steadied in his direction, and the curse that crawled upon his tongue would have curled the toes of the saltiest spacer died with the sudden roar.

He closed his eyes– The wind tugged at his hair and kicked a cloud of dust into the air. Flash of light.

Screams. 

Heat, explosion. 

He looked up to the sight of the ship touching down. The gangplank hit the ground with a thunk, and R7 rolled out, nearly toppled over as his wheels caught on a rock, and whizzed over to Braig’s side. The battered rogue gulped a breath as he wiped sweat from his eyes, then reached out to pat the astromech’s dome affectionately. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said raggedly, grunting as he struggled to his feet. R7 beeped cheerily, scooting forward to act as a support when Braig’s freshly-injured leg threatened to give way.

“Thanks again,” Braig said, though exhaustion sapped the emotion from his voice. R7 began rolling towards the ship, and Braig limped alongside him before he stopped and turned to the smouldering heap that had once been the squad of storm troopers.

“Wait,” he said to R7, nearly losing his footing when the oblivious droid kept trundling on for a few seconds. R7 paused, letting out a curious whistle, but followed after his friend, anyways. Braig knew that he should be getting onto the ship, even if only to lay down and rest or drown himself in Bacta, but he had to know.

He had to be sure. 

Dirt and grime dripped into his eyes as he limped forward, and he no longer cared enough to wipe the hair from his face. He kept his eyes focused on the ground, searching for that corpse that had until now been host to that familiar voice. The smell of charred meat reached up to him, but he’d grown used to that from a lifetime of war, and so barely noticed. He stumbled over one, two, two and a half bodies by the time he made it to the one that had brought back memories. He only found a fragment, but, fortunately, it still had its head attached. R7 booped warily, focusing his sensors on the corpse, then on the tired man at his side. Braig muffled a noise of discomfort as he crouched down, used his good hand to tug the helmet aside. His vision seemed dull as he regarded the face - so similar to the others, and yet so different at the same time. 

He remembered the scar on the aged clone’s lower jaw, just as well as he remembered the explosion that caused it (faintly, but he remembered), but more than that he remembered the small tattoo right under his ear. A gentle swirl of spirals, allegedly inspired by the waves on Kamino. Braig felt his face crumple, just slightly, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes as R7 slunk a bit closer.

“Otto,” Braig said simply, nodding to himself. “That was Otto.” He sat there for a moment longer before he nodded again and struggled back to his feet, leaning heavily on R7 as he did. “Let’s go - staying here was a bad idea.” R7 chirped his agreement, and spun his dome to express his enthusiasm. As they walked side-by-side back to the ship, R7 gave a soft, low-toned boop.