Garazeb: Son of Lasan series
Saviour - Part I: Aftermath
A/N: This is a collaborative story made by Fuzzydemolition and Dark Dranzer, it has been our labour of love since last year when we became disappointed with how Zeb was treated in the later half of S2 to S3 as he was our favourite character. We won't get into detail as to why we felt like this as that would make the story longer than it already is, haha. This story is meant to cover the large gap in his life between the fall of Lasan and when he comes aboard the Ghost.
The story is still in progress and it's going to be split up into separate stories (the first story is labelled Saviour and it will be split into five parts detailing Zeb's rescue from Lasan) under the same series (Garazeb: Son of Lasan) so please bare with us, we want to give Zeb the story he deserves.
We'd like to thank the following people for their support and beta-reading our story to ensure it's the best it can be: springfieldbluebird (fan fiction dot net), eyeloch (tumblr), inquisitorus-sin-bin (tumblr), clonettroopers (tumblr) and kimbachan (tumblr)
We hope you enjoy reading it as we have creating it.
Even from orbit, you could see the smoke. Sooty clouds drifted across entire continents, kicked up from orbital bombardments and artillery shells. The cacophony of battle had been planet-wide, but now it was fading into silence. The bombs had stopped.
The battle of Lasan had drawn to a close, but it was painfully obvious who the victors were. Death choked the planet, the atmosphere a shroud of ash now only stirred by departing shuttles. As walking artillery platforms lumbered back onto their transports, white masked ghouls marched through the ruined planet, their sensors picking up on feeble signs of life.
Fatally wounded comrades were given a far more merciful death than their defeated foes. Stormtroopers tossed poison gas canisters and small grenades through any holes they could find, any weak gasps of pain snuffed out by a blast of plasma. As flames died down to smouldering cinders, ISB Agents oversaw the troops—picking off lasat or their fauna out of boredom until they received their last orders to leave the planet behind. While some still moved with cold efficiency, many were jovial. After such a fight, they were anticipating medals of valor and a celebration when they got home. Some were already toasting to fallen comrades in arms with drink pilfered from grand homes.
The rubble crunched under their feet as they advanced towards what used to be Lasan's shining Capital City, Iavrr'o Nobellia, to find any remaining lasat that managed to survive the initial bombardment. Orders from the top were strict—spare no-one. Some troopers were 'merciful' enough to end a wounded lasat's suffering with a simple blast to the head or chest, but the less 'compassionate' ones opted for the T-7's just to hear their dying breaths turn to bestial screams.
Underneath the rubble of what used to be Lasan's corner piece of civilisation, the Royal Palace, a lone lasat was barely clinging to life. The crunch of rubble under Imperial boots rang in his ears, while the stench of blood and soot filled his lungs.
Buried underneath rubble and bodies (either crushed by the collapsing palace or disintegrated into ash), darkness surrounded Garazeb Orrelios. The now-former Captain of the High Honour Guard still lived—protected by a large slab of duracrete that used to be a reinforced ceiling.
The lasat's face was rutted with deep lines of pain. His chest tightened and he coughed hard. A gelatinous cud of clotted blood spattered the pieces of debris covering him, staining it with a patina of gore. His ragged breaths became increasingly laboured. He knew he was bleeding internally. It was a dismal self-diagnosis, but the truth was that blood and other fluids were filling his organs, making it more and more difficult to breathe. He faded in and out of consciousness.
Even when he wasn't awake, the lasat's body was one giant, singular rhythm of agony. Everything hurt, from the burns that covered nearly half of his body to the fracture of his right eye to his crushed torso. Heavy debris pinned one of his arms behind his head, hyperextending it. Another stabbing pain radiated from his shoulder and side. Garazeb Orrelios saw a pocket of room by his head and tried to inch himself up into it, but moving only made the pain worse.
"Argh!"
He slumped back down, hissing sharply at the feel of bone on stone. Turning his attention to his mangled shoulder, his keen eyes pierced the dark and managed to pick out the rough shape of a pylon fragment embedded in the joint. A crust of blackened blood surrounded the wound.
Zeb flinched as he heard another rumble; the sound of rocks and debris shifting. Squeezing his eyes shut instinctively, he felt dust and pebbles pepper his face. The lasat began to cough some more, bringing up blood. He sneezed when the dust settled, and yet more blood sprayed from his nose in a fine mist. The pain was near unbearable, and for a moment Zeb thought he would pass out for good.
The rumbling suddenly stopped, leaving behind an eerie silence.
The lasat felt his heart pounding fiercely under shattered ribs. Breath came in short, ragged pants and he heard the blood pulsing through the sensitive veins that lined his inner ears. Cautiously he opened an eye, his vision finally fully adjusted to the murky darkness. He saw–and felt–the large slab of stone that was protecting him from the other debris. It was now pressing down on him. Hard.
There was a long, jagged fissure running the length of the slab. Powdered marble slowly sifted through the crack, falling into Zeb's many wounds. He wondered, morbidly, how long it would take for the slab to break and completely crush his body. At least it would be quick. Drowning in a surge of dust and Ashla-knew-what else would be much worse.
The murky haze in his mind matched his dismal surroundings. A phantom of sound resonated in his skull and his ears pricked up. From beneath this seemingly bottomless heap of rubble he heard a familiar voice. It was muffled by the slab which was practically pinning him to the ground. The booming voice–accented like his own–roared in defiance at its owner's impending fate. That same booming voice masked its owner's fear well. The lasat might have been terrified, but he wasn't going to give his killer the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was.
"Rr'ahkopa sekah Bo'gan!" (I'll see you in the Bogan's lair!)
"Ruh...Ro...Rostam…?" Zeb croaked.
"Notiah. . . Rrostam. . . favorr." (Don't...Rostam..please…) Zeb's eyes filled with tears. He'd lost too many family members and friends and brave soldiers in this massacre.
He wouldn't allow his younger brother to expire under a cairn of palatial crumblings. He had to protect his younger siblings! His father told him as much, many years ago when he was still a child, but he already failed that duty, didn't he? His sisters and god-brother died in the bloodbath. Why wasn't he among them? It was only cruel fate which allowed him to survive. Spared him, so he could be forever reminded of the lives he should have saved. He remembered his father's words…"It is the eldest cub who protects the young…"
"Notiah sil sufa valurr! Swi'aht!" (Don't be a hero! Retreat!)
His keen hearing picked up the sound of raucous laughter cut short by laserfire.
"Alm. . . ALM!" (No...NO!)
"Alm! Notiah ak'la! Res'pirra Ashla! Hi'sempaka ka'lari! Notiah ti tau'ra kri!" (No! Don't take him! By the Ashla's breath! You've taken so much from us! Don't take my brother too!) Zeb's breath hitched in his throat as he choked back broken sobs.
His heart skipped a beat. He heard two bodies fall.
"Rrostam. . . no'ah pres muarrt, favorr. . . Hihghee foll—" (Rostam...don't be dead, please...I swear, if you're—)
The lasat's thoughts were cut short when the ground suddenly trembled and heaved, like a hungry krayt dragon bursting from its hibernation den. It was much louder, the magnitude far stronger than before. Panic gripped him. Was this it? Was he going to die?
He blinked several times. The dust had gotten into his eyes again. Twisting his head to the side, a bank of sharp–edged gravel pumiced the painful burns on his face. He felt his heart seize in his flooding chest. The skeletal remains of a lasat hand dangled in front of his face. On the knuckles was a scuffed, broken, yet miraculously intact olive-coloured bracer.
Zeb's very soul froze. He knew that bracer. He had seen it—and its matching mate—earlier in the day when he was speaking to his brother Rostam. The burly lasat's joviality had helped ease the tension of impending warfare. It also helped ease his nerves and conscience somewhat. After the tense confrontation he had with his sister over battle plans he needed something to cheer him up. Zeb squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered his last interaction with Rostam only a mere hours ago.
"Check 'em out Gary. Just bought these babies!" Rostam proudly raised a purple speckled fist in his brother's face "They're supposed to be the best bracers in all of Lasan. They'll even deflect blasterfire!"
Zeb squinted one eye and gave the half-gauntlets a once-over. "Oh sure. Tell me another one. Where'd you get those? The Home Shopping Holonet?"
"Ha ha, very funny. Don't be jealous, Gazz. It's unbecoming of a Captain."
The older, striped lasat threw his head back and let out a hearty chuckle.
"Why do you even need such big bracers? You're just gonna shoot those bucketheads!"
"I might shoot the blasters out of their hands. Then let my fists do the talking. To their faces." The younger lasat punched his fist into his open palm with a hearty chuckle of his own.
"Sounds fun, I'll admit. Not very practical, but fun." Zeb conceded with a nod.
Rostam scoffed. "Oh dear brother of mine, didn't you tell me that it's best to cover my bases? What if I lose my bo-rifle?"
"Yeah, y'got a point there…hold on." Zeb's brows knitted in mock concern as he came to an abrupt stop.
"What?"
Not watching where he was going, Rostam bumped into the shorter lasat, who didn't even notice the bump. Zeb growled playfully. "I gotta check the temperature in the Bogan's lair. You havin' a good idea means it must've frozen over!'
Rostam rolled his eyes. "Haha, you're so funny...look, mate, I'll take all the help I can get! Besides, these babies aren't just good for coverage and face rearranging. They're great for support. And seeing I'll be holding ol' Gran's heavy bo-rifle for hours. . ."
"That's true." Zeb conceded. "That rifle is the best thing to come out of Lasan-Malamut for a long time. Gramps knew what he was doing when he made it." He clapped the younger lasat's shoulder, a hint of seriousness flashed in his eyes. "Well Tum-Tum...little brother, I've got to get to the Command Center for the briefing."
Zeb stifled a chuckle as he saw his brother's reaction to his most hated nickname, one given by their parents when he was a baby. It was always funny to see him scrunch his face up like a discarded bag.
"Damn it, Gary, when're you gonna stop calling me that?"
"Dunno, maybe the same time you stop callin' me Gary, or Gazza?" Zeb flashed him a toothy grin.
Rostam shook his head and made an amused sound. "Never, I'm guessing?"
"Got that right…"
Rostam lifted his face to the sky, where the angular grey bulk of an Imperial warship levitated in the atmosphere, playing a game of dare with an old Lasani battle cruiser.
"Well...speaking of 'briefings' I need to report to my unit."
The taller lasat's face stiffened with disgust and unease. The Imperial warship, a blemish on the warm, purple skies of Lasan, ruined what was otherwise a perfect, balmy day. Seeing the grey monstrosity reminded him what was really at stake for this battle, their home's—and everyone else's future. He rubbed his neck and snorted. Zeb's lips curved into a frown, his brother was nervous. Not that he could really blame him.
"Guess we uh. . . won't be seeing each other again until after the fight." Zeb said. "We'll have to go to the old Twin Sticks for some drinks! Keep our drinking arms in good shape!"
He tagged his younger brother's arm with an affectionate punch. Rostam jolted and tried to give his older brother a noogie on top of his hairless head, but Zeb was swifter and effortlessly dodged under his arm.
"Karabast, the Twin Sticks sounds good right about now!" Rostam said with a devilish laugh. "Remember, when I beat you at our little ' sniping game', drinks are going on your tab!"
Zeb grinned "Right, y'sure you're gonna be able to keep up with me?"
"Absolutely! Older or not, ain't no way I'm gonna lose to you, bro. Remember, I've got Gran's rifle." Rostam patted the weapon affectionately.
"Ha! Hate to break it to ya, spurt, but I've put in way more hours of practice than you!" Zeb said, ruffling his brother's fuzzy head. Rostam knocked his brother's arm back and finally managed to land the noogie. His golden eyes glinted with mirth.
"We'll see about that, mate! See ya around Gazza!"
"Bye, Ros.'"
He wasn't sure if his brother heard him. He watched Rostam trot over to one of his guard friends and play slap hands with him. They shared a good-natured battle roar, then Rostam disappeared into a throng of snipers who were scaling up the stairs for a good vantage point. They were all clad in matching green uniforms, clutching their bo-rifles to their chests. The smile on Zeb's face faded as he made his own way to the command centre to seek an audience with some of the senior members of the Warrior Council.
Pulled out of his reverie, a shocked Zeb stared at the bleak reality of the bones. He now knew that the skeletal remains of the arm and hand, dangling inches from his horrified face, were his brother's.
Another ground-shudder released a deluge of pebbles and cloying dust. Something shifted in the gray-brown murk. It made a grinding sound, raising the hair along his nape. Zeb immediately thought of carrion crizzards, scattering the ribs and vertebra of long-deceased animals with their powerful beaks. He opened his eyes when the dust cleared and recoiled when he saw a fleshless face staring back at him. Where once there were golden eyes, only empty hollows remained. Parted jaws, housing a battery of pearl-white teeth, readied to speak.
"We'll have to go to the ol' Twin Sticks for drinks!"
Zeb saw the tiny chip in one upper incisor and remembered the time Rostam had fallen out of bed after a night of 'tying one on.'
The skeleton sagged, and its arms draped around Zeb's neck. Fear turned to grief as the lasat was forced to endure his dead brother's cold embrace. Everything that happened on Lasan ceased to matter to him. Zeb lost sensation in his arms and legs. His body followed. He began to drift in and out of consciousness, consoled with the thought that soon he'd join his brother and the rest of his family in the afterlife.
"Rrostam...t...ti'sijor'am...favorr ab'sa—" (Rostam...I...I'm so sorry…please forgiv—)
Zeb couldn't finish his thoughts. He didn't deserve Rostam's forgiveness. Or anyone else's for that matter. With his carelessness and lack of foresight, he had failed to protect his people. Instead, he lead his troops to the slaughter. He deserved this...he deserved to die, alone and uncared for with the proof of his failure staring at him as he took his last breath.
Blood coursed out of his wounds, faster now. A shank of bone pierced the flesh of his side. He felt his numb body moving through a void in space. Was this what dying was like? Who knew? Zeb blinked away his tears, feeling the slick saline dripping from his hairy chin onto the rubble-encrusted ground with soft plips.
"Ti'sijor..." (I'm sorry…) He mumbled one last time before everything turned to black.
TBC
