SCRUFFY
by A.R. Davenport
*** *** Part 1*** ***
Kanan Jarrus remembered almost nothing of what had happened to him in the base med-center where Hera and Rex took him after returning with Ezra from Malachor.
They helped him onto the table, he told the droid what happened and what Ezra had done for him with the emergency kit on the Phantom. Then . . . . . . . . nothing.
Kanan did not even have any sense that any time had passed when he woke, Hera's hand touching his face. He had kept thinking that somehow her green face would resolve out of the darkness, but it never did.
"Please relax," the medical droid instructed as its devices whirred and clicked. Rigidly still on the examination table, one end elevated so he could sit up, his head immobilized in some metalloid frame while the droid worked, Kanan stayed only outwardly passive.
Except for his eyes, he had not been badly injured in the fight with the Inquistors and Maul. He had only needed to rest in the med-center for one night, but now someone needed to take him back each day for a progression of treatments to reconstruct his eyes. But not his sight.
The damage was too severe. A lightsaber blade across the face . . . . he had deflected the worst of Maul's slash, but not nearly enough. And the small Rebel base did not have the tech for visual cybernetics, which not only required sophisticated implants, but specially programmed droids, a large suite of surgical and rehabilitation equipment that came with even more droids and personnel to maintain it all . . . . Only the Empire had resources like that, on worlds well under their control, far out of reach.
The ends of the droid's digits sometimes pressed into his cheeks and forehead as it worked. He did not know why. Perhaps to anchor or position its instruments. The area around his injury was numbed for the procedure. Sometimes he felt a disturbing push right into his eye sockets, but nothing else. He really did not like the squishing noises. Sometimes there were slightly less disturbing hisses and metallic whines.
Nobody on the Ghost crew stayed to watch these treatments. His injury had been bad enough for others to see. Kanan had to talk Ezra through covering and wrapping his eyes in the shuttle on the way back from Malachor. When he asked, Hera had reluctantly told him the grim facts, speaking in words what a mirror would tell him if he still had his sight. In Humans or Twi'leks, the eyes were just sacks of fluid, and when burned through the gore and blood ran out of them; what was left was mostly empty sockets. And empty sockets were . . . . . disturbing for most people, like a death's head mask.
Sometimes he got a whiff of puss or something nearly like it under the anteseptics as the medical droid worked, especially when he heard a long hiss.
"Your orbital cavities have been healed with a minimum of scarring; this should enable you to accept cybernetic implants in the future, should they become available, though the more time that passes, the more difficult it will be for you to adapt to artificial sight."
"Fine." If their base ever acquired a fabulous wealth of medical technology. If Kanan Jarrus ever survived fighting with the Rebels against the Empire.
"I will now examine the reconstruction."
Without any more warning, the droid firmly grasped the skin under each eye socket and pressed on the regenerated eyeballs. They had no function other than to cosmetically fill his empty sockets with something. The droid had said that it could fabricate prostheses that looked like eyes, but Kanan did not see the point. He would still look blind with fake eyes staring at nothing and they would just be something he would have to maintain. There was more pressing and a few clicks, then a hiss at one temple. Kanan grimaced, but the feeling in his face re-emerged.
"Please blink."
"What?"
"Please blink. I have finished reconstructing folds around your eyes. They should be operational now."
Kanan twitched his face. It had been days, agony without pain, feeling like he was staring into total blackness and still unable to close his eyes.
He twitched again and this time he felt the tightening of skin and scar above his cheeks and below his forehead. Twitching again, the restored skin closed over the unseeing eyes. Sighing with relief, he scrunched his eyes shut over and over.
A medical instrument hummed near his temple. "That is sufficient."
He ignored the machine. He tried new things; closing them slowly and opening them quickly. Folds of skin were easy to restore, even for the Rebel base's meager medical resources. Poor compensation for his lost sight, but Kanan would take what he could get.
The droid whirred, the frame clacked, released his head and pulled away. He lay back on the table while the droid listed symptoms that should prompt him to return immediately, but otherwise his presence was not required again for several days.
Sniff, sniff. A new odor penetrated the antiseptic air, strong like fur soaked in stale sweat.
"Zeb?"
"Uh, hi there, Kanan," the Lasat's gruff voice answered with a tone of hesitation, like he was interrupting something. Kanan swung his legs off the table, brushing past the droid as it smoothly withdrew.
"Where's Ezra?"
"Uh, he's getting ready for the mission. He uuuuh," Zeb paused. "He said you weren't going."
"No."
"Oh. Uh, I guess that's . . . that's OK."
It was not OK. But Kanan accepted it.
"Uuuuuh, you done here?" Zeb asked.
"Yeah. The droid's done with my eyes. How's it look?" He opened his new eyelids wide.
"Uuuuuuuh. Ummmmm."
"Yeah, I'll need to find something to cover it up with." The eyes felt better closed anyway. He felt on the side-table next to the examination table for the removable bandage that he had been using. His fingers closed on an earpiece and, after sorting out the two ends and the connecting strip of bandage, he put it on.
"Uuuuuuuh. Ummmm."
"What?"
"Uuuuuuuuuuuh, nothing. You want to go back to the Ghost?"
"Yeah. If I'm not going on the mission, I'm going to need to pick up a few things. Commander Sato said he assigned a room for me near the Ghost, but I don't know where it is yet."
Zeb lent him a big elbow to lead him with and they left the med-center.
"Uuuhhhh, tell me if it's not any of my business, but Ezra seemed a bit …. uuuh, upset that you weren't going on this mission."
"He'll get over it." He'll get used to it.
They turned around a corner and a couple people brushed past Kanan before he could turn his body to avoid them.
"I can't go, Zeb. What can I do?"
"You could back up Hera on the Ghost?"
"And do what? Tell Chopper what to do? Hera can do that without me distracting her."
"Well, I guess you got a point. But I kind of got the impression that Hera was sort hoping that you'd be going, too."
Kanan shook his head. His boot came down on a loose cable on the floor, but it did not cause him more than a momentary skip to catch his balance. He was stepping a lot more carefully since losing his sight.
"Oh, sorry about that, Kanan." Zeb turned toward him, which caused Kanan to lose contact with his lead. He held up both hands.
"It's fine, Zeb. No problem."
Zeb awkwardly offered his elbow again.
"Truth is, Kanan. I wish you were going, too. But . . . . . I understand why you're not. And . . . . I just wanted to say, you're doing a lot better than I would if I were in your place."
Doors whoosed open ahead of them; outside air touched Kanan's face and nose along with, dust and machinery lubricants. He knew where they were. The Ghost would be in sight, in the shaded landing area, bright midday sun on the pale rocky structures around their hidden base. All denied to him by his blindness.
When they reached the open ramp, Chopper rumbled down and blatted an offer of help.
"Thanks, Chop, but I can make it from here."
The Ghost's famously cranky astromech offered any help if Kanan commed for it and rolled back up the ramp.
"Hmmmph, I didn't think that droid was capable of being nice for any reason."
Kanan's hand shot out to Zeb's barrel-chest. "Shhhh! Don't spoil it."
"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Zeb's voice lowered to an agreeing tone. "Well, I guess I need to get ready. Sabine's packing up a lot of explosives for this one."
Sabine packed up a lot of explosives for a supply run. Kanan reached out and patted what he thought was Zeb's arm. "I'll be fine, pal. Thanks for your help."
"Sure. Anytime."
Kanan listened to Zeb's retreating steps until they were lost amidst and large machine rumbles of the hangar area. He turned and walked up the ramp.
He could find his way inside the Ghost without eyes. Top of the ramp. A few steps forward. Left. Up the ladder to the lower deck, then to the upper deck.
"Kanan?"
The door to the cockpit must be open. Hera had spotted him running his hand along the wall to his cabin. She came to him.
"I'm just picking up some things from my cabin while you're gone."
"Oh." The disappointment was obvious in her voice. She wanted him to go on the mission, too. Kanan cringed at the thought of her trying to find something useful for him to do while Imperial TIE fighters were shooting at them.
He opened the door to his cabin and went inside. Crossing the small room, he knelt, his hand finding the stowage on the right.
"Are you . . . . moving out?"
"No." Surprised, he half turned to her. "I just need a few things." His hand went back into the drawer and his fingers landed on a small cylindrical device. He had not touched it since coming back from Malachor. "I'm not going to be able to trim my beard without this." He held it up. He knew it was white with silver knobs and slides, with a removable reservoir that could be emptied.
Footsteps came toward him. "Oh. I suppose you are looking a little shaggy, luv, now that you mention it."
"Shaggy, eh?" He stood and rubbed his hand over the thick stubble on one cheek. "You might want to get used to it; I was thinking of letting it all grow out." His hand went to the not-so-neatly-trimmed-anymore beard on his chin. He had started wearing it when he was younger to make himself look older, but he got used to the style. It was easy enough to maintain . . . . for a person who was sighted. He was sure he would never get it trimmed evenly by feel. But he could shave it all off and let the beard grow in evenly.
"Yeah, that's what I need. More hair in the air filters on the Ghost."
Twi'leks did not have body hair and Hera ribbed him about the extra maintenance not long after he came on board years ago. But they had both kept their shared amusement to themselves after Zeb came aboard and the air filters acquired a distinct purple hue.
"Do you need any help?"
Kanan straightened in surprise. "With this?" He held up the cylinder with one hand and touched his hairy cheek with the other.
"No," she shot back. "With collecting your things. Ask Ezra to help you with that. I already; know more than I want to about hair."
"No," he answered back, just as definite. "Ezra's the one who brought it up. Said I was looking 'scruffy' when he took to the med-center."
"So? You are."
"Sabine was with us when he said it. She offered to help and give it a little 'creative touch'."
"So?"
"So? If she gets into it, I'll have green hair. Or purple with yellow stripes! And Ezra will let her do it to impress her. And I won't know, because I can't see!" His voice rose louder than he meant it to be.
"No, she wouldn't . . . . . uuuuuh, you're right. She would."
"Yeah. She would."
"Speaking of which . . . . you didn't ask her to decorate your covering, did you?"
"What?"
He felt Hera's slender fingers lightly touch the bandage covering his eyes. Raising his hands to his face, he followed hers. The bandage was soft and textured so it stayed in place . . . . except there were some areas that were definitely smoother than they should have been. His fingertips probed wide lines and curves.
"Oh, what did she do?!"
"Calm down. It doesn't look too bad."
"Hera, what did she do?" he demanded.
"She sort drew . . . . eyes. They're not bad, though they kind of look a bit more like her eyes than yours."
"She what?!"
"They do give people something to look at."
"Hera!" he shouted shaking his fists in completely impotent rage. He was trapped in a box. A Big. Black. Box. And now Sabine was painting on the outside of it. Her irritating habit of 'beautifying' every surface within reach had just gone too far.
"Calm down. It's not that bad."
"Yes, Hera, it is that bad!" He tore off the painted bandage and threw it to his right, but the double thunk on the bulkhead gave him no relief at all. "If she wants eyes, she can look at these!"
"Hhhuuhh."
Hera's tiny little gasp filled the room, replacing his anger with regret. He had sunk to yelling at the one person who least deserved it.
"Hera . . . " He extended a questing hand, but she had backed up out of reach.
*** *** End Part 1*** ***