A/N: I started working on this way back when we originally found out (or, depending on who you ask, confirmed our strong suspicions) that Kallus was Fulcrum. Now that he's officially a rebel, I figured what better time to post it?
P.S. During that time Sabine was still with the rebels, so if you're wondering why she's on the rebel base and not Mandalore, there you go. I like to think that she stuck around with the space family anyways.
Oddly enough, the ship that he had spent so much time hunting was the place he felt the most comfortable— or at least, the least threatened. Word had spread fast around the base, and everywhere he went, he was followed by whispering about his past. At least on the Ghost he knew the faces he encountered (even if it was only because he had spent the last few years obsessively studying them) and he knew that nobody would try to attack him from behind (and they were polite enough to do their whispering behind closed doors, where he couldn't hear it). His alternative option to the Ghost was sitting in his quarters, which reminded him too much of how he'd spent his time with the Empire (something he'd never tell anyone, not even Zeb).
He had thought he'd spend his days here divulging the Empire's secrets, busy fulfilling his work as Fulcrum. And that had happened, but not nearly as much as he'd thought. The rebellion kept a full schedule, so the sessions were never more than a few hours at a time, and he'd already given up the majority of the useful information. Kallus had found himself with much more free time than he'd anticipated.
Occasionally, Syndulla would put him to work— menial tasks, like scrubbing carbon scoring, something that only the lowliest of the low would be relegated to in the Empire (but around here everyone seemed to pitch in regardless of status; he'd seen the Phoenix Captain herself cleaning the refresher). She always seemed reluctant to assign him such tedious work, but he had started requesting the jobs. They were a welcome distraction; he could be alone for hours without being questioned, threatened or whispered about, and he appreciated having his thoughts (dreadful, clamoring, traitorous things that they had been lately) occupied.
Even if the ship's common room was empty, his quarters were still lonelier. Bridger and Jarrus were usually training (especially since every time Bridger saw Kallus on the Ghost, the boy vanished like one). Wren and Garazeb were the most likely to pass through the ship, but it had been quiet all day. Syndulla (easily the busiest of them all—when the captain wasn't in meetings or briefings, she was training new pilots) (Kallus had started to wonder when and if the fearsome leader slept) was actually on board today, tinkering around somewhere, and he found the noise comforting. She'd welcomed him on:
"Captain Syndulla," he greeted.
"Kallus." Her eyebrow quirked up in amusement. "This isn't another personal mission, is it?"
He allowed himself to relax and smile. "No, not today."
She was waiting expectantly, he realized, and cleared his throat. "Ah, I was wondering if I could sit on the ship for a while."
Syndulla looked at him, then to the Ghost, then back to him, debating. "Just… sit… on the ship?"
He nodded, hoping she wouldn't ask for further explanation. Eventually, the twi'lek just shrugged.
"Sure."
He followed her up the ship's ramp, his shoulders slack with relief. Syndulla turned halfway around and shook a finger at him.
"Don't touch anything."
He was fairly certain she had been joking, but he'd relegated himself to the common room bench all the same. The time passed peacefully; he listened to Syndulla work, observed the art that covered the walls, and tried not to think too hard about how he'd never had a home like this one.
Bridger came in. Kallus jolted in surprise at the disruption, and the teen's expression soured once he recognized Kallus.
"What are you doing here?"
The inquiry only compounded Kallus's earlier thoughts, that as much as he lied to himself, as much time as he spent sitting on the ship, as familiar as he thought he was with its layout and art, he would never have a true place on it. It was their home; he was merely a visitor, optimistically a guest but more likely an intruder.
He still hadn't answered Bridger's question (mainly because he didn't have a good answer), so the teen just rolled his eyes.
"Have you seen Hera?"
Kallus pulled himself out of his thoughts and nodded. "She's—"
"Oh, good, Ezra, you're here." Hera appeared at the door as if she'd heard them. "Can you take Kallus to surplus for a new uniform?"
The twi'lek said it as casually as if she were asking him to pass her a power wrench, but he reacted as if she wanted a kidney.
"Me?" Bridger looked indignant.
"Him?" Kallus was equally surprised. The pair had barely interacted since they'd worked together on his attempted rescue mission, and while Bridger had treated him courteously thus far, the suspicion hadn't left his eyes.
"Yes, you," Syndulla replied to Bridger. "It's already hard enough to warm everyone up to the idea of an ex-Imperial in our midst. The less we can remind them, the better."
"Wait, that's what you called me here for?" Bridger sputtered. Hera nodded. "Why can't Kanan or Zeb do it?" He whined.
Hera shifted her weight to one hip and folded her arms, and Kallus had been around enough women to know that, between her body language and tone, the discussion was already over.
Bridger, on the other hand, not so much. He gaped between Syndulla and Kallus as if expecting one of them to save him from his plight. Kallus could only stand there, awkwardly cringing, while Syndulla just emphasized the firmness of her stance. Eventually, a silent sigh of resignation passed through the boy.
"Fine," he huffed, standing up.
If the Phoenix Captain noticed his slumping shoulders (and knowing how observant the woman was, she did), she didn't acknowledge them. "Thank you."
"Come on," Bridger gestured at Kallus. "And just so you know, I've got my lightsaber on me," he added, his tone punching the air.
"Ezra," Syndulla rebuked.
The boy lifted his hands. "I'm just saying!"
"Duly noted, Jabba," Kallus muttered. Syndulla put her hands on her hips and stifled some exhalation (optimistically a chuckle, pessimistically a groan), and they were off.
The journey through the hallways of the base was as long and winding as it was tense. Eventually (and after, he could have sworn, taking several false and unnecessary turns, as if the boy thought he was deceiving him and protecting the base by hiding their uniform closet), Bridger led him through one of the doors.
"These crates should be labeled by size and article," he said boredly, sitting down on one himself. "There's boots, pants, the tunic and belt, and light shoulder armor if you want it. You know, in case someone tries to shoot you from behind."
If he had intended that to be a joke, his tone was not nearly as light as it should have been. Kallus opened one of the crates— neatly folded blue, gray and brown tunics stared back at him. He frowned. "What's the significance of each? I assume I need to find the lowest-ranked…"
"Significance?" Bridger shook his head. "Just pick one. And don't expect me to tell you what looks good on you."
"They're just… different colors? Completely arbitrarily?" Kallus could hardly believe it.
Bridger shrugged. "Welcome to the rebellion."
Kallus weighed his options with a small smile on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd picked out his own clothing. The gray would probably blend in more, but…
He glanced to the blue. When was the last time he'd worn an actual color, rather than a neutral shade? He set the gray back in the crate and set about finding the rest of the outfit. When he had it in hand, he glanced around the room, awkwardly shifting his weight. If he had to change right there, so be it, but he would hate to give Bridger the satisfaction.
Thankfully, the boy seemed to read his thoughts (that was probably exactly what happened, Jedi that he was) and pointed to a group of partitions on the other side of the room. "You can change over there."
"You're not going to force me to strip down in front of the entire Rebellion, to pay for my crimes?" Even Kallus didn't know if he was joking.
Bridger shrugged. "Hera wouldn't let me." Had his tone been one shade lighter, it could have passed as deadpan—instead it came as blunt honesty.
"You know, you need to work on your jokes," Kallus said, as he made for the partitions.
"Wasn't joking."
The ex-agent sighed, set his clothes down and starting stripping. His old uniform reeked, and was matted with blood from Thrawn's inflictions. Things had been busy since they'd come to the base; he hadn't had the time or resources to change, and while medical care had been offered, he denied it vehemently, insisting that others were treated before him. Kallus still couldn't shake the thought that he didn't deserve their kindness.
He peeled the clothes off, feeling immensely distant from the young Academy cadet who had been bursting with pride and excitement to wear the Imperial colors (or color, he now noted with fresh disdain). He wondered briefly if they had even been the same person. Was this who he was always destined to become, or had fate simply dropped a cruel twist into his path? Was it chance that he'd gotten stuck on that moon with Zeb, or could it have been any Imperial officer dragged into the escape pod?
He would never know—all he knew was that he was here, now, that he'd done it. Defected from the Empire. Originally his greatest fear; now simply another dot on the timeline of his life.
Kallus was glad there wasn't a mirror behind the panel; he didn't think he could handle watching himself strip his old identity for a new one. He was still trying to process the simple fact that he'd done it.
Everything fit, although his chest felt lighter, without the armor. He traced the triangle that had taken its place over his sternum. When he re-emerged, Bridger barely glanced over the uniform before standing up to lead him out. Kallus had to admit, he was faintly disappointed by the lack of reaction.
"What do I do with my old uniform?" He asked.
"I'm sure I could find someone who'd be happy to burn it for you," the kid replied. Kallus stiffened at the thought, at the harshness of it, and then scolded himself. He had left that world behind; there was no need to keep any attachments to it. "Ready?"
Kallus nodded. "Yes."
He tried to pay attention to his surroundings on the way back, with the new mindset that this place would become his home.
"Hera, we're back," Bridger called. They entered the common room, where Wren was reclined next to Jarrus, cleaning a blaster. Her eyes bugged out.
"Kallus?"
Awkwardly, he nodded. The girl studied him for a moment, and then smirked. "Blue looks good on you."
"He's still an Imperial," Bridger scoffed, brushing past them both and disappearing down the Ghost's hallway.
"Ezra," Jarrus called, disappointment coloring his tone, but the teen was gone.
"Ignore him," Zeb entered, rolling his eyes in Bridger's wake, and gave Kallus a once-over. "Looks great, mate."
"Thank you." Kallus accepted this praise somewhat uncomfortably.
"I was about to go and get some grub. Anyone else?" Zeb looked around the room. Wren held up her dirty hands with a smile and shake of her head. "Chief?"
Jarrus chuckled. "Hera already ate. I did too."
Zeb raised an eyebrow at Kallus.
"Ah, no, I ate as well," Kallus said.
"Suit y'selves," Zeb shrugged and lumbered out. "More for me."
Kallus found himself standing awkwardly in the kitchen with Jarrus and Wren. After a far too uncomfortable silence, he was about to excuse himself, when Wren spoke up.
She arched an inquisitive eyebrow at him. "Ever cleaned a blaster, Kallus?"
He was so taken aback by the fact that she had even addressed him that it took him a moment to reply. "Hundreds."
"Here." She slid one across the table to him. "Make yourself useful."
Kallus looked up at her in wide-eyed surprise. "You… trust me with this?"
Wren shrugged. "It's not charged." She passed him a cleaning rag. "But if it was, I'd still get three shots in before you even realized you were thinking about pulling the trigger."
The smirk on her face, and the nonchalance with which she said it, accompanied by Jarrus's chuckle of "She's not wrong," made it clear that the threat was a jocular one. Kallus breathed a sigh of relief.
"Guess I won't think about it then," he said, and picked up a rag himself. He pretended not to notice when Wren and Jarrus exchanged a smile.
When all of the weapons (a shocking amount, really, for a teenage girl, but then again she was Mandalorian) were clean, Wren had inspected his handiwork with a half-smile and a "Not bad," and Kallus had smiled back at her. She and Jarrus went off to store the blasters, and he was left thinking that it was by far the most amicable interaction they'd shared.
