Tear Up That Flag
A Rogue One fanfiction by xahra99
Chapter Two.
Bodhi's mother's body is already picked clean when he returns to Jedha.
He decides against visiting her grave. The mausoleums have grown crowded since the Empire came, and he doubts he could pick her bones out from the piles. There is nobody left to berate him. His mother once told him that their family had been great a thousand years ago, but the truth is that their clan faded long before the Empire came and reduced Bodhi's family to two people and an easily-pronounceable surname.
Hyrren Vas grants Bodhi one day's leave. It's more than he expected, but it's still not enough. He tries to sleep, but his heart keeps him awake. Eventually he rises and goes out into the cold darkness in search of something. He doesn't know what.
The Star Destroyer's shadow rises high above him, blocking out the stars. Bodhi ignores it. The base lights fade behind him as he climbs into the streets. He walks without thinking, letting the comfortable rhythm of walking soothe his mind. It works for a while. As he heads into the centre of the city the heavy beat of a drum invades his reverie. Incense scents the air. Candles flicker as somebody recites a poem. The streets grow crowded. People press against him, talking, and laughing. Bodhi keeps his head down. The tremor in his hands returns with a vengeance. He pulls his goggles from his forehead and polishes them with the stained fabric of his jumpsuit. It gives his hands something to do.
Then he takes a deep breath and plunges into the market's flashy chaos.
The Empire calls the night markets a cover for illegal activity. Bodhi is forced to admit they have a point. Within five paces he's offered spice, spirit, girls, boys, and the use of a small furry alien from an unpronounceable planet for some unspecified purpose. He can't decide if the colour and crowds make him feel better or worse.
His mother always liked the markets.
Bodhi skirts the edges of the squares and finds a small stall selling eran. The proprietor peers at Bodhi suspiciously but takes his Imperial credits-he has less of them than he might expect given the hours he's working-and finds him a table outside.
He's halfway through the glass when the stormtroopers arrive. Their spotless white armour stands out among the crowd's colourful layered clothing. Bodhi counts twenty troopers armed with blasters. More stormtroopers emerge from the alleys, blocking the exits. The crowd murmurs, shocked into sullen silence. The searches have become routine. Nobody panics, though Bodhi hears a few screams as civilians are prevented from leaving the square.
He drains the rest of his drink without tasting it and shrinks into a corner, watching the troopers shake down the market. The soldiers empty baskets, unroll blankets and probe inside vats with long poles, trampling piles of marigolds, gold leaf and sikka berries into mush against the stones. They confiscate a few small items. Some people hand them credits.
The closest trooper reaches out and throws back an Aqualish boy's shawl. The boy stands motionless, his fists clenched at his side, averting his eyes from the stormtrooper's visor. The hawkers closest to the boy edge away.
It takes Bodhi a moment to see what the trooper has already noticed. A pendant circles the boy's fleshy throat. The necklace looks cheap. It's the sort of thing girls sell in the streets for a few credits. Colourful dyed gems wrapped in twisted silver wire twine round a clear central gem. Bodhi recognizes the jewel. It's a raw kyber crystal.
Jedhan civilians are not permitted kyber crystals. The Empire's laws are very clear on this. Kyber crystals can be used to build lightsabers, and the Empire will tolerate nothing that reminds them of the hated Jedi Knights. The Aqualish boy will never be capable of building a lightsaber-even twenty years ago, that honour was granted only to a chosen few-but his trinket is about to get him killed.
Bodhi watches as the stormtrooper locks his hand around the boy's necklace and pulls. The chain snaps. The trooper steps back with the crystal gripped in his glove. He raises his blaster.
Bodhi pushes his chair back and stands up. His glass falls to the floor and shatters, but the sound is lost in the noise of the stormtrooper's shot. The boy's head explodes, spattering bone and blood across the coat of the woman standing behind him. She screams, eyes wide, and claps a hand across her mouth. The trooper turns away.
The night market explodes into pandemonium. More shots are fired. One bolt shatters the coloured lights strung on wires above the marketplace. Fuses blow, showering sparks, and the market plunges into darkness.
Bodhi cowers.
Perhaps he meant to help. He doesn't know what he was thinking. What could he do? He hears the crash of falling furniture, a few screams. Someone crashes into him, arms flailing. Bodhi pushes them away. Damp fibres knot his fingers; fur or hair. He smells blood. The night smells of blood and blaster fire. Red light flashes in the alleys. He can't see the troopers, but that doesn't mean they've gone.
He must get back to base.
He leaves the teashop and pushes through the square. The few people left are consumed in their own personal hells of revenge or escape. Nobody notices him go. The cool net of Jedha's alleys draws him in. A few men run past, weapons drawn. Bodhi moves aside to give them room.
They catch him by his shoulders and slam him up against the wall. Bodhi's skull strikes the brickwork with a brief flash of pain. It brings him to his senses. He holds up his hands to show them he's carrying no weapon. As they press closer, he realizes that this might not be the wisest move.
There are three of them, perhaps more in the shadows. All of them are taller than he is and shrouded in layers of ragged clothing that conceal both sex and species. They hold a light-stick up to Bodhi's face. He blinks, pupils constricting in the sudden light.
"Where do you think you're going?" asks one.
His-her-its-voice is deep. Bodhi can't place it. He lowers his hands and tries hard to look harmless. "I have to get back."
"What's the hurry?" says the spokesman. "More children to murder?"
Bodhi realizes he's still wearing his jumpsuit. He looks up and meets cold eyes. "I'm not one of them," he says desperately. "I'm a pilot."
The figure shrugs. "An Imperial pilot."
Bodhi looks from face to shrouded face, and sees no mercy there. "Let me go," he begs. "I have to get back."
"Back?" The creature cocks its head and points up at the Star Destroyer. The others snicker. "Where are you from? Up there?"
Bodhi licks dry lips. "Na hani Jedha'a," he says. I'm from Jedha.
They laugh and call him a collaborator, another word the Jedhans didn't have before the Empire came. The closest flicks the safety on his gun, reverses the barrel, and holds it like a club. Bodhi cringes.
A voice finds him through the darkness.
"A Jedha'a madai zat Empire k'ua?" she says in Jedhan. "What's a Jedha boy like you doing flying for the Empire?"
There's an immediate change in the thuggish trio. The closest creature bows and steps back. The figure behind it snarls, baring fearsome fangs, but the leader hammers it with the butt of its rifle until it whines apologetically. The ringleader hands the light stick to a small figure. Then the three of them step back into the shadows. Bodhi hears the scrape of heavy feet as they depart.
The new arrival holds the light high. She steps closer, peering at him. Bodhi stares back. He sees a Twi'lek woman twice his age, which means she's probably much older. Her sand-coloured skin is warm in the light-stick's chemical glow and her striped lekku are as thick around as Bodhi's wrist. Despite the cold, she wears only a shawl over a ragged lengha, the ends pulled up and tied around her waist. Her feet are bare. She nods at him and repeats her question.
Bodhi realises belatedly that she's waiting for an answer. He shakes his head, stuttering as he searches for explanations or excuses. "The work," he says, in Jedhan. "The money…my mother."
She nods. "Ah. I heard she's dead. My condolences."
Bodhi's ability to form complete sentences finally returns. "Don't you care that I work for the Empire?"
She leans forwards, hands on hips. "Don't you?"
"Who are you?"
Her mouth quirks as she hands him the light. Bodhi takes it automatically. The stick's chemical light is brighter than fire, but not as warm. "Don't you know?" she says. "I'm a Guardian of the Whill."
"The Whill's gone."
She nods crisply. "We remain," she says, and turns away, following Bodhi's attackers into darkness. Her last farewell drifts over her shoulder as she dips the tip of her lekku. "May the Force be with you, Bodhi Rook."
It's the first time anyone's pronounced his name properly in weeks. Bodhi stares after her. He takes one step forwards before his stomach finally revolts and he vomits violently onto the stones. After he's done he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, takes the light-stick and returns slowly to the base. The guards shoot him strange looks, but accept his ID anyway.
Anber Kine is sitting in the mess-hall, watching something on a datapad that has too many limbs and tentacles for Bodhi's taste. "Hey Bodhi," he says, glancing up as he flicks the screen off. "What happened? You look like hell."
Bodhi doesn't answer.
He's not sure he can.
