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The first night is torture.
She's spent enough time in space to be intimately familiar with the whir of a hyperdrive . . . the creaking of metal ship hulls . . . the lightness and emptiness she feels in her body, artificial gravity be damned. She sees the blue whirl of hyperspace in her sleep.
She grew up in military barracks, surrounded by propped-up blasters and half-asleep soldiers. Her formative years were carved out in the void of space, always cold and yet burning up in the constant movement of war.
She doesn't know any other way.
But still, she can't sleep.
She tries to curl up, shins pressed sharp against the control board of the little Y-wing, head lolled back on the cold window . . . But sleep will not come to her, no matter how she begs.
She sees the flash of blue, feels the choking grip of adrenaline and betrayal.
Her eyes sting.
Below her, his head nods once. Twice.
She tells him to get some sleep while he can. She'll watch the controls.
He barely mumbles a yes, ma'am before his head collapses back against his seat. She finds a scrap of comfort in watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight flutter of his eyelashes. She envies his peace, even though she knows by the twitch of his cheek and the clench of his fist even in sleep, that the nightmares won't soon end.
Maybe they never will.
She stares out at the endless whirl of stars—of blue and white and broken souls—and finally, finally . . .
She cries.
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They need fuel, and they need food. He knows the Outer Rim like the back of his hand, so they take the risk.
There's an outpost, he says. Where the clones used to store supplies in case of emergency.
Abandoned and near-empty is good enough for her.
On Drexel, they trade the Y-wing for a shuttle. At least it has a real bunk.
She crawls around in the underbelly for a while, yanking out identification chips and replacing fried wires. Grease stains her arms, and she welcomes the too-familiar smell of burnt steel. Her knees bash into a control board and she doesn't care about staying calm. Just this once, she decides to indulge in that forbidden emotion and lets out a long, crystal clear, specific string of furious curses that echo through the tiny hangar. When she finally emerges, his amused eyes greet her.
Worth it.
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They're nomads. That's what she tells herself. (It doesn't make her feel any better.)
They've never had a home before, so why should they try to find one now? They were born to be warriors and travelers; to live without purpose, to never have a place to rest their heads.
On the twelfth rotation, she cracks.
They're floating in space, orbiting Endor. They can't be seen. Not yet. He doesn't want to show his face, and she can't be found out. But she has to know.
She types the names into the stolen records system, each letter sending her closer to the brink of complete devastation.
Anakin Skywalker. Presumed Deceased.
Her jaw clenches.
Obi-Wan Kenobi. Missing In Action.
Her hands go numb and her head spins.
She's lost friends before. They both have. They know the gut-wrenching agony of loss; of knowing that face will never be seen again. They're achingly familiar with the gaping holes in both their hearts and their lives that will never again be filled.
She clings to hope. There's always hope.
Her eyes shut against the glaring blue and against the cold, heartless world that has tried so desperately to wipe her and all her loved ones from existence. And for what? Simply to cause pain? To pierce holes in her chest where love used to be?
His shaking hand lands on her shoulder.
They have each other, and yet, still . . . they're completely alone.
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Darkness covers the entire galaxy, and it presses on her from every side, shrouding the Force in an impenetrable nothingness. When she closes her eyes, she can't feel them. She can't feel anything.
But she sees their faces. All of them. Her teachers, her friends, her brothers, her sisters . . .
And she sees their face. The same face on millions, the brothers she fought with. Who did more to raise her than the Order ever could have.
She sees them gunning down the Jedi, one by one. No mercy, no second chances.
No emotions.
She sees the same deep brown eyes behind faceless helmets as they pull the trigger. First at her, then at the people she'd once called family.
When she opens her eyes, her heart jumps into her throat and she reaches for her lightsaber.
That face . . .
But her weapon is gone. Buried on the moon with the rest of her past. And he's not one of them. Not anymore.
He hears her startled movements and tries to offer a smile. But it's filled with pain and ghosts of the past. Worst of all, it's filled with empathy and regret.
He knows. He understands.
She hopes he can't see the fear in her eyes.
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It's been fourteen rotations.
They've been to five systems, eight cities, and heard twelve different stories about how the Emperor really took power.
They hear whispers in the Outer Rim of a new apprentice. Someone more powerful than the last. A dark lord, the whispers say.
She knows now what's been shrouding her vision.
They acquire disguises, and aliases pile up before they can count them. He grows out his beard. She keeps her robe pulled tight around her. They never stay grounded for long.
And she still doesn't sleep.
He's been designed to withstand stress.
She envies his short bursts of deep, restful sleep. Out cold for four hours. Then up again for watch.
When she closes her eyes, she hears screams. Echoes of friends now long gone, as if hundreds of thousands of voices cried out, begging her to help, to save them, to stop the slaughter . . . And every time she reaches out her hand to pull them away, a blue light flashes and she stumbles back, her chest burning, and she sees his face, clear as day.
She jolts up.
And the same face is there. Sitting at the other end of the shuttle, staring at the wall, or at the stars, or whatever work he's found to do.
Every time.
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On the twenty-third rotation, she snaps.
She's gone longer without rest, she insists. She's fine, she can handle it.
(She's wrong.)
Someone needs to watch the controls, she says. They're headed cross-galaxy. Yavin. Seven hours and change, and she doesn't trust the shuttle's autopilot.
He's not tired, he says. Really. Please, sleep.
She breaks.
Her fist meets the wall with a force that shocks her.
Her head pounds, her eyes water. She's shaking, and she can't stop. She's on the floor, her legs aren't strong enough to hold her. She can't see, she can't breathe—
The whir of the hyperdrive is deafening.
Bile rises in her throat and her shoulder meets the ground with a thud. Did she break it?
She doesn't care.
She's alone, she's cold, she's tired. Tired of the running, the hiding, the constant reminders of all she'll never get back.
Darkness presses in against her. She can't feel.
She's never been so lost.
She's supposed to be strong.
What would Anakin have done?
What would Obi-Wan have said?
No.
Damn her Jedi training. Nothing can help her now.
She's numb.
But he's persistent. And he knows her, and he's been there for her from the first moment. He won't let her break now.
She doesn't see his hand reach down to her, but she feels him grasp her arm. She doesn't see him lift her, but she feels the sudden weightlessness. She's floating, still bogged down by that weight in her mind but suddenly she's laying in the bunk, and she's not cold anymore.
She doesn't know if that's her tear on her arm, or his.
Maybe both.
He doesn't let go.
She stares at the wall and he's there behind her, his armored feet braced against the end of the bunk. He's close. But she doesn't care. His arm is still resting on hers. Her shoulders slowly relax, trapped in the cramped space between the wall and his chest.
The haze fades. Her breathing slows.
Her eyes close without her consent, and for the first time in a month, she doesn't see the faces. She can't hear the screaming.
Finally, finally . . .
She sleeps.
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