A/N: Updated, at last! On my birthday, no less. That's as much of a gift for me as it is for you guys.

Anyway, there's a trigger warning at the end (because of spoilers).


A beam of red fires across the room. It comes from Cobb's weary old blaster, and it doesn't hit Bray.

Instead, the blaster bolt makes contact with the other man's own weapon and throws it from his hand.

Cobb doesn't fire again; he doesn't have a chance to. Because his own blaster is getting knocked from his grasp as soon as his friend loses his, the man just a bit faster than he'd thought he would be. Unarmed, Cobb's teeth knit themselves together beneath a scowl of focus. Great, it's a brawl.

Cornered as he is, he throws himself at Bray. It's the only way to get past him, to get into more open quarters: to push and claw, tooth and nail- and his punches aren't half bad, for a skinny man such as himself. Not that it means all that much when Bray is both stronger and a little bigger than he is. He's lucky that his lunge is somewhat unexpected, surprise aiding in just how much they stumble back.

It isn't enough, though. Because Bray recovers quickly, even with his back now up against the wall opposite the refresher. And his punches? Turns out they hurt a lot more than Cobb anticipated they would- and there's two things he's misjudged already. Well, he's only fought alongside Bray once before.

"Why are you doin' this?" He asks, hanging off the sides of the doorway with his fingers alone to hold him up.

But the closest thing he gets to an answer is, "It's nothing personal, pal."

Banthashit, Cobb thinks, and drops to the floor before the booted foot flying at him can slam into his chest. He pulls himself back together quickly enough to recover from the near-miss before Bray does, and he slips past him and out into the main room, back on his feet. His jaw aches where the other man's fist had connected with it.

He chances vaulting over the couch to gain some cover and distance, by some miracle doesn't completely ball it and hit his head in the fall. When he twists back around, Bray's there, lips curling like he wouldn't want his best friend to fight back if someone tried to kill him.

And that hurts more than any physical blow. For Bray to take a bounty to come specifically after him? That's no accident. All the years he'd wondered if he was still alive out there…And here he is, swerving around the couch toward him, knife in hand.

Cobb reckons that he might've preferred not knowing to this- and if not, his sand-beaten body certainly would have. Because the sudden movement he makes as he jerks away from the swinging blade nearly has him falling itself, a sharp flare of pain in a knee so tired out by the cruelty of those like the Hutts and the Pykes; a life of labor and marshaling really does wear one down. But, for now, his feet are holding beneath him, and that's all he needs in this fight- balance. Balance, speed, and smarts.

When Bray lunges again, Cobb dodges and rolls, coming up from behind and taking advantage of the momentum to land a solid kick in on the man's spine and push him forward. Marshal or not, he's always been a bit of a street fighter; an untrained man can only be so elegant without a blaster to look out for him. Though, when he factors everything in, he really would like to take the fight outside. The extra space couldn't hurt, could it?

He makes to get a head start on that idea while Bray's still trying to regain his own sense of balance.

But, as Cobb has learned, his ideas- improvised or not- never really do go to plan the first time around. The knife flies across the room, and he howls in pain even before he registers that it's embedded itself into his arm. Bray himself isn't far behind, following up his well-placed knife with a bodyslam.

They crash into the wall adjacent to the door, the sound loud and angry. In a daze, Cobb wonders how many of the neighbors they've just woken up. And then an elbow's coming down on his head, and he's raising his arms to grab it and shove the damn thing away. He gets a face-full of his own blood from where the knife is still embedded into his right bicep. A copper string of curses slips through his teeth, and he sounds like a smuggler.

The knife's grip prods him rather painfully in the cheek as Bray forces his arms back down toward him- and Cobb?

Well, a survivor's instinct truly is a nasty thing.

Because he takes the thing between his teeth and tears it right from his arm. The world is spotted with red and black for a moment, and something akin to an alarm blares at the back of his mind, but he ignores it and tries to jab the sharp end of the weapon at his old friend through it anyway.

Cobb slumps to the floor along the way, and Bray screams as the blade tears into the tender flesh of his thigh, a sound sure to wake the entire town.

The handle of the knife pulls from the Marshal's teeth as the other man goes down, and it startles him so bad that he almost forgets that he needs to move. But his arm can't hold his weight, and he practically folds over himself in his attempt to get back up, droplets of blood smearing on his face and flesh shoulder as he leans into the wall for support. He hears someone shouting from a couple of houses over, and he does not want his people throwing themselves into whatever the hell this is. Move, dammit!

And then it's a race against Bray, a contest of which of them might get up first. The air is thick and alive with the heavy wheezes that drag out of their lungs. Cobb's muscles burn- his arm is white-hot in agony- but he doesn't slow down; he can't afford to.

It pays off, too. By some star-blessed miracle, he's up first, staggering the last few steps to the door while Bray finishes getting his legs to steady beneath him. His blood roars in his ears as he stumbles out onto the porch, the chill of the night no use in cooling his nerves, no use in straightening his swirling thoughts. He needs to get himself sorted. He needs to.

The cantina is quiet down the road. His legs shake, and he can feel his people watching from the windows and doorways of their homes. Bray's frustrated breaths are behind him, and he chances a glance, stepping further from the front of his home-

And right off of the porch.

Kriff.

Cobb spits sand out of his mouth as he spots someone coming to his aid. His throat hurts, but he gets words out all the same. Two, short and terse, with just enough authority to make the figure obey them. "Stay back!"

No sooner has he said it than a weight comes slamming down on him, driving his face back into the ground, the breath from his body, a sharp pain up his spine. A hand digs into his hair and grabs ahold of it at his scalp, pulling his head up. He groans at the uncomfortable knot forming in his neck.

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be." Bray hisses into his ear. And it almost sounds like a plea.

Cobb chokes on a laugh of disbelief. "You're the one killin' me."

He tosses his head back. There's a sickening crunch and a yelp of pain, the hand in his hair releasing him to check on the nose he'd just smashed. In that moment of freedom, he jabs an elbow backward, too.

Bray falls back with a wheeze, and Cobb scrambles up and away. Standing above his old friend, he can't deny that kicking him upside the jaw is a tempting thing. But ever the gentleman, he restrains himself. Because Bray truly is a pitiful sight, clutching at his gushing nose the way he is, blood streaming down his arms. His eyes burn in fury. And that alone makes him unrecognizable, so different from the version of him Cobb had once known.

Cobb sighs, hands coming to rest in their usual position, thumbs hooked around his belt. When he speaks, he sounds as tired as he feels. "Who sent you, Bray?"

Bray growls in response, though the sound is too strained to give anything but the barest suggestion of menace. His free hand reaches for something hanging on his belt, and Cobb can't quite act quick enough.

A jolt of electricity explodes in his shoulder not quite a beat later, the current dragging a strangled cry from his throat before he can stop it. His ears ring, but he thinks he hears the sound of a blaster shot. There's the vague sensation of falling backward before the ground meets his skin. His body spasms. And it doesn't stop.

Cobb can't move, can't breathe. He can only scream. The pain isn't just excruciating, it's unbearable. It sears every nerve ending of his being, makes his vision flash white and then darken around the edges until he thinks he might actually die right there. He can feel the erratic way his heart flutters in his chest, candlelight in the wind. His head feels light, his mind floaty and distant.

He doesn't get the mercy of unconsciousness.

The spasms don't stop, nor does the ringing buzz in his ears. His blood continues to boil like liquid fire in his veins. His lungs refuse to kick back in, and his gasps for air do nothing for him. His insides feel aflame whilst his mouth tastes of metal, and the taste is almost sweet. It's all so sickening, and he's about willing to die when the static finally fades and his body sags back into the sand like a child's doll.

Air is suddenly as precious as water, and he drinks it in with greed as his throat gradually opens back up. Breathing hurts. Each inhale scrapes against his lungs like fingernails on glass. His arm feels almost detached when he drags his hand up to his aching chest, to the aching organ at the center of it. His whole body is a distant thing, disconnected and holding together by threads. By wires.

Cobb might've laughed if breathing didn't hurt so much. No wonder why his arm feels so off. He vows then to never use another EMP himself, not against anything even remotely biological- rarely has he even been subject to such pain. And this definitely isn't one that he'd wish to inflict upon anyone. Not even Bray.

Bray. And that has Cobb freezing in a fleeting moment of fear before the anger- the rage- comes flooding in. Because Bray knows. He knows, and he still…

His ears are still ringing, his body still trembling, but Cobb pulls himself onto his side and drags his gaze down to his feet. And sure enough, the man himself is standing naught but a few feet off, face twisted in horror at what he'd just witnessed- at what he'd just done. Their eyes meet, and there's almost an apology in Bray's. But Cobb can't forgive him. Not for this.

Part of him wants Bray dead.

A huff pushes through his charred nostrils. His voice is a rasp, but it imposes his change in demeanor all the same. "Alright, I'm done bein' nice. Playtime's over."

Weak muscles propel him forward, and he sweeps Bray's feet right out from beneath him.

Bray falls hard in the sand, but he's so shocked by the unexpected violence that he doesn't even have the chance to move before Cobb's hauling himself onto him, languid limbs settling like dead weight as he pins him down. His body spasms, and his anger flares once more. He tightens his hold, presses his knee down on Bray's back. He wants it to hurt. Because why the hell shouldn't it?

"Who sent you?" He snarls, the force behind the action tearing at his raw throat, making it burn. The dusty air smells of smoke and blood. He doesn't know what's smoking. He doesn't care, either. All he sees is Bray, and all he wants is an answer.

He wants to know who sent his best friend to take him out.

Bray doesn't answer. Just lays there beneath him, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from him in the fall.

There's fear in his eyes. Not of Cobb, but of the Marshal. Of the man who rose up and accepted this role over his people because of their respect for him, their unwavering trust in him. The Marshal is upfront in everything that he does, refuses to play games if he can help it. It's quite clear that Bray finally gets that, now.

But he's so afraid that he's not yielding to the commands given of him, and the Marshal's patience has run dry. Cobb's patience has run dry.

"Who. sent. you?" He punctuates each word by letting a little more of his weight shift into his knee, into putting more pressure on the spot between the other man's shoulder blades. He's tired; much more of this and his own muscles won't be able to take it. "Tell me. Tell me so I can put a bolt in their skull."

He'd do it, too. He would. Cut to the source and put an end to the countless hunters they keep sending. Put an end to that chapter of his life. How Bray got caught up in it, who sent him- that's what he needs to know. Elsewise, it's doomed to continue on until his death. Maybe after, if that's not how or why he dies.

And his people would pay for that in his stead. Cobb can't live with that, others paying for his mistakes. He's seen the consequences of that already; never again.

Thus, he asks again: "Who was it?"

Bray writhes beneath him. Trapped, afraid, unable to escape. He doesn't answer the question this time either, and Cobb grits his teeth in attempt to temper his frustration, to stamp on the tightness of his chest that hasn't ebbed since the EMP let up. "Don't make me ask you again, Bray. Who told you to come after me?"

"H-he gave me no choice." Bray finally manages to get out, panting with the effort, voice shaking. He swallows, and it's then that Cobb realizes it: No, he's not scared of him. Not completely.

And yet, the fear of whomever sent him is enough to keep him from telling Cobb who sent him. It grates on what nerves he has left, and then they're just gone.

"ANSWER THE QUESTION."

His voice bounces off of each and every building in town. And if he didn't have eyes on him before, he certainly does now; his fury is a rare thing any day. But in the middle of the night, right after battle? Oh, heads are definitely poking out to see what's going on. Heads are poking out of their homes, just in time to catch the end of it.

Because Cobb misses the movement of Bray's arm, misses the clicking of a weapon preparing a shot, and the night lights up red.

He flinches so hard that he falls back into the sand. But when he checks himself over, he has no new wounds. It dawns on him, slowly, what had just happened. His gaze finds Bray, the blaster pressed up into his side. He can only stare. "No…"

He feels sick.

Bray's eyes are glossy, but they find him all the same. "I didn't want- couldn't…" He struggles for breath. "I couldn't do it, Cobb. I'm sorry."

Cobb doesn't notice how those eyes don't blink again. All he knows is that the man just shot himself, and that thought gives him enough adrenaline to maneuver himself closer to rouse him.

But it's no use.

"No…No, no, no, no. Bray- hey!" He shakes him, harder than he probably should have. There's no response. None at all. "Bray."

He's gone, Cobb tells himself. It takes another moment to truly sink in, and he settles back in the sand, stunned. Struggling to believe. The heat of battle fades, and the night chill begins to creep back in. Cobb feels numb. He's gone.

He pulls his arm up into his lap and holds it close. Licks the blood from his lips. His shoulder hisses, and he glances at it. Sees a mostly-cooled blaster shot embedded in the metal bones. He blinks, and looks away, doesn't think about it. It's not important. What is, is that he's somehow still alive.

He's still alive, because Bray killed himself.

Betrayed and saved by the same man. On the same night. And isn't that interesting?

Searching him isn't a conscious thought. It's what Cobb does whenever someone attacks him; he searches them for hints as to why they came. And this is no different, his hands digging through Bray's pockets, because it's normal when nothing else is. When the person who attacked him is the man he grew up alongside. When that same man is dead.

The night is silent. The people are slinking from their homes, but they know better than to intrude upon his business. They watch, reassure one another and put their children back to bed good and proper, but no one approaches him directly.

He pretends not to notice they're there; he doesn't want to talk to anyone, not now. Seeing him upright as he is had better be good enough an assurance that he's fine. Because Cobb is barely holding himself down, and he doesn't know how he'll take to conversation. He's still volatile enough to punch someone- and, oh, how he'd live to regret that.

In his foraging, Cobb finds his communicator and stuffs it back in his own pocket even though it lights up with a message from Din; the Mandalorian can't help him, now. The danger's past. He's still alive, his would-be killer dead. The town is safe, the seconds of security bleeding by on his chronometer. But the question stands nonetheless: What if he had let Din come to offer his assistance? Could things have ended differently? Could Bray have lived, too?

The very next item that he happens upon answers that question for him. It's a broken holoprojector, and it still turns on when Cobb activates it. The image of a familiar, wealthy Pau'an springs to life in front of him. Cobb's only seen him once, but this hologram is all he needs for his questions to be answered:

Bray had lied to him all those years ago, when he'd said he never had a chip in his skull like he had; he never escaped that life. Walked away from Tatooine just to get dragged back down into this mess. As a hunter of the runaways their master set him upon. The tall bastard's been the one sending men after him for all these years, and Bray was his last-ditch effort.

He'd really had no choice, and he'd decided that he'd rather die than kill the man he'd called his brother.

That's the last straw.

A harsh, jarring laugh rips through Cobb's teeth as he finally snaps, his head tilting back to curse the stars above. He doesn't notice how the holoprojector slips from his grasp, how the purest form of hatred makes him tear the blaster from Bray's cooling hands and scream as he hurls it down the road. All he notices is the agony in his absent shoulder afterwards, the way the air seems to close in on him, and-

It's all too much. Far too much. And sitting here, looking at it all…he can't deal with any of it, not right now. The eyes on his back, the cleanup, the burning of the body- they're all too much, the darkness closing in around him and leaving him lost in a thick black fog. It's suffocating, and he needs to get away.

He doesn't remember getting up, but he's halfway on his jumpspeeder next thing he knows, saddling up in the seat and powering the old podracing engine on the front of it. The roar of the engine blots out everything, even the light of the rising moons. Cobb turns toward the Dune Sea, and jets off into the night.

If the townsfolk call after him, he doesn't hear them.


A/N: Trigger warning: suicide.