Author's Note: I think it's time for this chapter…yes, definitely time. I don't own Star Wars.

Amy

She was in the office with him—again. RL-213 tried to block out the muffled screams (not all of which came from the girl). He never participated in the doctor's "interrogations," preferring to let his fellow squad mates restrain the girl. He just listened outside, struggling with his desire to kill himself or Dr. Rave. The last five weeks had been a lesson in mental torment.

He was used to his days being precise, his mind as sharp as the line between black and white. Now, however, the days were a blur of beatings, rape, and hatred so intense it made his ears ring. His squad would pick up the girl in the morning, broken, battered, but with an insane desire to fight shining from her green eyes, and pick her up at night, shattered but laughing hysterically. Before he dragged her into his office, Dr. Rave always asked, "Where is your home planet." The girl would smile and shake her head, sometimes with a snide comment thrown in. RL-213 always wanted to scream at her then to just give up and tell so the torture would stop and he could go back to the blissfully sharp and clear existence of a stormtrooper.

But a part of him also wanted her to continue fighting. Every time he saw her, he tried to give her a small bit of comfort: a soft squeeze on her arm, a tender look he hoped she could feel even if she couldn't see it behind his mask. The empty look in her eyes, like the staring oblivion he'd seen on his own victims after he'd gunned them down, tore him apart. He took slight comfort in the fact that she knew he was there, that he cared. She had smiled at him once—a sad smile that was little more than the trembling rise of the corners of her mouth. Kill me, her eyes had pleaded.

Why? Why do I care? A bitter smile flitted across his face, thankfully hidden behind his emotionless helmet. He knew that he wouldn't give a damn about the girl if she wasn't human—heck, he could gun down her little friend without a twinge of regret. His smile widened as he recognized his own hypocrisy. The world is so much easier when everything is black or white. The Empire had no room for shades of gray. But this is not the Empire—Dr. Rave is not the Empire. The Emperor would never allow this kind of cruelty. That belief was the only thing that kept RL-213 from tearing apart.

An exceptionally loud crash followed by a cry of rage snapped him from his reverie in time to see the office door whoosh open and the girl fall out into the room. She kept her left arm tight against her body, and though her face was white, she was grinning in genuine delight. RL-213 soon saw why. Dr. Rave was clutching his head, blood gushed through his fingers, but RL-213 didn't stop to hope that the injury was terribly serious. Head wounds always bled a lot. Wiping the blood from his eyes, the doctor glared down at the girl who hadn't bothered to get up from where she'd fallen. She giggled and said, "You really should watch out for those metal chairs, Doctor Dearest—they can be vicious."

The doctor's eyes looked white against the red blood matting his hair and staining his face. His voice was soft and deadly. "Bring me 315." Two stormtroopers left to get the girl who'd been relatively ignored those past weeks. 314 began to tremble.

"Wait…" she cried. But the doctor ignored her. RL-213 fought the urge to comfort her. Instead, he went and stood behind her.

Amara wished now that she hadn't bashed Dr. Rave in the head with a chair. What have I done? She was only slightly comforted when her stormtrooper (as she had begun to refer to him) stood protectively close to her.

The doctor paced the room, a cloth pressed to his head, his eyes locked on the door. He didn't look at her and only stopped when Amy was brought in sandwiched between two stormtroopers. Dr. Rave motioned the stormtroopers to form a half-circle with Amara and himself inside and Amy alone at the open end, backed up against a wall. Amara was surprised to see her make a small attempt at bravery, raising her chin in defiance.

Dr. Rave turned to Amara. "I see you've rubbed off on her," he said, his voice ice, "Too bad she is of no use to me anymore."

Amara struggled to stand. When she finally managed to force her feet beneath her, she reached out to the doctor pleadingly. "Please, Dr. Rave—I'm sorry…I won't…"

Something flickered in the doctor's eyes, but he shook his head. "It's too late for that."

It was then that Amara saw the blaster clutched in his bloody hand. "NO!" she screamed and flew at him, but strong white-armored arms shot out and pulled her back. She struggled to break free, but the stormtrooper—her stormtrooper—held her thin body easily. Dr. Rave watched her with something akin to pity but marred by gloating triumph.

He raised the blaster. Amy whimpered, but couldn't seem to move. She stared in shock and confusion as the muzzle pointed at her heart.

Move, Amy! Run! Amara wanted to shout, but all that came out was a strangled: "No…please don't…leave her alone…" She fought harder to break free. Amy!

The blast ripped through her consciousness—Amy slammed back into the wall and crumpled to the floor. Amara stopped struggling, her body rigid, her mind numb. She breathed in…and out, and that was eternity. Then the hands holding her back were gone, and she raced to Amy's prone form.

She turned Amy onto her back and pulled her cooling body onto her lap. Amy's eyes fluttered open—she smiled. Amara tried to smile back, to say something, but her throat was dry.

"I'm sorry, Amara," Amy whispered. Amara could only shake her head. "I…" Amy coughed, blood stained her lips, "I'm scarred."

Amara found her voice. "Don't be," she said tenderly, brushing some hair from Amy's eyes, "You're going home."

"Home…"

"Yes."

"A-are you coming…are you c-coming too?" The light was fading from her child-like brown eyes.

"Soon."

She tried to lift a hand to touch Amara's face. "Sing…"

Amara wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but there was nothing inside her but emptiness, dry and cold. She grasped Amy's hand, felt it go limp between her fingers. She rocked her and began to sing in a hollow voice:

"In the arms of an angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort there…"

Her voice broke and died away. Amy was dead, and all she could do was rock her body back and forth.

"Take 314 back to her cell."

The doctor's voice pierced the crushing silence that filled the room and still echoed with the girl's mourning song. RL-213 could feel the tension in the room; see it in the uneasy stances of his compatriots. The stormtroopers were unnerved, and based on the strain in his face the doctor was too. "Take 314 away," he snapped again. Even the girl didn't seem to hear him—she continued to rock her dead friend, eyes dry and blank.

RL-213 was the first to move. He loosened the girl's grip on the body and lifted her to her feet. She stared up at him and did not move away. Guilt gnawed at him. He had held her back—he hadn't let her protect her friend. In some way, he was the cause of this pain beyond words or tears. He didn't care about the girl lying dead at his feet, blood pooling around her, but about the girl in front of him, the girl he'd betrayed to protect. For the second time, he picked her up, cradled her against his chest, and carried her to her cell.

When he put her down, she crawled into the corner and closed her eyes. He drew in a shaky breath, but didn't say anything. He left the cell and locked the door behind him. But RL-213 had made a decision.

"No…let them go…please…"

The violet-eyed boy was running—Amy right beside him. She felt her lips curve into a cruel smile. The blaster in her hand swung up almost of its own accord, lazily slicing an arc through the air. Her finger convulsed on the trigger twice. Two red bolts flew through the darkness. The boy and Amy fell dead. Someone was laughing, and it took Amara a moment to realize it was her…

Amara sat bolt upright, her whole body trembling uncontrollably. Dead faces, dead eyes swam across her vision. A tiny cry escaped her throat. This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.She buried her face in her hands.

"Angel" lyrics by Sarah Mclachlan

"This is the way the world ends…not with a bang but a whimper."—T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men