Author's Note: This is a short, but essential chapter: the birth of Number 314. Enjoy.

Why They Died

Then…

"Kill me."

RL-213's hand strayed unconsciously to the blaster rifle at his hip as he looked down at the girl huddled in the corner of the cell. Her eyes—now the misty green of Endor's forests and sunken—were unguarded for once and bored into his helmet. He noticed the way she shuddered with each breath, the bones of her chest and shoulders stuck out prominently beneath her bruised skin, and her face were gaunt and tense with pain. She was dying.

"If you care at all, end this…please."

He drew his blaster and aimed it at her forehead with trained steadiness, his movements slow and deliberate. His finger rested against the trigger. She's fought so long. She has a right to die—the right to die on her own terms. She's fought so long. He looked down his blaster's sight—she didn't blink. A tired smile played across her lips.

"Shoot."

His finger tightened on the trigger…then relaxed. He let the blaster fall to his side unfired. "No."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. She attempted to stand, swaying and clutching at the bars of her cage. RL-213 tenderly grasped her upper arm, his whole hand easily circling it, steadying her. She didn't pull away, but her face was masked and empty when she looked at him. His chest tightened. "He's waiting," she said, her voice dead.

He nodded, releasing her arm. She exited the cell, and he followed a step behind. She walked slowly, each step seemingly pained her, but she refused his offered hand with a silent shake of her head. Her shoulders slumped. RL-213 felt as though he was taking her to her execution. They reached the door to the examination room. He hesitated.

They were alone in the hall, the thick gray door before them, his hand hovered over the door controls, and he watched her breath. For endless moments he watched her. She straightened her shoulders, but did not turn to him—her eyes remained fixed on the door. And with a soundless sigh, he opened it.

"I was beginning to worry, 314," Dr. Rave said with a cold smile as they entered, "but I see my assumptions were correct—one stormtrooper was enough to handle you." He came to stand in front of the girl so that their bodies were inches apart. She did not flinch—she didn't even look at him. "Of course," he continued softly, "I probably could have just called for you, and you would have come trotting to me like the little dog you are, wouldn't' you, 314?"

A resounding smack echoed off the metal walls. RL-213, who had rejoined his squad mates beside the door, grasped his blaster's grip. Amara was shaking with rage, but the doctor simply laughed and rubbed his cheek. "Oh, 314, my beautiful one, I knew a silly thing like death wouldn't break you." He moved in closer. RL-213's blaster was half-drawn. Amara backed away from Dr. Rave but wasn't fast enough to dodge the fist that smashed into her face. "But don't ever strike me again," the doctor finished, his words no more than a hiss, as he towered over her. Amara struggled to sit up. Dr. Rave drew back his fist to strike again—her arm flew up in a feeble attempt to shield herself—but the blow never fell.

A red laser shot tore the air centimeters from Dr. Rave's head. Amara twisted around in time to see one stormtrooper—her stormtrooper—yank himself free from his comrade's grasp. He raised his blaster, aiming at the center of the doctor's chest, and as he did so, the other troopers turned their blasters on him. But they did not fire. Dr. Rave was laughing—a low, raspy sound devoid of mirth. Amara didn't turn to look at him; her eyes were fixed on her stormtrooper, trying to see the face behind the helmet. He seemed torn—his hands were steady, but he shifted from foot to foot, his helmet's black eyes glaring at the doctor.

"You are more charming than I gave you credit for, 314," Dr. Rave said behind her, completely unconcerned by the blaster still pointed at his chest. Some of the stormtroopers lowered their weapons. Amara listened to the doctor's footsteps: a soft clocking as he came to stand directly behind her. His hand tangled itself in her hair, sending shivers down her spine. She tried to pull away, but he jerked her head back, not releasing his hold on her hair, and yanked her to her feet so that her body shielded him. Her stormtrooper gripped his blaster tighter, but did not lower it.

"Release her," he rasped in his mechanized voice. Dr. Rave laughed again, his breath stirring her hair. I have to stop him. Amara swung her heal back into the doctor's shin. He grunted but did not release her—instead, she felt the cold tip of a blaster muzzle press against her ribs.

"Stand down, RL-213," Dr. Rave ordered. Amara could feel him smiling. Her stormtrooper—RL-213—tore his eyes off the doctor and looked at her, a lingering glance that made her stomach clench with fear. He lowered his blaster, and then the cold pressure against her ribs was gone…a scream caught in Amara's throat. Stop. No.

The shot tore through RL-213's shoulder. Amara jerked forward, out of Dr. Rave's grasp. RL-213 was raising his blaster. He was steps away from her. The other stormtroopers opened fire—red bolts lanced into his back. His body contorted into an arch and hung there for a second as the fire disintegrated his armor. The smell of charred flesh filled the room.

And then he was falling, and he was too far away for her to catch. His body folded in on itself and crumpled to the floor, dead. Amara collapsed beside him and began tugging at his helmet. It seemed important to know what he looked like—to know his face…his expression…What's your name? Your name! Your real name—tell me…wake up…tell me…Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Tears ran down her face and dripped onto his helmet. Why won't it come off? I have to see you—hands closed around her frail shoulders. Someone was tearing her away. She sobbed harder, and her hands flew to her mouth, trying to hold them in. The stormtroopers were lifting his body—Amara closed her eyes, but tears leaked beneath her eyelids. Stop it.

She allowed herself to be lead away. A door opened and closed, but she did not open her eyes. She was pushed into a chair.

"Tissue?"

Amara froze at the sound of Dr. Rave's mocking voice. Her throat burned; her tears dried, and opened her eyes and glared at him where he sat behind his desk observing her with an amused smirk. There were no words—no words for the hatred that blazed in her soul.

"Honestly, 314, you should be quite proud of yourself," the doctor said conversationally, as if she had just received an 'A' on a test, "You managed to do what no one else ever has: You seduced a stormtrooper. He gave his life for you!" Dr. Rave tapped his chin with one long, pale finger and gazed at the ceiling. "You know, I'm going to have to report this—send a message to the academy—their training program needs improvement." He grinned at her.

Amara stood. "You disgust me," she spat, but his words throbbed inside her skull. He died for me. I killed him. I killed him.

Dr. Rave raised a blond eyebrow. "Do I, 314?" In one fluid movement, he rose to feet and leaned across the desk, meeting her furious gaze without flinching. "Or is there someone you hate more?" he asked. "I can see it in your eyes, you know," he continued, his voice like black silk, his face inches from hers, "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

"I haven't seen a mirror for the past…for the past…"

"You care too much, 314—you loved them, and they loved you. That's why they died."

Amara shook her head. "You killed them," she hissed, only half-believing it.

"No, my dear," Dr. Rave murmured, giving her a pitying look, "You killed them."

"No…no…you did…" Her eyes seemed to be getting dark, like she was looking down a tunnel. Her head pounded—and Dr. Rave was silently laughing. Amara swayed.

She was kneeling in a perfectly round clearing covered in velvety black grass and surrounded by the white husks of dead birches. She was little more than a shadow, starving and thin. Her white dress hung limply off one of her shoulders. Death stood behind her. And They were beyond the circle, waiting.

She was crying blood. For a few seconds, she watched the red drops stain the whiteness of her dress.

"I don't feel anything," she whispered, "I bleed and feel nothing."

A cold, dry hand wrapped around her throat. His thumb traced her jaw line. Amara watched the doctor numbly as if she was watching a movie. It wasn't her body he was touching.

"Now, 314," he said, "Where are you from?"