Anger

A hand on the shoulder.

Kanan's hand was on Zeb's shoulder as they set down the Phantom. Hera was back on the Ghost, tending to a broken Ezra and a distraught Sabine. The Mandelorean was supposed to come along but something happened that morning that made Hera decide firmly that she wasn't leaving the ship until they had some kind of girl to girl talk. Zeb didn't care one way or the other, and as he finished landing his only real thought was stars above he wanted to smash some helmets.

"We set?" Kanan asked.

"Yeah," Zeb muttered, irritated. "Come on." The Lasat stood, the shuttle almost too small for him, and he put a hand to Kanan's back to steer him out of the ship.

Kanan stood for a moment in the open air, breathing in the atmosphere, listening to crowds as they moved about the port. "Are there clouds in the sky?" he asked suddenly. "I smell rain."

Zeb looked up at the green sky. "Don't see any."

Kanan shrugged. "I still smell rain."

Growling, Zeb couldn't find a response. "Doctor's somewhere on the other side of the port," he said instead. "Hera says he's good."

And karabast, the man actually tried to smile. "Well, let's not keep her waiting." He held up a hand and Zeb offered an elbow, too tall for the little human to use his shoulder. The Lasat started lumbering forward, wanting this over with, but Kanan stumbled almost immediately, not expecting his brusque pace. He grunted and Zeb realized he had to make smaller steps, and that only irritated him more. He was so angry, and all he wanted to do was bust some helmets. In fact... he saw a squad of stormtroopers, and a visceral smile pulled at his cheeks and he wondered how long it would take to embarrass the lot of them.

"Zeb, are we supposed to be listing to the side like this?"

Karabast. "Of course," the Lasat said quickly, trying to sound natural. "These crowds ain't nothing to sneeze at."

Zeb hated that Kanan had been reduced to this, to needing to be led from place to place. This was the man who had found him after the extermination of Lasan; the man who always had a plan even when things changed left, right, and center. Long before he was a Jedi – no, long before he allowed himself to be a Jedi – he was a brilliant field tactician. Zeb was captain of the Honor Guard, a military genius in his own right. He knew all the formations, all the strategies, all the orders. He'd worked from the squads all the way up, the rising star of the planet. But he paled in comparison to Kanan's unrivaled creativity. Only Kanan could do something as crazy as stage a breakout at Stergeon Prime, or declamp the shuttle while in hyperspace, or use the shock value of a surviving Jedi to buy enough time for an escape. Only Kanan could get them to live through half the crazy things that happened to them.

And now he was bereft of his sight. His hands were out to feel for hazards, he wobbled on his feet as he tried to recover, steps were cautious instead of confident. He had been reduced to nothing. Kanan would never be able to do a field op again, he was helpless. Worse, Zeb had no one to be mad at. The Inquisitors were all dead, Maul-something was dead, and Vader was untouchable. He couldn't yell at Kanan, and he couldn't yell at Ezra, he couldn't do anything. He was impotent to what had happened – just as he was impotent to the death of his people. Only then, Kanan had found him. Now, Kanan couldn't save him again. He looked back at the squad of stormtroopers. His muscles rippled and bunched at the need for adrenaline.

"Not now, Zeb," Kanan said. "Get me to the medic first."

Zeb rolled his eyes before he wondered how Kanan had even knew he was thinking about embarrassing stormtroopers. He glanced but saw the white bandage still there. Kanan looked in Zeb's direction, frowning for a moment before nodding. "I can feel the tension," he said, wiggling his fingers in Zeb's elbow. "Your pace is slowing down, and you're listing to the side again. You're distracted."

"Fine..." Zeb muttered. "Medic first."

Zeb ignored the stormtroopers, or tried to, and crossed the spaceport, through the crowds to the markets and commerce centers beyond. Sounds bounced off the awnings and stalls, and Kanan shrank from the noise, his ears now his primary sense and his brain still shifting to the reliance.

The medic was down an alley, up a thoroughfare, and sandwiched narrowly between two buildings. The sign was in Basic and Huttese. The waiting room had two Sullustans and a male Twi'lek. The Twi'lek had opaque shades on his face, and one of the Sullustrans had clearly been in some kind of fire. The medic was obviously specialized, and knew her stuff. Zeb wondered how Hera knew about this guy before deciding it was probably some rebel contact.

He guided Kanan down to a chair and leaned against a wall. It took all of half a minute before he decided he hated waiting, and his foot started to tap. Kanan didn't say anything, which was actually unusual, the Jedi had a knack for finding the right words to keep Zeb focused. The Lasat looked over to see the human's knee was bouncing at high speed, arms crossed and hairy eye ridges over the bandage furrowed. Kanan was nervous about this – nervous what the doctor would say.

Zeb never wanted to hit something harder. He wished Sabine was here instead of talking to Hera about whatever, he needed someone to snap at, and Kanan couldn't be the target. But those stormtroopers... He shook his head. Kanan had to come first.

Someone came out to call the next patient, and there was a startled surprise of a language Zeb didn't know, but he did recognize one part. "Kanan Jarrus!"

The Jedi smiled, turning his head to the human who had stepped out. "Long time no see," he said, trying to make a joke but the stress in his voice was too obvious to hold it.

The human said more, Zeb realized it was Huttese. He knew a little, but not enough for the rapid fire conversation between the human and Kanan, who also spoke the language. The human eventually got back to work, called the burned Sullistan, and disappeared.

"That the doctor?" Zeb asked.

"No, the nurse. Hera and I were here before, after we first met on Gorse. Zaluna needed treatment after... well, after everything." Zeb ignored the sound of sudden intense empathy, and decidedly refused to ask more. He had a good picture of what that meant.

It was an hour before Kanan was taken, the Sullustan and the Twi'lek going first. Zeb was ready to commit a massacre; he was a Lasat of action, a military commander, he wasn't built for waiting. Tapping his foot wasn't enough, he was pacing back and forth and back and forth. Kanan's knee had stopped bouncing, his face had evened out, he had the look of meditation. Zeb wondered if the Jedi was meditating, but the bandages made it hard to tell if his eyes were closed. Zeb imagined they must be, he couldn't imagine what it felt like to open his eyes through the lightsaber burns Ezra had described.

Another human came out, not the nurse. The female had bright red, almost orange hair cascading in curls to her chin. "Kanan," she said softly.

"Opallo," Kanan replied, standing and turning to face her. "It's been a while. I'm surprised you remember me."

"Almost ten years," she said, "and you and Hera were hard to forget. I'm surprised she's not here."

"She is," the Jedi said. "In the ship."

The doctor smiled, soft. "Let's see what's happened." She traced her hand along the Jedi's arm and taking his hand, lifting it and putting it on her shoulder. Kanan fell in step perfectly and Zeb followed suit, into halls too narrow for his large frame and into a tiny examination room. "Who's the body guard?" Opallo asked.

"Zeb," Kanan said, "introduce yourself." He felt around for the medic couch and sat on it, hands exploring the space.

"You already said my name," the Lasat countered. "What else is there?"

"I don't know, maybe saying you're part of the crew," Kanan said. "Explain how we've grown over the years?"

Zeb rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"Friendly," the doctor said in a deceptively light voice. Her hand touched Kanan's cheeks, a curiously intimate gesture. "I see the burns are very centralized. What made the injury? Blasters?"

"... All I saw was a red blade," Kanan said, voice much quieter now, lost in memory. "The last thing I saw was the red blade..."

Opallo stilled, looked at the blind Kanan, and Zeb saw the face of someone who had watched this many times over and was still affected by it. She pursed her lips, ran a hand through her orange curls, and exhaled through her nose. "Let's have a better look," she said gently. She reached up and took off the ear implements, and then took off the bandage. Zeb got a full view of the damage, the black and blistered skin, the red welts, the flaking skin, the eyes. He stared, horrified to see the damage that had happened on Malachor. This wasn't a temporary blindness, this wasn't something that could be fixed, this was the worst case scenario. Zeb was unable to look away, unable to pull his gaze from the damage. It was like looking at a space crash, in slow motion, horrifying and mesmerizing at the same time. He opened his mouth to say something, to break his line of sight of the ugliness. His eyes... his eyes...!

"Zeb," Kanan said, his voice rough. "A little privacy?"

Opallo looked up and quickly moved around the examination couch, putting a hand on Zeb's chest and putting pressure, pressing him out of the room before the door slid shut.

The damage was done, however. Zeb had seen the full scope of the tragedy, now understood that there was no bouncing back from this. Kanan was crippled for life, he would never be half of what he was.

… And there was still so much in him. That was the great cruelty. Kanan hadn't even started to hit his stride, hadn't even begun to make his mark on the galaxy. Zeb had heard the stories, been told by both Hera and Kanan himself about how hard the Jedi had fallen before pulling himself back together. Zeb had seen the human grow from a strategist to a leader to a commander, the man was born for leading a rebellion, and now he never would. The rest of his life about be about mitigating the damage, trying to make him comfortable.

Those stormtroopers were now not an option, they were a necessity. Zeb needed to break something, to break someone, either that or howl at the sky and do it anyway. He left the tiny clinic; the sky was more green than grey, clouds had rolled in from somewhere, and Zeb marched out into the streets, looking for the squad he had seen.

It had been an hour, of course, and they were long gone, but Zeb knew himself well enough to know he needed and fight and a fight now, and embarrassing Imps was the most productive way to do it. He stalked the crowds, a low feral growl in his throat and scaring beings out of his way. The wide berth made him move through the stalls and awnings and spaceports faster. And then, at last, he turned a corner and saw white armor. The grin he made was worse than feral, it was bestial, and he moved towards the bucket.

Just his luck, the trooper was swinging his blaster threateningly at a salesman, saying something through the speakers. That was all the provocation he needed, and Zeb slammed his hand onto the tiny human's shoulder and swung him around. "I gotta tell you," he said in a dangerous, light voice, "This is the first time in my life I was happy to see a trooper."

Then he clocked the bucket in the head, a perfect downward punch that sent the Impie clattering to the ground, instantly unconscious.

Well, that was no fun at all.

Zeb grabbed the back plate of the armor and stood, dragging the bucket-head behind him as he backtracked and exited to the main thoroughfare. It was a spectacle, a near-extinct Lasat dragging an Imperial Stormtrooper, and it took all of ten minutes before a squad was seen running towards him. Perfect. Troopers were jokes of course, but they made perfect targets. There was fire, easy to dodge. There were calls for backup, and that made him smile. There was hand-to-hand combat, and Zeb didn't even need his bo-rifle, his martial skill far exceeded these bucket-heads.

It started to rain, as Kanan had predicted, a heavy torrential downpour that lowered visibility to almost nothing, and in those helmets the troopers had no hope of seeing Zeb as his purple-grey skin blended perfectly into the rain. The Lasat was in a perfect environment, and he wasn't even working up a sweat.

"Zeb?"

He pulled out his communicator as he ducked under a blaster bolt and threw a perfect kick into the abdomen of a bucket. "Yeah?" he asked.

"The appointment's over. Where are you?"

"Just lettin' off some steam is all."

"... You're embarrassing Imperials again, aren't you?"

"So?"

"So... how do you expect me to get back to the ship?"

For a brief second Zeb froze, and it all hit him again. That brief lapse sent a punch that actually reached his jaw, and letting off steam was replaced with blind rage. He gave a great, feral roar, rage echoing over the thoroughfare, even through the drenching sound of the rain. "You did this!" he bellowed. "You did all of it!" He pulled out his bo-rifle, electric charge sparking in the rain, and he swung into a low arc, swiping feet from several Impies and thrusting into the chest of another, shocking the bucket-head into unconsciousness. Water dribbled off of him in miniature waterfalls, puddles splashing around his feet, his looming shadow invisible in the rain. White bodies were everywhere, there weren't enough in the whole galaxy to bring him satisfaction, but stars above he was going to try. He thrust and swung and jabbed and blocked and ducked and kicked and punched and growled and cursed and shocked and fought. He was the captain of the Honor Guard, he was a Warrior, and these Impies were little more than children and fools thinking they could best Garazeb Orellios!

Someone hit him with a stun baton, but he felt nothing other than a mild sting and swung savagely at the source of irritation, following up with a devastating kick that broke ribs to a second assailant and now he was in the zone, he was in battle and nothing could stop him. Blaster fire was deflected, bucket helmets went flying, and he poured all of his pain into his body.

And then a hand touched his shoulder, and Zeb swung blindly at the stimulus, a visceral punch to the stomach, and his mind finally caught up with his body as he saw Kanan stagger back, tripping over the legs of some stupid stormtrooper and fall like a sack of grain. The world snapped back into focus.

The rain was a downpour, everything was sopping wet, and two squads of troopers were at his feet in varying stages of consciousness. Water dribbled everywhere, puddles showed how uneven the ground was, and there was Kanan, just as soaked as Zeb, strings of hair sticking to his face, coughing and trying to get up.

Adrenaline was replaced with anxiety, and Zeb hopped over the bodies and crouched down by his friend. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "How did you even get here?"

Kanan rubbed at his stomach, swaying even though he was on the ground, disoriented for several heart-stopping seconds before he finally turned his scarred face to Zeb. "I was trying to find a Lasat in the rain," he grunted. "Nose lead me right to you. So did all the screams." Zeb reached down and placed his massive hands on the human's shoulders, lifting him up and setting him on his feet with ease. Kanan swayed again, he was so small – Zeb had never noticed how small the human was; the former Jedi always seemed to loom large. Now he was soaked through, pitiful looking with loose hair and bandaged eyes that would never see again.

"Zeb... what are you doing?" Kanan asked.

And the Lasat cringed at the tone. Even blinded the human had the ability to cut through all of Zeb's pain and get right to the heart of the problem. "... I was just lettin' off some steam," he admitted, shame-faced, as the driving rain drowned out his confession.

Kanan's face grimaced even under the bandage, looking away, water dripping out of his hair. "This is my fault," he said softly, almost unheard save for Zeb's sensitive ears. "I shouldn't have kicked you out of the appointment."

Zeb shook his head, realized belatedly that Kanan couldn't see it. "... Did I hurt you?" he asked, glancing at the human's abdomen, where he had sucker punched a blind man. Karabast, how was he going to live with himself?

"... Just my pride," Kanan said, and Zeb could hear so many other pieces in those three words that he felt even worse.

"Let's get you to the ship."

"Hold it right there!"

The rain had dulled a lot of the sound, and his focus so completely on Kanan the Lasat hadn't realized that some of the stormtroopers had regained consciousness. Three had blasters leveled at him, and one had her helmet off. He adjusted his grip, fingers slick with rain, and moved in carefully. "You're under arrest!" she ordered.

Zeb growled, low in his throat. He didn't need the distraction just now, and he got to his feet slowly, working out a plan to get the helpless Kanan out of here.

"Sorry, sorry," said Jedi said, stepping carefully around the Lasat, one hand out to watch his steps. The trooper didn't move, but her eyes flicked to the blinded Kanan in confusion. "This was my fault. My friend here just learned about my accident, and he didn't handle his shock very well. You understand, don't you?"

No response.

Then, Kanan's voice changed just slightly. "You'll let my friend go," he said softly, hand moving slightly.

"... I'll let your friend go..."

"He can't be blamed for being angry."

"... he can't be blamed for being angry..."

Zeb watched Kanan flash a grin. "Thank you," he said. "Come on, Zeb, help me back to the ship."

The human reached up and put a hand on Zeb's elbow. The Lasat started moving, but not before turning and seeing the stormtrooper back off and lower the blaster, grabbing the helmet and dumping water out of it, putting it on and seeing to the squads. Had Kanan just performed a mind-trick?

"Hera's going to kill you, you know."

Zeb rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Kanan, I can't really find it in me to care."

"You will when she makes you clean the 'fresher top to bottom with a toothbrush."

"I'm too old for punishment like that."

And Kanan smiled, an honest, poodoo-eating smile of a man who knew better and was going to enjoy the show. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

And then, later.

"Garazeb Orellios!"


Author's Notes: Given that Ezra's anger is to be fully explored in season three, Zeb was the perfect second choice. He was literally made to be a bruiser with a short temper and bad attitude. The anger stage of grief isn't really "anger." At least for us it isn't, so much as being constantly irritated and with a short fuse to snapping. There's this giant hole in your life, it's all raw and new and unhealed. I remember when I finally went back to school, right after it happened, a student was being his usual pain in the ass self - even after the kids had been in formed what had happened, and instead of being mildly annoyed I bit his head off - or nearly did, before I realized that was the Anger talking and adjusted accordingly. Everything hurts, and anger is the reaction to pain.

This chapter, on reflection, isn't as good or as realistic as it could be. Zeb should be verbally angry as well as picking fights - he should be snapping at Sabine and Hera and the doctors - even at Kanan when he finally arrived. This chapter is weaker as a result but we're not quite ready to write fanfiction just yet, so we decided to leave it as is.

Next chapter: Bargaining.