The sound of engines did not fade, even as his recollection did. With his head resting against the concrete wall, he could feel it resonating, low and soft. In his mind the sound seemed to grow, as if another had started up, and another. X-wings, he thought. A bombing run.
He'd given them enough information for several. Or at least they'd let him believe that he had.
His eyes drifted over the blurry smear of writing on the walls until one of the sets swam into focus. One-Eight-One-Three. His number. He stared at it for a long moment, and then his fingers found the piece of stone and with a soft rasp he struck it through, a faint glow of anger flickering to life in his chest. He scratched another line through it, and another, again and again. The numbers were no longer distinguishable, but he kept scraping. His number didn't belong there. Traitors didn't belong there.
Other words filled his head, other names for what he was. Their words. They'd put them there. He could hear the voices. That's all they had ever been, voices. Voices and fists and sharp-mouthed metal. They had got inside his head.
It hadn't been hard. Not after the news of Starkiller. He remembered them telling him, remembered it like a physical blow, like a breached airlock, as if the sudden void had ripped out everything inside him and made him as empty as itself. He had been hollowed out, collapsing in on himself and they had filled him, they had put their thoughts in his head, their words in his mouth. And in the end he couldn't be certain if they had broken him or if he'd given the information willingly.
The four numbers were nothing but a chalky smudge on the wall. He tried to scrape harder, heedless of his nails slipping and tearing against the rough concrete. He could taste blood in his mouth, blood and words filling his mouth and running out, and a voice coming from his throat which didn't – couldn't – belong to him.
He'd given them everything. Most of it worthless, but some of it... Nauseau hit him like a wall and he curled over, his stomach heaving as if he could retch up the memory itself. The spasm sent pain knifing through his side and his vision flickered, and for one blessed moment everything went dark.
x
"Hey, stranger." Thirteen's eyes blinked open and he turned his head. Twenty-Six was standing over him, her right arm in a sling. "Welcome back."
He smiled sleepily. "Did I go somewhere?" he asked in a hoarse croak, but his smile was slowly beginning to fade. The sling, the hospital bed, that could only mean - The crossroads. The mortar round. Thirteen's eyes widened and he tried to sit up, but Twenty-Six pushed him back. "Thirteen, it's alright. We - Hey, look at me. We're alright. Niner, Dubs, Zero, even a couple of the kids. Even the fucking LT. We made it."
He stared at her in anxious bewilderment. "But we were overrun."
"Ah." Twenty-Six looked suddenly rueful. "I'm afraid we have the boys in black to thank for that timely intervention"
A week laugh escaped Thirteen. "Five-Oh must be-" he broke off. Five-Oh had been dead for weeks, before they'd even been sent to that crossroads. Thirteen knew that. He knew it better than any of them. But he still caught himself glancing over his shoulder, or looking up expectantly, forgetting that his friend was at the bottom of a ditch in some nameless forest.
Unable to meet Twenty-Six's eyes, Thirteen's gaze settled on the stand beside the bed. On it rested a small, metallic object, a pin of some kind.
"Unit citation," said Twenty-Six, guessing at his question.
Thirteen looked up incredulously, "For getting our asses kicked?"
Twenty-Six laughed. "Something like."
"Doesn't really mean shit," she added, "Not like anyone's ever going to see it. Still..."
Still.
"How bad were you hit?" he asked after a moment, fighting the warm, drowsiness which clouded his head.
"Eh, concussion, internal injuries, and a rather nasty hole in my arm. Through-and-throughs are a bitch. Though I suppose you'd know, you've got three of them."
"Shit...Really?" He tried to tilt his head forward to see, but the movement tugged at something in his shoulder and he gasped in pain.
"Idiot."
Despite the flaring pain, Thirteen smiled, his eyes slipping shut.
"Thought we'd lost you back there," said Twenty-Six after a moment.
Forcing his eyes open, Thirteen blinked, slowly, heavily. She sounded serious, almost diffident. That wasn't like Twenty-Six at all. He frowned, trying to concentrate. There was something he should say. Something important.
"Go to sleep, Thirteen."