AN: Hey folks. The train rolls onward, but be sure to double check last chapter for a section I added to the end that helps move the greater plot of TOTHL along. I can't deny that slow viewership and no feedback is disheartening, but I've got real faith in the quality of what TOTHL can become, so I'll keep laying this out how ever long it takes. Cheers, enjoy!
Chapter 5: Bleeding your Heart Dry
"Kriff this... Not again..."
He could feel the dream form, a nebulous but inexorable spread of thought across his sleeping brain. Despite knowing it all the while, Wren couldn't fight the flow of memory, dragging him back again, always, to the flashing lights, the stale air, the sweat and fear. Then he heard the electric thump of blaster cannons, and with it fled the last of Wren's residence to the nightmare. He was running, and his comrades were dying behind him in desperate, failing bids to them back.
"What on the kriffing spaceways?" Platoon lead gasped, pounding the door lock control. "Damn Rebel scum!"
Uril Jumal, a hardy dark-skinned girl from Tatooine, couldn't keep the terror from her voice. "Krayt Dragons, sir. Blasted Canyon Krayts." Wren heard her stiffle a sob before her comm feed cut. His blood ran cold; Uril was one of the platoon's unshakeable cores. Her fear stoked his like a hypermatter reaction. Wren still hadn't caught sight of one, but the helmet feeds were blurry collages of white plastoid, crimson swathes of cannon and torpedo fire, and mortal glimpses of sandy hides, razor talons and toothed maws.
"Meters to void?" queried Sergeant Tyarl. The grizzled veteran never spoke of his home planet, but he'd been running top zero grav units since the Battle of Hoth, at least. Some whispered when they thought he wasn't listening that he'd first fought in the Clone Wars. It was a rumor that he had never confirmed nor denied, letting it hang loose and further add to his reputation.
"Three fifty..." Something whispered into the comms. Wren barely heard it, but shouted it up anyways.
"Split for it Eschlan," Tyarl spat. "Take the asset and book it for the assault shuttle. Get the hell off this deathtrap."
Wren hesitated hard, the mission objective stowed in his backpack cargo pod. "You need to come with me sir, I don't have your finalization orders..."
"Damn the finalization," the sergeant cursed. He clamped a manipulator onto Wren's shoulder and dragged him down the corridor. "Listen son. Damn it all, the orders, the Emperor, and the Empire whole! Were you born on Byss, son? First time off planet with the Stormtrooper Corps?" Wren didn't have time to respond, Tyarl already knew Wren's history as well as any of his subordinates. "Of course you were. Listen good, the Empire is not what you were taught it was. In the beginning it was everything the galaxy needed; security, stability, justice. But couched in all that was Palpatine, that worm."
The sealed security door sounded like a gong, no more weapons fire sounding from beyond. The eight remaining troopers settled into firing positions. Sergeant Tyarl continued to shove Wren along.
"You haven't been listening to the stuff that's been coming through the command nets. But it'll be all over the holonet. Palpatine is dead. Byss is gone. Don't dock with Spitefather. Don't let this thing get caught up in what's left of this Order. Take the shuttle by force if you have to. Just take the droid, and jump for free." Wren began to protest, but his leader clocked his suit on the head. "Don't you back talk me Trooper. This 176th Void is older than you. The rest of us are steeped in blood, but compared to us you're clean and pure. So you'll carry our flag along." There was something in his superior's voice that Wren hadn't heard before. "We were on the wrong side of history, but you can turn our legacy into something worth remembering."
The hardened officer continued to manhandle his subordinate, through another airlock that he immediately slammed shut, pausing only to utter a final series of commands. "Take this thing away, Eschlan. Do you hear me, get the hell away from here and don't ever stop. Someone is gonna come looking for all this, once the dust has settled. Don't let them find it. And don't let our story end with this."
Trooper Eschlan could've cut through the door. Part of him wanted to, not at all agreeing with the way the elder hierarchy of his unit had played the end of this mission. But then he heard the roars, the weapons, and then the screams.
"He didn't lie to you," said the voice in the comms again. Wren swore under his breath, still not recognizing the voice as that of one of his comrades. "But no matter what you believe, don't let us get eaten here. Please." Wren didn't respond, but began putting one foot in front of the other. Each step he took was hounded by the echoing bellows of the Krayt Dragons, and the metallic tear of security doors and bulkheads battered open behind him as he picked his way back to empty vacuum. Every so often he would encounter Rebel personnel. Some tirned to fight Wren, and got cut down for their trouble. Others apparently knew what had been let loose to run rampant through the station, and made no actions against him in their haste to flee.
"No," the new voice said at the last moment before Wren reached for a door control. "The Krayts are already in through there, keep straight instead. I can see it through your sensor array."
"How can you see it if I can't?" Wren protested.
"Emulation of sensor functions your HUD can't display in a way you can interpret. It doesn't matter, just go!"
Wren made his way into a shuttle bay, emptying out as he entered, New Republic vessels filled to capacity as they left. Wren moved for the magnetic atmosphere containment field, yet he hardly covered half of the hangar bay when he heard the groan and grind of failing durasteel. Through the back wall of the hangar, the ceiling of the hanger, and the door Wren had entered through, sandy colored dragons forced their way through the structure of the ship. They were heavyweight bulls, all of them at least 35 meters from tooth to tail, and Wren's frantic blaster fire gnawed slowly into their hides. "I can get you through this," the voice offered. "But you need to lock out your suit inputs so I can effect your control system without interference."
It was suicide, surely, but there was a tone in the voice that Wren picked out as genuine, one of his many knacks. So he did as instructed, and watched in frightened awe as his suitmanipulated him rather than the other way around. His mysterious electronic ally dispensed the remainder of his suit's arsenal, picking apart their anatomies with precision as they bore down on the last survivor of the 176th Void. Wren could only watch and try not to scream.
Shana stirred, mumbling to herself before sitting up, her vision framed by a tangled crimson halo. "K'uur..." she groaned, rubbing her eyes. "Who's shebs do I have to boot to get some quiet?" It took her a moment to realize precisely what she was hearing, and it sent her scrambling for clothing, ending up with a pair of thin shorts and a tanktop before she keyed her door open and shot down the hall. She saw Hakyo hovering by the door to the cockpit, and as she beelined for it, he moved into her path.
"Copaani mirshmure'cye? Looking for a smack in the face?" The slight, fiery-haired girl was as far as could be from amused. "Usenye!"
"He will be fine in a few moments. Let the episode run its course," the brute growled into his droid. Wren belted out another fearful cry, and Shana pounded Hakyo's belly with her fist.
"Like hell! Kaysh akaan'shab! He's warsick!" She struck him again. "He needs kriffing help! And if you won't then I'm damn well gonna!" The Abyssian didn't budge, and Shana's teeth ground harder. "Don't make me get my bes'kad, or I'll have you mending all the way to Coruscanta."
"Crushing you would be easy, little female, back scratcher or no. But it would anger Eschlan." He moved finally, with Shana shoving him along more for her benefit than any increase in the speed of his departure, letting her trigger the door and step inside.
At first Wren was nowhere to be seen, but Shana could hear his teeth chattering from behind the cockpit chair. He was stuffed under the flight console, knees drawn up to his chest, and as she came up upon him she saw the blaster in his hands, his S-5. Immediately Shana grasped it, twisting the weapon from his hands despite his pleading to keep it. "Are you kriffing insane, we're gonna get ripped up and eaten, just like the...-"
"No Wren, you're on the Lady!" Shana folded herself up and sat down in front of him, pulling his face and forcing eye contact. "You're on the Lady, in the cockpit. On the Lady, you understand?"
Wren had that look she'd grown to recognize; that downward stare into another time and place, a more traumatizing one; a cruel trick of the mind trapping Wren in visions of his dar'yaim, the hell he could not bear to return to. But at her touch, her insistence of his reality, and the sight of her face, Wren managed to pull himself back from the vividness of the nightmare. He could smell whatever it was she set her refresher to, something sweet and fruity with a slight herbal sharpness as well, and that grounded him further. Shana pulled Wren to his feet, slipping an arm under his and across his back to his far shoulder, the heavy pistol still hanging from her other hand. She ushered him along out of the cockpit, rubbing his back soothingly, hardly pausing to glower at Hakyo before guiding Wren to his own bedroom. The spacer went for his Marcan, but fumbled with the paper, cursing in frustration. Shana took it from his shaking hands, murmuring softly; "I'll get you one of my Shentos." She passed down the hallway to her room, grabbing a handful of her prerolled cigarras. Hakyo was looming in the hall on her way back. Shana made to move past the hulk, but he didn't stop her.
"Do not mistake my inaction as ignorance or apathy to the seriousness of Wren's condition," the oddly eloquent giant said. "I have no frame of reference towards his treatment. Abyssians do not experience psychological trauma as a result of violence. Please, help my bond-brother however you can. He has suffered so for many years."
Shana had been preparing some form of retort when Hakyo had begun speaking, but found herself disarmed by his response. "I'll do what I can," she promised. "But he may need more help than I can offer. Warsickness is a truly fickle thing." She dodged past him and into Wren's room, and found him gripping the S-5 again. She moved to snatch it from him but he shooed her away, speaking, albeit haltingly, in a more cognizant voice.
"I-it's okay, I'm all... I'm all here now. It just helps to hold it." He sat on his bed, back to the wall, clutching his blaster with both hands.
"You'll have to at least take one hand off it to smoke this," she said, crawling up onto the bed next to him and offering him a Shento with a gentle smile. With a sigh Wren took it, Shana lighting hers before handing him the matches. He inhaled deeply, and again until the shaking began to slow, and he set his weapon down on the mattress.
"Damn that's tasty," Wren said, shaking his head. He hugged himself, and Shana put an arm around him. Eventually Wren let his neck go lax, resting his ear on her bare freckled shoulder, and they sat there for some time.
"Thank you," the spacer whispered after long, catching her soft green eyes in the gentle gloom of the minimum-setting room lights and the glow of burning herb.
"I can understand if you don't wanna talk about it," she said softly, brushing a lock of red from her face. "But I think you should. I'm no doctor, but every Mando'ad can recognize warsickness when we see it. Holding this in is... Tal'galar kar'ta, it's bleeding your heart dry."
Wren stared off into the bulkhead. Then he coughed, and said with a dry-mouthed chuckle; "Can't really talk about much till I get something to sip on." He moved to rise off the bed but Shana grabbed his wrist and tugged him back to seated.
"Stay. Rest. I'll make you some shig, it'll help set you right. Udesii, ner vod, I'll be right back."
Wren sat there, mulling over exactly what he could manage to say. Before he could run that line of thought through, Shana returned with two tall steaming mugs and a flask between her teeth. Passing one to Wren, she set hers down on the nightstand and popped the flask open. "Tihaar," she said with a grin, passing it in front of Wren's nose so he could detect that same fruity scent he'd picked up off her person. Shana spiked each mug generously, before setting the flask aside.
Wren took a long swig of the herbal brew. "Mmh. What is that?"
"Shig is usually behot, but I add some guroot, and a touch of Grey Gabaki too. Helps make some behot go further on long trips away from home. Tihaar is made of varos fruit juice, a little splash of tropical Mandalore, grown a ways south of Keldabe."
Wren took another mouthful, remarking; "Delicious." They sat in silence together for another long while, moving through mugs of the stuff until Shana's flask ran dry and they were both well and tipsy. Shana could feel that bubbling feeling in her brain that marked the boundary between buzzed and properly drunk. And Wren felt so nice leaning up against her; warm and solid and heavy but not so much larger to be squishing her. Still, she couldn't quite feel her arm anymore.
"What is this man made of? Bricks?" Shana wondered. "Kaysh guur'sakraan, he loves his food. You've seen as much already." The Mandalorian woman shifted his head from her shoulder to her lap, and Wren took a quarter turn, staring up at her with those piercing grey eyes, like polished nuggets of beskar.
Wren was fully mesmerized. Maybe it was the exhaustion and stress of the nightmare, maybe it was the cocktail of smoking herb, tea, and liquor, maybe it was just the way Wren was beginning to feel, their proximity, and their thin and minimal sleeping clothes, but Wren couldn't pull his eyes from Shana's, or seemingly any other part of her. It was a potent truth serum. "I was in a zero-gravity assault unit during Operation Shadow Hand," he blurted. The leak widened, and the truth came spilling out. "We got an action order to seize a research station housing an experimental droid brain. But the enemy had set up an insurance plan, an A-class bulk freighter stripped out and filled from bow to stern with Canyon Krayt Dragons. When the enemy knew they'd lost, they opened the cargo transfer gates and split." Wren shut his eyes, fighting back the rush of foul memories. "Only I made it out. With SENA, a few crimson Krayt Dragon pearls, and these kriffing nightmares."
The look on her face broke what remained of his composure, Wren rubbing the bridge of his nose as tears began forming. "There's a thing we say to commemorate passed comerades," she said quietly. "Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum; I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal." Shana scratched his scalp gently. "How many people have you told?" She asked. "How long has it been?"
"This much?" Wren frowned a different sort of frown, made of a different feeling. "You make... Five. And Force; years. Since I left..." He trailed off, and Shana saw why on his face; another thing he couldn't bear to even consider. Trauma under trauma, concealed as much to avoid reliving it as to avoid her scrutiny.
Shana felt her stomach do little twists, pressing a long, closed-lipped kiss against his forehead. "No more suffering in silence alone," she stated firmly. "Ni'gaar hukaat'kama, I've got your back."
The spacer said nothing, simply nodding once. Eventually he gave into his exhaustion and fell back into slumber, and Shana slipped away as soon as he was out cold. There was a special destination in mind, a touch of uncharacteristic rulebreaking on the menu. Shana hit a right out of Wren's bedroom, heading down into the rear sections of the ship. She picked the door marked 'droid bay', and opened it, coming face to barrel with a ceiling mounted turret. Further inspection revealed that it bore a pair of Tenloss Syndicate DXR-6 disruptor rifles. Extremely illegal, utterly lethal. Even if she'd been wearing her beskar'gam, it was doubtful she'd survive more than a single blast.
"Unless you plan on making a career as dust in the vents, I suggest you stay out," SENA quipped.
"I'm not here for anything but words," Shana said.
"Heh, you realize I can hear you no matter where you are on the ship, right?" Shana felt her face flush, and the disruptors hardly moved from her face. "I heard the whole thing."
"And? You've nothing to say about it?" SENA's evasiveness was beginning to grow into something worse than frustrating. Disruptors be damned.
"It's not mine to talk about," SENA retorted. "Wren tells who he trusts, when ever he decides he trusts them enough. But if you want my opinion, I can share it. I don't particularly trust you, or understand why Wren trusts you. He's got an instinctual thing for a lot of stuff, including people, that much I trust. But I don't see what he sees in you, and I think I see other things he doesn't." SENA's candor softened a shade. "But all the same, I can't ignore what you did for him. Or replicate it. He doesn't hear me from the wall when he thinks we're back over Velabri. So I don't really have a choice but to trust that you can give him a help that he's willing to receive. That you really care as much as you're acting like you do."
Shana, feeling very intimidated by all this despite herself, recognized tacit approval when she saw it. "Vor'e," she uttered. "Thank you."
SENA was about to respond, but she generated a wailing alarm instead. "I hate to be like this, but we just got lit up like a lightsaber by at least two dozen sensor sets, and I'm detecting the formation of several hyperspace entry-point emissions, with exit vectors plotting into our vicinity," the electronic intelligence warned. "Someone just found us and is jumping up into our faces as we speak."