What seemed like an endless torrent of hot water gushed from the showerhead of the Ghost's lavatory, generating dense clouds of vapor that billowed throughout the small room. Ezra pointed his face into the stream, letting the streams push his cropped hair back and run in long lines down his back. After spending what seemed like a lifetime suspended in the lukewarm confines of a bacta tank, he had thought that he never wanted to feel liquids on his skin again. However, the tender skin of healing wounds allowed only careful sponge baths in the weeks after he emerged from the tank, leaving him feeling perpetually unclean. Now, the shower was a comfort; a way to begin to feel clean again, the heat melting away grime and the stress the remained ever-present in his jawline.

Turning the water off, Ezra stepped out from the shower, wiping away excess moisture with a towel that he then wrapped around his waist. He reached out his right hand to wipe away the condensation that obscured his reflection in the mirror, taking note of the contrast between the humid warmth of the room and the cool, slick feel of the glass. It took thirty hours in surgery and a minor miracle, but the medical staff of the Liberator had managed to reattach the severed limb. Ezra was already beginning to regain fine motor skills and sensation. In time, the only sign of the event would be the thick scar that ringed his wrist like a bracelet. The same could not be said of his left hand. In the haste of the desperate maneuver, the loop of detcord had widened, separating the bone and tissue in two places and disintegrating everything in the middle. As he leaned against the sink to stare into the mirror, a disheartening tink filled Ezra's ears as the crude metallic prosthetic made contact with the basin.

Staring into the reflection, Ezra's gaze scanned across the paths of fresh skin that ran in every conceivable direction and distance. He silently thanked whichever ancient scientist discovered the healing powers of bacta. Cleansed of impurity and infection, some of the smaller lacerations would vanish completely in time. The larger ones had been initially stapled closed, but now appeared significantly subdued, flanked by tiny discolorations where the staples pierced his flesh. He applied a layer of shaving cream to his face, happy to be able to shave again without the watchful eye of Kanan or Zeb looming. A long stroke cleared dark whiskers and cream from the underside of his neck, revealing a healed wound that hadn't been inflicted by the Imperials.

The incident placed him under twenty-four hour supervision in the weeks following his exit from the bacta tank. The Liberator didn't have a dedicated psychiatric ward, or a true psychiatrist for that matter. Like the rest of the rebellion, the medical staff on Atollon made due with what they had: an orthopedic surgeon, a gynecologist-obstetrician who hadn't yet completed residency, and a complement of 2-1B surgical droids. Those weeks remained a haze of drugs and fears in Ezra's mind. Looking at the pill bottles that sat half-full on the counter, Kanan's words came to the forefront of Ezra's mind.

Battles leave scars. Some you can't see.

Rex had been the one who saved him. Ezra had thrashed against what he thought was a restraining hold when he realized the wound hadn't gone deep enough. But over time, as he sat alone with the old veteran for hours on end, he came to understand it as the firmest, most loving embrace that he had ever felt. When Ezra couldn't bring himself to speak, Rex had talked of his own insecurities. The battles he'd lost. The men who had died under his watch. The fears that continued to dog him to that day. Eventually, Rex began to speak less and listen more as Ezra allowed himself to confront what had occurred in that cell, holding him again when the reflections wore him back down to tears and shaking.

More than anything, it was the shame that Ezra struggled with. Shame for not fighting hard enough before the Imperials had taken him. Shame for begging for pain to stop. Shame for endangering the lives of everyone who had come to rescue him, and the wounds the mission had caused. Shame for being selfish, inept, incompetent. Weak. When the gun had been placed to his head, he hadn't faced death with calm and reserve; he'd whimpered on the ground like a coward.

Ezra straightened, staring into his own eyes. They were clearer now, less affected by sedatives and tears. It had taken both Rex and Kanan to help him rebuild, convincing him that he had returned from captivity with honor. Even in his darkest moment, they explained, Ezra had subconsciously fought on - the silence Kanan had felt in their bond was the result of powerful shields Ezra had propped up as a final bulwark in his mind, hoping to hide himself from Kanan so as to not lure him into a trap. Over time, the amount of drugs Ezra took decreased as the length of his sessions with his mentors grew. Hopefully one day, he wouldn't need to take them to sleep at night.

The cold splash of water cleansed Ezra's face of the remaining shaving cream and focused his mind back in the present. His eyes wandered from the prosthetic, up his arm to his shoulder. It was the only part of his body unmarred by the blades; the Imperials hadn't wanted to damage his identification markings. A barcode, thick and thin lines of black ink, rose up from above a set of Aurebesh numerals denoting his prisoner number. Like the metal hand, Hera had assured him that it would be removed at the earliest opportunity, but tattoo removal services and synthskin experts rarely passed within parsecs of the Rebel base. Worse than any of the scars, the tattoo seemed like a brand in Ezra's skin, the definitive mark of Imperial ownership over his body and soul. Even the color pattern, black on Ezra's still-pale skin, was distinctly Imperial…

An idea flashed into Ezra's mind. It was wild, impulsive, the kind of idea that made the hair on his neck stand on end and his stomach turn in excitement. A wily grin spread across his face. It was a definitively Ezra idea. He left the lavatory, dressing quickly and making his way from the Ghost to the base's command bay. Seeing none of the senior leadership in the room - they certainly wouldn't approve - Ezra made his way to one of the junior officers studying the planning board. Noticing his approach, the young officer smiled in greeting.

"Good to see you outside the Ghost. What's on your mind?"

"Sir, are there any runs going out in the next few days?" The officer looked at a datapad, then back to Ezra, a half grin on his face.

"There's a supply run going to Nar Shaddaa, why do you ask?" Lieutenant Andor replied.

Standing outside Sabine's room, Ezra hesitated. The two had hardly spoke over the last couple of months, certainly nothing deeper than acknowledging each other's existence. When he first came out of the tank, Kanan and Hera had only told him that he'd lost his hands during the escape. As the weeks had gone on, Ezra thought Sabine was avoiding him because she was angry with him. Only after being pressed did Kanan divulge the details of how Ezra lost his hand. It killed him to think how she was shouldering the blame for his injury, something that had been taken completely out of her control.

What if she says no… Ezra's doubts continued to creep further into his mind. Ultimately, he forced them back down. She needs this. We both do. He gently tapped on the door.

"It's not locked," a quiet voice said from the other side of the door. Ezra thumbed the door control and stepped inside. To his surprise, no unfinished projects rested on the easel. The small shelf, typically covered in open paint jars and assorted pens, was barren. Sabine sat at the small table under her bunk, staring into a empty page on the sketchpad before her. She looked up from the blank paper, managing a weak smile. Ezra ignored the quick glance she made at his gloved hand. He had gotten into the habit of concealing the prosthetic, partly to limit the magnetic draw that it seemed to have on people's eyes.

"Hey," Sabine said softly.

"Hey." Ezra was suddenly at a loss for words. Running his good hand through the hair at the back of his head, he tried to piece together words to say. He wanted to say everything and nothing at the same time.

"Can I ask a favor?" Ezra finally managed. Sabine straightened, eyes visibly wider.

"Anything." Ezra took the parcel he was carrying under his arm into his hands, extending it towards Sabine. Her wide eyes narrowed as she took it and read the shipping labels on the box, printed in bold Huttese.

"I have an idea, but I need your help with it," Ezra stated. Sabine looked at him, then back to the box. She opened it and peered into the box, eyes widening once more. Inside lay a set of dyes, each as vibrant as the walls of her room, and a pneumatic gun bristling with needles.

Hera knew that everyone would need to cope with the events of the mission in their own way. Part of that meant letting people have time alone. However, very early on she set one ground rule: everyone came to dinner at 1730. If anything, it was her one chance to keep accountability of all of them, but she longed for the joyous conversations that used to echo through the common room of the Ghost.

Tonight, it was almost 1800, and only the five adults were in the room, all staring down the hallway towards the crew quarters. She had seen Ezra walk into Sabine's room, but that had been at 0900. Concern was becoming evident on Hera's face, as she looked to Kanan.

"Should I go check on them?"

"Might not be a good idea," Zeb snorted, masking worry with sarcasm. "Don't want to walk in on them working things out…" Kanan shot him a disapproving glance. Rex looked to the Jedi.

"Those two have hardly spoken since we got back. Can you tell what's going on?" Rex asked, keenly aware of the intuition the Jedis' bond might provide.

"Ezra's signature is… mixed. I sense pain, but not like we've been seeing in him," Kanan stated. The two had bonded deeper throughout the ordeal, brought together through a greater understanding provided as they had each opened up to Ezra about their pasts. Maybe some good will come of this yet, Kanan thought.

A flutter of activity from the hallway caught everyone's attention. Ezra and Sabine's voices were heard, much louder than the hushed tones that had dominated the last months. The muffled sound of laughter made Hera's heart leap. Sabine's door slid open, and the two entered room, grins across their faces. Hera crossed her arms, but was unable to hide her own joy at seeing her two youngest smiling again.

"You two are late," Hera began, feigning a disciplinary tone. "This had better be good." Ezra looked at Sabine, who nodded. He rolled up the sleeve, and peeled away the gauze pad resting on his shoulder with his good hand. A shocked hush fell across the room, only punctuated by a soft ooo-ah from Zeb. Rex and Rau leaned forward from their seats, eyes wide. Hera put a hand to her mouth, then leaned over to Kanan and began to whisper a description.

The redness and swelling still had yet to subside, but already the shapes were becoming clear. Small A-Wing and corvette silhouettes rocketed up Ezra's shoulder with the small outline of the Ghost in the center, the dark lines of what had been a barcode now depicting the contrails of armada. They lanced upwards against the brilliant orange of the Starbird behind them, its pointed wings encircling them and guiding them higher. The blocky Aurebesh numerals now bent and contorted with new ink, transforming them into the thin, ancient lettering of Mandalorian.

The two teens looked expectantly around at their elders. A stunned silence had fallen across the entire room, holding for a long second. It finally shattered under the weight of Zeb's booming laughter.

"The kid has finally got some ink!" Zeb exclaimed. "We'll have to work to get you some arms that fit it." The quip drew an amused laugh from Kanan and Rex, as Ezra put on his best smolder and flexed his arm, cocking it pointedly at Sabine. She laughed and made a point to make a show of rolling her eyes, prompting a look of fake dejection from Ezra. As Rex and Zeb moved closer to examine the art, Hera watched as Sabine looked with a pensive smile towards Fenn Rau. A smile had grown across his features, and he nodded in silent approval. Hera saw Sabine's pensive smile grow into an elated one, and moved to stand next to the Protector.

"The mando'a, I'm not familiar with the script. What does it say?" Hera asked. Continuing to smile, Rau turned to Hera.

"It reads vercopa, the shortened form of vercopaanir," Rau said. Hera looked again to the tattoo, then back to the two Mandalorians.

"What does that translate to?" Hera pressed. Rau smiled and looked to Sabine. Pride and joy sparkled in the girl's moistening eyes.

"Hope."

Author's note: this arc has been an absolute pleasure to write, and I'm glad so many people enjoyed it. Again, I cannot thank Medly-arts enough for her inspiration and support in this endeavor. I tried to stay as respectful as possible regarding the subject matter, based on study, personal experience, and work I did in my previous piece "Names." Please continue to send your comments, as I'll continue to implement criticism and suggestions in Growing Insurgency and the other projects I have planned. Thank you for your time and continued readership!

All the best,

JA