Zelphi, 9 ABY
A blistering wind howled across the flats, scouring the shifting sands and blasting cascades of dust over sparse, meager vegetation clinging to a nominal existence. The winds scoured rotten reptile, desiccated by the pink sun searing the landscape from above. The wind screamed past the decomposing creature toward a ramshackle fence encircling several plots of struggling vegetables and a solitary, ramshackle hut. Plastic flapped against the hut's windows, and the winds whistled through the gaps in the walls, alleging in their mysterious, polyphonic voices: whhhhhooooooo?
The winds screamed past the farm toward a large boulder where sand had piled up in a drift. Atop the boulder, a man sat, a tattered cloak wrapped around his body and a scarf blowing in the wind. Upon his head, the man wore a partially melted stormtrooper's helmet, and he sat, unnaturally still as the wind attempted to scour his clothing and his body. Even as heat, dryness, and decay tore at him, the man sank deeper into his meditations, bracing himself against something darker.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
The pinging stirred him out of the quiet corner he had carved out for himself in his turbulent mind. An anticipation built in the quiet place he had carved out through his meditation, and he waited for the comm to ping again.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
"Bridger?" spoke a crisp male voice.
Ezra opened his eyes, scowling beneath his mask. He removed the commlink from his belt while resisting the temptation to hurl it into the desert.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
"Bridger, this is Commodore Brandt. Do you copy?" the voice persisted.
Ezra gripped the commlink, lifting it up to throw it as far as he could. As he reared back, the voice spoke again.
"Bridger – Grand Admiral Thrawn will be arriving in five minutes," Brandt announced.
Ezra's arm fell back to his side, and the commlink sat inert in his hand. He gazed at the device, resentment swirling with a ferocity much like the winds of Zelphi. He lowered himself from the rock, and pulling his cloak tighter around him, he shuffled against the wind toward his hut.
Tattered plastic flapped against the windows, failing to keep the winds at bay as dust drifted through the desiccated air. A thick film of dust had settled on the floor, disturbed here and there by boot prints. A kettle sat on a rusted electric stove, and a cot brought down from the barracks sat in the corner, a blanket crumpled upon its thin mattress. Ezra entered the hut, removing his helmet and setting it upon a shelf next to his lightsaber, to which a thin film of dust clung. Next to the shelf hung a small mirror, and the reflection of a tired, gaunt face with a wild, tangled beard and long hair pulled back in a bun felt unrecognizable – a stranger's face.
Ezra turned away from the mirror and settled himself into a chair beside the bed, waiting for the Admiral to arrive. He listened to the wind alternatively howling and whispering its accusations, straining to pick up the sound of the approaching speeder. The whine of the approaching skiff rose, then sputtered into silence as it stopped outside the fence. As he gazed down at his cracked, dusty hands, Ezra imagined men moving through the garden. Moments later, a knock on the door preceded a death trooper's entrance. The soldier's armor carried a thin sheen of red dust, and he entered the room, followed by a second death trooper. The troopers took up position on either side of the door, through which Grand Admiral Thrawn entered the room, his hair unnaturally immaculate against the fierce wind, although even his pristine white suit could not maintain immunity to the dust.
Thrawn scanned the room, and Ezra observed the scantest hint of a disgusted sneer on the Admiral's face. "Ezra Bridger," Thrawn said nodding gravely.
Ezra nodded, remaining silent.
Thrawn maintained the silence as the wind rose in pitch. The plastic covering the windows flapped, and the dust shifted inside the room. As the wind died down, Thrawn pronounced, "It is time."
Ezra nodded his head in agreement. He had watched the Chimaera blast off from its landing platform the week before. The massive ship rose into the sky before drifting forward into space. The ship had vanished for twelve hours before returning. Since then, TIE fighters had soared across the valley, creating an incessant whine that competed with the wind. The refinery had gone dark, its plume of smoke fading as the plant shut down. Occasionally, the wind carried snatches of sound from the bustle of activity as the Zelphinian laborers and the Chimaera's crews dismantled their respective barracks.
"Do you recall what I told you following the attack by the Grysk?" Thrawn asked, his quiet voice carrying above the wind.
"Only when I have to," Ezra acknowledged, his voice ragged from lack of use.
"The time has come to pay your debt," Thrawn proclaimed.
Ezra looked away toward a spot on the floor, averting his gaze as the turbulence inside him swelled.
Keeping his eyes rooted to the floor, he said, "Wasn't the past five years enough?"
"Enough of what?" Thrawn asked, his voice cold. "Meditating in the desert? Growing wilted vegetables in squalor?"
Ezra shrugged. But as he shrugged, a powerful craving awoke inside of him – an urge that had lain dormant since his last fix of Third Sight on a catastrophic afternoon five years ago.
"The Chimaera leaves tomorrow. We have charted and solidified a route that will bring us two-thirds of the way back to a likely re-entrance point. The last third of the way. . ." Thrawn said before Ezra interrupted.
"Is my job," Ezra stated flatly.
Thrawn stifled his annoyance at being interrupted and affirmed, "Yes. That is your job."
Ezra looked up at Thrawn, then back down to the floor. In a slow, tired voice, he said, "What if I don't want to?"
"I have made it clear that my tolerance of your continued existence within this settlement is predicated upon your willingness to complete this final task," Thrawn stated.
"Maybe I'm ready to discontinue that existence," Ezra murmured.
"You have had five years to end your miserable life, yet here you are, awash in dust and self-pity," Thrawn said. "Just as when you had your chance to kill me, you lack the will."
"Maybe spite will get me over the hump," Ezra growled, scowling at Thrawn.
"Ah, but then. . ." Thrawn said, and he paused to remove something from his trouser pocket. Ezra followed his hand and watched as Thrawn removed a vial of shimmering purple-blue crystals.
Ezra tried to stifle the response, but against his will, he straightened up in his chair.
"Do you think I'm ignorant to how the mind of an addict works?" Thrawn purred. "You haven't killed yourself in the hope that you might get another taste."
Ezra clenched his fist and willed his body to slump back into the chair. "It won't work. I cut myself off from the Force," he admitted.
"The evidence I have studied of such phenomena does not suggest that such an act is irreversible," Thrawn said, squashing the excuse.
Ezra sunk back into his chair, desperately averting his gaze from the crystal vial lying in Thrawn's open hand.
"Here's my offer," Thrawn said, continuing to hold his hand out. "You will aid the Chimaera in returning to the galaxy. Once you have completed this task, I will provide you with a ship. From that point, you may go where you wish. Wallow in self-pity, end your life, find your friends – it matters not to me."
Ezra could no longer avert his eyes, and he stared hard at the crystals in Thrawn's hand. "And if I refuse?"
"Do not insult my intelligence," Thrawn smiled.
Ezra glared hard at Thrawn, allowing his hatred to show. He clenched his fists, and he saw the death troopers tense.
Thrawn rolled his eyes, saying, "Humans. So predictable."
Thrawn pocketed the vial, and Ezra flinched reflexively. The death troopers both lifted their rifles to assure Ezra that they would not hesitate.
"Of course, you are welcome to indulge revenge fantasies and nurse your psychological wounds. You can even make attempts on my life," Thrawn explained in a bored voice. "Rest assured that there is nothing you have thought of that I have not already considered."
Ezra willed himself to relax, and he leaned back in his chair, maintaining his glare at Thrawn.
"So then – you drug me. We return. You set me free. And that's that," Ezra reiterated.
"That's that," Thrawn affirmed.
Ezra stared out the window, listening to the dwindling voice in the back of his mind screaming in warning. That voice screamed against the internal turbulence mirroring the winds outside the hut, whispering to reach out and take what belonged to him. Five years of meditation, and that's all the resistance I have? Ezra thought to himself bitterly.
He looked back up to Thrawn and nodded. He then closed his eyes, searching inside himself for the door he had closed years ago. After a minute's searching, he found the door. The walls of the hut rattled, and the death troopers hoisted their weapons, looking around for the source of the shaking. The shaking intensified, building toward a peak, before suddenly ceasing. The stormtrooper helmet sitting upon the shelf lifted an inch into the air before drifting over to Ezra's lap. When the helmet settled into his lap, Ezra opened his eyes and met Thrawn's gaze.
Thrawn nodded, then turned to leave the hut without a word.
Ezra shuffled through the main strip running the length of the abandoned, makeshift village that had sprouted outside of the Chimaera. Doors lay ajar, and detritus lay strewn about, hastily abandoned by the crew who had packed what they needed and discarded what was unnecessary. On the other side of the village lay hulking form of the Chimaera, its bridge superstructure obscured by a haboob blowing through the upper reaches of the valley. As Ezra rounded the corner out of the main street, he saw crews lifting the last of several containers and crates into the Chimaera's storage holds. Crew members paused as he passed, and Ezra felt their suspicious, hardened glares strafing him as he walked. Keeping his eyes focused on the lift into the ship, he forged ahead, ignoring their contempt.
Thirty minutes later after being directed to the showers, he emerged, a year's worth of dust scoured from his body, his beard washed, and his hair tamed and pulled back into a ponytail. He looked into the mirror and felt a fleeting stab of pain as he thought of Kanan. He willed away the thought, dreading what his old Master might have said about the choice he was about to make. Sabine's face arose in his memory, unbidden. Would she be disappointed at what he was about to do? Would she be relieved? Would she even care? Was she even alive? As he had squashed thoughts of Kanan, he also willed away thoughts of Sabine. Such things had not helped in the past five years, nor would they help now.
A pair of stormtroopers waited outside the lavoratory, and as Ezra passed, they took up position beside him, both as escort and guard. Ezra ignored their presence, instead marching toward the lift leading up to the Chimaera's bridge. The lift carried them up, disgorging them forty levels above at the galley leading to the bridge. The stormtroopers escorted Ezra to a pair of death troopers standing sentinel on either side of the bridge. The stormtroopers saluted the death troopers, and the door to the bridge slid open.
Ezra stepped through, flanked by death troopers. All eyes in the bridge of the Chimaera turned toward him – except one. Ezra walked forward toward Thrawn, who stood motionless, gazing a the bridge display with his hands behind his back. Ezra felt every other eye in the room following him.
As Ezra reached a point beside Thrawn, the Grand Admiral called out, "Commodore Brandt, are systems ready for launch?"
"Yes, Grand Admiral. The ship and its crew are at your command," Commodore Brandt declared.
"Launch on my mark," Thrawn called.
Ezra's newly attuned senses registered the tension within the crew as Thrawn ordered, "Launch."
The ship rumbled beneath his feet, and a plume of dust erupted as the repulsorlifts labored the massive ship off of the ground. As the ship turned in the air, Ezra gazed into the center of the valley where his hut sat, obscured by the dust displaced by the Chimaera's launch. He swallowed a confusing mix of emotions as the ship lurched forward, picking up speed and altitude as it lumbered toward the atmospheric boundary.
Minutes later, Thrawn called out, "Prepare to jump to hyperspace on my mark."
An Ensign called out, "Calculations complete, sir!"
Thrawn nodded, and Ezra saw a glimmer in his eye as he called, "Jump."
The ship lurched forward as the stars stretched into lines. As the ship shot forward at a speed greater than light, Thrawn murmured, "Bridger, you may retire to your quarters to rest. In eight hours' time, I will recall you to the bridge where the final stage of our journey shall commence."
Ezra nodded then turned away. He walked the length of the bridge, and a pair of stormtroopers closed around his flanks to escort him to his room.
Commodore Brandt watched Ezra leave the bridge, and as the Jedi left, he turned toward his commander, who remained motionless, staring into the mottling of hyperspace. Again, his apprehensions rose. He had debated the Grand Admiral on this final point to the limits of proper Imperial protocol, eventually acceding to the Grand Admiral's wisdom. Yet as Ezra appeared before him, clearly unbalanced and dysregulated, Commodore Brandt felt cause to question the Grand Admiral's decision once again.
Unable to remain compliant, Brandt stepped forward, walking the catwalk between the control bays. Upon reaching the Grand Admiral, he stood silently, waiting for the Admiral to address him.
"Concerns, Commodore?" Thrawn asked presciently.
Brandt hesitated, then knowing that he could not turn away now that Thrawn had addressed him, he said, "Bridger. . ."
"You are wondering, again, why I am placing my trust in Bridger to complete this final task," Thrawn deduced.
"I am," Brandt admitted.
"Whoever said I trusted him?" Thrawn mused.
"Then why. . ." Brandt started.
Thrawn turned toward him and muttered, "Observe protocol, Commodore."
Brandt straightened and resumed his upright posture. The sound of boots against the smooth, polished floor of the catwalk grew behind him, and Brandt turned to see Lieutenant Torris striding forward. When Torris reached Thrawn, the Grand Admiral turned. Torris saluted with his free hand, then held out a pair of devices designed to wrap around the wrist. Thrawn accepted the device, then nodded to Brandt to accept the spare.
"All contingencies are considered, Commodore," Thrawn said coolly. "Do not assume I would leave something so critical to chance after everything we've all learned."
"And this is?" Brandt asked as he slipped the device over his wrist.
Torris smiled as Thrawn considered the device now wrapped around the blue skin of his wrist. Thrawn lifted his head, meeting Brandt's gaze with his glowing red eyes. A smile stretched across Thrawn's lips as he said, "Insurance."