Luke swung his lightsaber experimentally, testing Vader's defences. Vader didn't bother to dodge or block it—he was too busy staring at Luke, it seemed, his limbs frozen. Aphra gritted her teeth. Luke—or rather, the worm controlling him—stepped forwards again, emboldened. The lightsaber was a furious beam of fire in his hands as he drove it forwards, down—
Vader stepped off the side of the dais, fell, and landed in a crouch. Aphra grimaced at the sound of his mechanical joints popping—even she could hear that, how was that supposed to feel?—but he rose to his full height again and stepped back once more, craning his head back to look up at Luke. The dais wasn't far above his head; it was a half-metre at most. But seeing the looming behemoth that was Darth Vader look upwards struck a chord in Aphra.
The red and blue light from the lightsabers and the golden glow of the phidnas caught on the falling specks of sand in the air around him. His plasteel mask caressed that light, stretching the colours to illuminate his head and shoulders, the long stamp of his shadow. Luke, above him, was lit only by the white-blue of his saber at his side, his face largely in shadow save for the tip of his nose and cheeks. His eyes glittered.
Luke tilted his head. "You will not attack us," he noted, almost agreeably. "We order you to leave, before—"
Vader clenched his fist. "I will not attack you, Luke."
Behind him, the queen began to choke.
Her screams made Aphra cover her ears again, but she couldn't maintain that volume for long—it petered out in seconds. Aphra expected Luke to whip his head around to see what Vader was doing to his queen, but she supposed he didn't need to: he could feel it, he could see it, his fragile human brain was stuffed to the brim with her pain and her orders to him to make it stop. He bared his teeth—an action that would have been scarier if he wasn't, y'know, human—lit his lightsaber, and leapt off the dais after Vader.
Vader lit his lightsaber, expecting a straight fight. That was Vader's problem, Aphra thought idly, watching Luke descend with the fury of an avenging son. He was vastly uncreative in his thinking, sometimes.
Luke's wings snapped to life when he was still in mid-air. Instead of smashing his lightsaber against Vader's like children playing—or sparring, Aphra's dad's voice in her head irritably corrected her—he kicked Vader in the face.
Mask.
Whatever.
Luke was still wearing his worn, falling-apart adventuring boots—the ones that Aphra had bought for him at a discount shortly after she realised he'd actually be useful. They didn't make a dent in Vader's mask; if anything, Luke had risked breaking his own toe. But it definitely surprised Vader. He staggered back, a hand coming up to seize Luke's ankle, but Luke spun and darted out of the way. His lightsaber took his leg's place.
Vader dropped his arm before he lost it. It didn't matter: he lost his concentration. The queen started screaming loudly again.
"Kill him!" she ordered. "Kill—"
At the deafening click of blasters all around her, Aphra abruptly remembered the flamethrower in her bag.
"Vader!" she called out. It was useful against Jedi, right? "Here!"
Vader turned to her, already murderous in his annoyance. She tossed him the flamethrower. His mask tracked the weapon; she saw him recognise what it was, what she intended him to do. He raised an arm, but it didn't look like it was to catch it—no, to push it away—
Luke had recognised it too.
His wings thumped the air, and he dived, arcing just out of Vader's reach. He didn't get close enough to catch it, but he flung out his hand, and it soared into it, just like that.
Jedi.
Kriffing Jedi—
He reangled his wings and soared upwards again, out of range of Vader's lightsaber. Up near the ceiling, he paused, examining the weapon.
"Take care of the droids, Aphra," Vader commanded.
"The droids? I—"
"Now."
Aphra backed away, reaching into her bag for… anything. Anything useful. She had charges. (She had a lot of charges.) Rope. (A lot of rope, too.) Blasters, all of the same make as the one at her side just now. And…
His fingers brushed metal. Cold cylindrical metal, ribbed with rubber for grip.
Oh. Oh.
She could use this.
She glanced up at Vader at Luke, a grin forming on her lips. It vanished instantly. Luke cocked his stolen flamethrower, and—
Kriff.
She bolted. The roar of flames behind her made her ears pop, the heat searing her back, the back of her neck. Her ten hours unconscious with proper bacta had healed up her burn nicely, but it twinged in sympathy just from the sudden, terrified scenarios running through her head right now.
That brat was not gonna burn her again.
The droids were right ahead of her, unsure whether to point their blasters at her or Vader. They hadn't shot yet—thank the stars—and she glanced over her shoulder to see why. Vader was still at the queen's end of the chamber, in the middle of the swirling vortex of fire. At least, she assumed he was.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she realised she couldn't see him.
Sweat and soot lingered on Luke's face to drip, black, into the folds of his skin at his neck. His wings were wavering in their beats, now, but still strong. He switched off the barrage of fire to peer down, just as everyone else did.
Vader was on his knees. His helmet was craned down towards the sand, like an armadillo curling in on itself, but his left arm was up, ramrod straight, his fingers splayed. Embers smouldered on his cape, eating at the fabric, but going out quickly. Otherwise, he was untouched.
"Deflect this, Jedi," Aphra muttered to herself. He'd done it. He'd done it well.
Except… he still hadn't moved. He was curled forwards still. She squinted at his shoulders. They were shaking. No way. She squinted harder. They were definitely shaking.
A few long moments later, and he still didn't get up. His right hand, still fisted around his lightsaber and anchoring him on the floor, seemed to be the only thing keeping him as upright as he was. The breaths from his respirator were painfully even, but at least they were even. In, out. In, out. If he was having a panic attack, his breathing wouldn't show it.
Was that what was happening? That was absurd. At fire? Fire that he'd deflected?
He kept breathing. His respirator was harsh on her ears, already tender from the queen's shrieking and the loud protestations of Luke's wings.
She realised she'd never stopped to wonder why he had the respirator at all.
Luke dropped the flamethrower. Aphra eyed its fall—it landed on the queen's dais! Dammit!—and didn't run to retrieve it. He switched his lightsaber back on and gripped it with both hands. Thankfully, even as his wings began to whirr more slowly in preparation, he didn't smile. She couldn't have borne seeing the queen's smile on Luke's face again.
His wings stopped. Luke dropped—headfirst—towards Vader.
His lightsaber sizzled, the air whistling. Aphra, still standing right in front of all those droids, started backing away slowly. They didn't aim for her; they knew Vader was the threat, but they also knew they couldn't fire on him until Luke was out of the way. She kept backing off, way back, until she was right in the middle of the knot of droids that had formed in the middle of the queen's chamber.
Out of her backpack, she started dropping things. Nothing important. A few spherical thermal detonators. Boop, they went. Boop. Boop. Boop. Not important enough for Separatist-style battle droids to notice, not when they were faced with Jedi. They rolled away from her.
Luke plummeted. Vader still didn't rise. His shoulders were heaving. Frozen.
She'd known that he didn't like Geonosis. He clearly had a history with the place. But this?
"Get up," she murmured. "Get up, get up—"
Luke reached Vader's level. His wings snapped to life, stopping his fall. He slashed his lightsaber down and should have cleaved Vader in two. Vader's skull should have bisected neatly into two pieces, his spine should have ruptured, and while the lightsaber wasn't long enough to cut him lengthways in half in one go, he should definitely have been dead.
But Vader's hand shot out and grabbed Luke's. It crushed Luke's grip on the lightsaber hilt, enough that a surprised gasp of pain burst from his lips. The blue blade hovered, inches above Vader's head.
The force of Luke's blow should've broken Vader's wrist. Vader had taken it like it was nothing.
"You underestimate my power," he spat, and Aphra didn't know if he was talking to her for doubting him, the queen for being stupid enough to order him dead, or Luke, the Jedi who'd genuinely thought he might be able to get a hit in. "And you underestimate, after everything, how little I have to lose."
He yanked Luke's hand to the side. Luke cried out again, his wrist twisting. He dropped the lightsaber. Vader stood to his full height, still with his grip on Luke's wrist, and dragged Luke up with him. Luke's wings beat frantically to keep him from dangling.
Luke used his free hand to scratch at Vader's grip, but there was no bending durasteel. He looked frantically around instead, making wild, clicking sounds with his tongue and throat. His throat bobbed, the muscles flexing, with the motions. At his order, the droids started forwards, lifting their blasters—
"I don't think so," Aphra said sweetly. Luke's gaze flicked to her, something like horror in his face. She winked. "Boop."
The detonators exploded.
She'd rolled them far away from her that she didn't get burn wounds… or shrapnel… or… well, actually, none of that had been certain. But! She was surrounded by a convenient cage of metal structures to shield her, and even those metal structures that weren't blown apart by the blast toppled, or fell, or turned to address it.
Vader hauled Luke up higher and, clipping his lightsaber to his belt, placed his other hand on Luke's forehead. Luke slipped his attention back to him, his gaze vicious. "Sleep," Vader ordered.
Luke continued to glare at him.
"I command you to sleep."
"We are many, Invader," Luke hissed in tones too varied and overlapping to be just his own. "We are thousands of minds killed but not forgotten, not destroyed. Can you and your Jedi mind tricks control all of us? Can you—"
"I only need to control one, Luke." Vader's tone was almost gentle, before it hardened again. "And Jedi mind tricks are far too gentle for the likes of—"
"You." Luke blinked. "You."
"I—"
Luke stopped clawing at Vader's grip on him with his free hand, reached out, and flexed his fingers into a fist.
Vader's respirator rattled to a halt. One second. Two seconds. Three—
A blast rippled through the room. Luke shot backwards out of Vader's grip, slamming into the wall at the foot of the dais. His wings crooked, before he shook them out and straightened them again, glowering at Vader.
Vader lit his lightsaber again and stalked forwards. "You would use my own tricks against me?" he demanded. He closed his fist again and dragged Luke into the air by his throat. Aphra winced. Luke had tried to do that… to Vader…?
"Do you remember what I did to Poggle?" Vader hissed, towering over Luke. "Geonosis, do you remember what happened to your archduke and all of his allies when they defied the Empire? That is where all of your newfound Jedi skills come from, is it not? The pale imitation of what Geonosians remember."
Vader stepped within range, and Luke kicked at him again. It connected with Vader like it might have connected with one of the tunnel walls.
"You will never be a Jedi, Luke. I will train you. And you," Vader looked up at the queen, "I will destroy."
Luke lashed out his hand. His lightsaber snapped into it. He lit it, and—
A blaster jabbed into Aphra's back.
"Roger roger," one of the droids said. What? Luke hadn't given them orders to kill her. She wasn't a threat! She'd only blown half of them to smithereens!
Damn independent thinkers.
She grinned. "Now, guys, I'm sure we can work something out. I know a friend of yours—I call him Switchy—"
The blaster was heating up. Before it could fire, she twisted out of the way, yanked that metal cylinder out of her bag, and lit it.
The lightsabers she'd stolen from the pit of worms earlier were valuable in any situation. In this situation, they were lifesavers.
This one was too long and too wide for her to hold one handed—pity, swinging two around dual-wielding might've been more efficient, and definitely would've been cooler—but the blade was yellow and pretty. She drove it into that droid's head, and it slid through him like a ship through hyperspace. She kept the momentum going: into the next droid. Into the next. One rapid circle.
When she dropped her arms back to her sides, she was standing in a circle of decimated droids.
She whistled, looking down at her lightsaber. "I need one of these," she said. "I need— Whoa!"
She backed off, slashing again. It was clumsy in her hands—shame. Perhaps if she was more Force-sensitive she'd be able to wield it. Or perhaps if she'd ever listened to her father's lectures she would. No matter. If she got burned…
Another droid marched towards her, lifting its blaster.
…it was better than getting shot.
She lunged to the side. The droid's shot went wide and knocked into another droid. Still frail from the detonators, it didn't crumble but it did collapse, nearly taking another droid with it. Aphra couldn't blame it. She lost her balance as well, yelping as she tumbled to the floor. Droid legs marched around her like high trees.
The cock of a blaster was loud in her ears. She must be an easy target like this, for the droids above her. On her knees, she lashed out with the lightsaber again and cut them off at the ankles.
Their, "Aaaaaa!"s were delivered in exactly the same tone as their "Roger, roger"s.
But she didn't have to get far. She crawled through the droids, mowing them down from the bottom, ducking and diving when they shot at her. Come on. Come on. Focus on Luke and Vader, blast it!
They did not focus on Luke and Vader. Probably a good plan. When she'd crawled to the edge of the knot of droids, before they could spread out and act useful, she rocketed to her feet and ran.
The deafening crash of the lightsabers was so much louder when she didn't have the droids blocking it out. She glanced over her shoulder for a moment—only a moment!—in time to see Vader seize Luke with the Force and throw him into the wall.
It was going great, then.
She glanced behind her. The droids—the ones she hadn't left without feet, at least—were gaining on her, turning towards her again. She was standing several metres away from the nearest one, more or less in the centre of the queen's wide chamber. The different archways into the rest of the catacombs studded the walls, all almost equally in reach as each other. Apart from the ones filled with droids.
In the catacombs, she'd have an advantage, right? New modifications made by the queen or not, the droids had been designed for battlefield warfare. If there was no battlefield, only a narrow tunnel with twists and turns that went nowhere, Aphra had the advantage. Or, at least, an advantage.
She looked around again. It was a long bolt for the nearest exit, but still only a bolt. She could pick one slightly diagonal to her, confuse the droids, avoid them and be on her way—
But she couldn't be on her way. Vader would kill her. Was already tempted to kill her, she knew. The only thing keeping her alive was the mission he'd given her.
She had to get the Death Star plans.
The despair that washed over her almost made her close her eyes. She had no idea where the Death Star plans might be, here. The droid factory hadn't even had plans for the droids, just… machines! And that was the only highly mechanised room she'd managed to find in these catacombs! It wasn't out of the question that they might have another room somewhere, buried deep in their network of tunnels, full to the brim with their diagrams of various technological advancements. In fact, it was extremely likely! The Geonosians were responsible for countless technological innovations, and they must store that information somewhere.
But Vader wanted this place destroyed, and he wanted it destroyed soon.
She would not be able to search the catacombs before he captured Luke and got the hell out of here. Not that she didn't have faith in Luke to fight him off for much longer, but—no, she didn't have faith in Luke to fight him off for much longer. She had to find a shortcut. She had to find her opportunity.
None of the archways—the doors—were closer to her than the droids themselves. But what was closer to her than them was the queen.
Aphra looked at her, her enormous body filling the whole end of the cavern. She wasn't looking at Aphra. Vader and Luke's fight was much flashier and more important than this random rogue making a nuisance of herself with the droids. But Vader and Luke were moving farther and farther away—towards the tunnels, away from the throngs of droids. The same advantages that the droid armies had in wider terrain counted here too: without the space for armies to manoeuvre, Luke could not call on them for help. Without space for him to manoeuvre, he could not call on his wings to help. Vader wanted them to move to the tunnels. He was pushing him back.
Aphra looked back at the queen, enraptured by their fight. The galaxy seemed to slow around her as she thought, but suddenly it snapped into real time, real light, painfully fast, bright, and vivid.
That was just how she liked things.
She took off on her left foot. As soon as her right foot landed, she threw herself to the left again. The shots from the furious droids behind her went wide, and she ran forwards, dodging left, right, left right. Zigzag. She had to keep moving, or they'd hit her; their aim wasn't stellar, but there were enough of them that it didn't matter.
But she was already close to the very end of the queen, and they missed their chance.
Extinguishing the lightsaber and tossing it back into her bag, she leapt onto the queen's tail. The shots cut off abruptly. The queen screamed.
Aphra grimaced. "No need to react like that," she muttered. Her flesh was soft and, well, fleshy under her hands, with the slight slime of something like mucus. Charming. "It's not like that."
It was springy, too. Aphra's balance wasn't on par with a circus performer's, but years of doing ill-advised stuff like this meant she'd got pretty good with it. She jumped up to the next segment of the queen's body like it was a trampoline.
She got high enough that one droid decided to risk taking a potshot at her but was so worried about hitting the queen that it went wide. Still, she crawled as far as she could on the next segment before jumping.
The queen stared at her in horror for several seconds before it occurred to her to try to get her off. Aphra, too, took several seconds to process this, but it was more a matter of reconciling how fundamentally absurd this all was.
Alright. In theory, it wasn't that different to every other plan she'd ever chosen: it hinged on the power of incredible violence.
The queen bucked underneath her. Aphra gasped and held on, her fingertips sinking into the soft, malleable flesh. Another loud shriek. That had probably hurt.
"Sorry!" Not really, but it was only polite. The queen shook again, violently, from left to right. Aphra's grip was still terrible, but she threw herself forwards, then back, and leaned against the rocking, scrambling forwards all the time. Onwards, onwards, onwards—up to the next segment, right along from her tail up to where her torso reared up, like something out of a horror holo—
"Agh!"
The queen kicked and reared up, and Aphra was thrown backwards. She grabbed the edge of the next segment and clung on as best she could, her feet leaving solid flesh for a few nerve-wracking seconds. The moment there was something under them again, she bounced, jumped, and dragged herself onto the next segment by her belly. She felt like a worm herself.
"Why are you doing this to us?" the queen hissed.
She couldn't move much, Aphra noted. It made sense with the biology and structure of the society They had drones, they had leaders like the archduke Vader had mentioned, and then the queen's primary role was as the heart and progenitor of the hive. In order to produce as many eggs as possible, to ensure the survival of the hive as much as possible, she was so big she struggled to move. Her body was as much worm or larvae as it was the build of a standard Geonosian: she had no legs.
Wasn't this queen supposed to be sterile? Aphra suddenly remembered. Or at least, unable to reproduce. Why was she so big, then? Why was she laying eggs at all?
The tail behind her lifted sluggishly. Aphra chanced a quick look over her shoulder, hair flying in her face, but there was nothing to worry about. The queen couldn't knock her off with her tail. She could hardly lift her tail. Besides—that was where the eggs came out.
Up to the next segment. She landed on that one hard, the wind rushing out of her lungs. "Oof."
"What," the queen hissed, "are you doing to us?"
Aphra reached the last, largest segment, right behind her torso. Landing hard on her stomach winded her—again—but she didn't have time to pant for breath. Her hands sought purchase underneath her; she pushed herself up to her knees, trying to steady herself. The drop was a long way down.
The queen twisted around to leer at her. The Geonosian-torso part of her body was painfully spindly compared to the planetoid bulbs Aphra had just climbed. Her thin, frail arms reached for Aphra, her mouth open, her teeth yellow and as long as each of Aphra's fingers. Her crest towered above them both, blocking any view Aphra had of the lights and the duel below.
One of her six hands shot forwards before Aphra could throw herself back. It fastened around Aphra's wrist and dragged her to the side. Aphra slumped out of her kneeling position and onto her belly again; the queen kept pulling until Aphra was staring over the edge of her body, down to the dais, past the diamond-shaped, tooth-like fence around the dais, and to the hard ground at the bottom.
It was swarming with droids. All of them were below her, now, pointing their blasters up.
Blasters. Right.
Aphra's free hand grabbed her blaster off her belt. She levelled it up, away from the hand dragging her to her doom—and shot the shoulder that controlled it.
The queen screamed. The arm detached—Aphra hadn't expected that—and she had to scramble back to stop the dead weight from dragging her over the edge after all. Before the queen could try anything else, Aphra threw herself at her head.
Her head was the size of Aphra's torso, and her crest significantly wider. Aphra swung off the crest—ignoring the scream that she was certain would soon rupture her eardrums—and wrapped her legs around the queen's neck. She locked them there, entangling her feet together, and tightened her free hand's grip on the crest. Then she jabbed her blaster to the back of the queen's head.
The position, she realised with a pang of regret, was like when her mother had lifted her onto her shoulders as a child. Baby Aphra had sat there happily, pulling on her mother's hair to stay upright where necessary. Which, come to think of it, her mother couldn't have been too happy about, but she never complained, and…
Aphra closed her eyes.
"Where are the Death Star plans?" she got out.
The queen's intake of breath shook them both. "That is what you want from us?"
"Newsflash: that's all I've ever wanted. I asked you before, and you weren't any help. Now look what's happened! Vader's here, and he's gonna steal your favourite slave out from under you. You should have listened to me the first time." She said again, low and steady: "Where are they?"
A loud clicking noise emanated from her throat. Was that laughter? It couldn't be. The droids stirred, glancing at each other. "We appreciate your cunning," the queen said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" But Aphra had an idea and glancing down confirmed it. The very end of the queen's tail was swelling, swelling… until out popped a tiny, yellow-green egg. "Don't you dare."
"You would be an asset to us," the queen crooned.
"You changed your tune, didn't you! Luke said to me—" She broke off, unexpected hurt shoved into her chest like corrupted data file. "Luke said I was a loveless, self-centred individual." Her hand holding the blaster shook. "What happened to you would only poison us?"
"Do you not know what happened to us?" the queen asked.
"I don't understand anything about you. Where are the Death Star plans?"
Now, that clicking noise was definitely a laugh. Aphra's skin crawled. "That is evident." Her voice was still horribly slow and drawn out, scraping at Aphra's ears. "You understand nothing."
"You're going to give me the Death Star plans, or I'm going to unload a dozen bolts into your skull"—did Geonosians have skulls? It didn't matter, except of course it mattered to her—"and there'll be no hope at all for your species' survival—"
"There is an abundance of new hope. Wormie has ensured that."
Wormie. That name again. Wormie.
Aphra's hand shook harder.
"Why care you so fervently about a machine that will murder millions?" the queen asked. "Too many have died—"
"You should know," Aphra interrupted. "You had Luke say it to me. My interest in profit trumps all interest in connective or constructive pursuits." She shook her head. "You don't have the Death Star plans, do you? You lied to me. There is no file anywhere in these catacombs that has those plans."
"Then you understand more about us than you had thought," the queen said. "But not enough." She gestured with one of her free arms; Aphra panicked and looked to the gesture. A droid went to pick up the egg she'd expelled from her tail, cradling it in its metal hands like it was the key to immortality.
"No," Aphra said. "I won't let you— No!"
Her hand shook too much. The queen lashed out to grab her blaster from her, then switched it to stun. Aphra dived out of the way just in time to avoid it shutting her down entirely, but it clipped her elbow. A shock ran through her. Stumbling backwards, staring into the queen's dark, delighted eyes, she fell.
The sight of the droids gathering below to catch her, one with the ghastly egg in its arms, snapped her out of her daze. She shouted. Her arms reached out for anything, anything she could reach—and slammed into the edge of the dais. The teeth-like protrusions that fenced it off loomed on either side of her. She clung to them, glancing down.
She'd lost her blaster. Most of her detonators were gone, used up on the droids. The droids that were left were pointing blasters at her, clearly waiting to see if she would fall by herself before stunning her. And Luke had not only stolen her beloved flamethrower but had the nerve to toss it aside and leave it lying on the ground. She could see it, dozens of metres away, sitting unhappily in the sand.
Then, as one, the droids jerked their heads to the side. Looking in the direction where Vader and Luke had left. The queen gasped as if wounded.
Luke.
Vader— Vader must have got him, stunned him, or something—
At her waist, he comlink began to bleep.
Eyeing the droids below—distracted, for the moment—she fumbled for it with one hand, hanging on for dear life with her other, and answered it. "Hello?"
"Aphra." Vader's hologram was tiny. It sat in the palm of her hand. It was hard to imagine he held her life in his. "I have retrieved the boy. Have you retrieved the plans?"
Aphra swallowed. "Well, I—"
"Answer simply. I have no interest in falsehoods."
No. He never did. "The queen lied," she said. "She doesn't have a copy of the Death Star plans here. There's nothing for us to steal."
"I see." Vader seemed unperturbed. "I will have to source them from the Imperial archives directly, then. No matter."
"No matter?" she choked out. Every inch of her, down to her very bones, was exhausted. "You sent us—me and Luke—down here on something you could have done yourself? Something that doesn't matter?"
"The Death Star plans matter. Accessing them will draw my master's attention. But now it seems that is unavoidable."
"Nothing else matters to you!?" But she didn't need to ask, and Vader didn't need to answer. They both knew the state of things.
Aphra didn't matter to Vader.
Aphra didn't matter at all.
"What about the charges?" she demanded. "What—"
"They will be detonated forthwith."
"What about me!? Aren't you gonna help me escape?"
Vader looked at her coolly. "Were you intending to help Luke escape?"
Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, of course, and I was bringing you to him, wasn't I?
But Vader had no time for falsehoods.
Luke mattered, for some reason. Luke mattered to Vader very much. But Aphra never would.
Vader ended the call. Good—he didn't make Aphra do it, at least. She stared at the comm in her hand, then down at the droids, and up at the queen.
There was no other ending Vader would have given her. She knew that. She'd known that from the start. Just like she'd known as a child that her father only wanted her around because she was useful to have on his archaeological missions, but she'd kept hoping it wasn't true. Just like she'd known her mother couldn't have survived that many blaster shots to the chest, even with the stormtroopers telling her, but she'd made sure to go back to check anyway.
None of this stopped it from hurting any less.
The rumbling in the distance started slow. Aphra's exhausted ears almost didn't pick up on it. But it loudened, and loudened, and there was no doubt. Switchy had done his job and done it well, just like Aphra had programmed him to do.
The ceiling shook. Rock and sand started to rain down, unrelenting. The queen started screaming again.
That was too much.
Aphra didn't look down. She just closed her eyes and let go.
Jedi mind tricks have no power over us, for we are many minds overlapping as once, and no one will can dominate. But we are nonetheless vulnerable to the individual limits of the flesh. When Invader takes a blaster from one of our droids and stuns Wormie, we can do nothing to stop our flesh from shutting down.
We wake in Invader's arms, several times. We struggle, several times, with every weapon the universe has gifted us: teeth, claws, blunt force. We are stunned again.
Until we wake for the last time, and sunlight streams through our eyelids. We expect it to inflict agony on eyes accustomed to the dark, but Wormie's body is a human one, so we have strength we did not anticipate. We kick and scream, but Invader's grip bruises our limbs, and our command of the Force pales in comparison to his. All that we throw at him, he tosses aside. He carries us to his ship, through the ship, and throw us to the ground of a strange white chamber.
We scramble to our feet, but he grips us with the Force so we cannot move. We can shout, though. Curses, Geonosian and Basic and Huttese and Mirialan and clone slang and every other language we have ever absorbed, fly from our lips. He is immune to them, though he chides something insultingly affectionate in Huttese. We refuse to accept affection from invaders.
The chamber closes around us. Its walls rise from the floor and lower from the ceiling, while its top is domed and smooth. It is like an egg cracking in reverse, while the sharp, jagged edges of the walls send unease skittering through our gut.
Invader stands outside. With every moment, we lose sight of more of him, but with Wormie's gift we can still feel him. Watching. Waiting.
We do not expect the cold, though we should have.
We writhe in agony. The soft, warm inside of Wormie's head protects us for only so long, while Wormie falls to his knees, his hands braced against the smooth floor. It reflects back at us his face, contorted in expressions we do not share, while ice crystals form on his eyelashes and icicles hang from his hair.
We do not want this.
We do not want to abandon you.
This is survival—this is life and death—this is all we can do—
I know.
We do not want to leave you alone.
I know.
We are sorry, we are sorry, we are sorry—
I know.
Wormie vanishes. We cannot feel the comforting shape of his mind. We know not the roiling emotions in his heart, nor the alien but not unwelcome sensations that flood to us from his human senses. Our hivemind is beginning to swell again, and we hear many more voices than before, but that is because of him, and now he is gone.
We realise: we have forgotten what silence sounds like.
