The emperor will remember the next three days as a series of stark moments, less cohesive than a force vision but more visceral.
The rush of medical personnel, swarming around Rey. She is lifted onto a stretcher, and carried away on a wave of pale blue uniforms.
The bodies scattered across the decking- crewmen and techs and even a few officers.
Azalon's soft voice in his ear. The rush to the upper decks, overlooking the landing bay.
The assassin, dead. Slumped over his strange weapon and his body quickly cooling. The foam on his lips and the rictus that distorts his features screams poison.
His officers scrambling through the door like ants, desperate to escape his fury.
The wail of his lightsaber, red as the lining of a human eye rolled back in torment, red as a mouth opened to scream, red as the blood splashed across the deck of the landing bay- he swings and swings and swings-
The destruction he causes spawns a power outage to a portion of the ship.
In his chest is an agony that will not abate.
His moth- General Organa's face on the comm screen as he explains what has happened.
The shame. The shame. The agony that threatens to choke him, to drown him.
The endless stretch of corridors.
Her hand, small and brown and calloused against the pale sheet of the medical cot.