Loewen
He was already in the corridor before the scream had even faded.
The Force had folded in on itself — like a beam of light shattering.
What he had seen in meditation — or was it a vision? — wasn't a memory.
Nor a warning.
It was now.
He had seen the man.
The embrace.
The pain in her eyes.
The death in her arms.
And beside it…
Scourge.
Not seen — felt.
Like a cord pulled taut.
Like a fire he refused to name."You feel."
He hated the word.
Hated what it implied.
What it betrayed in him.
Jealousy.
It bit.
It burned.
But he had no time for it now.
The corridor surrendered to urgency.
Illaoï was carried away,
And Loewen… could do nothing.
In the Medbay — Doc, Kira, and Silence
She lay motionless on the table.
Her face — drained of all light.
Doc, shirt soaked, hid his panic behind sharp movements.
"Collapsed lungs… cardiac lesion active… how the hell is she even— she shouldn't be alive!"
He ran the scanner over her back.
There. Circular burn. Faint. Hidden.
"Double penetration. A blade. She was impaled… and it never healed."
Kira was crying.
Not weakness.
Rage. Fear.
Love.
Not romantic.
Human.
She kicked everyone out. Even Loewen.
When their eyes met, she saw it.
Something she'd never seen in her master before.
"You can't afford this… not you…"
It hurt to say. But it was the truth.
Scourge
He sat. Still.
Upright.
Rigid.
Before him: the journal.
Pages of riddled prose.
Metaphors.
Inner landscapes he thought he had begun to understand.
Tonight… he was lost.
He read the same lines.
Again.
And again."Some pains sing in silence…
and some hearts beat against death itself…"
No explanation.
No mention of the wound.
Just silence, wrapped in beauty and quiet suffering.
He felt a presence.
A click. Gentle.
T7-O1.
The little droid blinked up at him.
He hesitated.
"I came to see if…"
Scourge cut him off — voice sharp.
"Out."
T7 recoiled.
"Out. Now."
The droid gave a soft, hurt chirp.
Then rolled away.
Scourge regretted it.
Almost.
But he couldn't deal with the void.
Not now.
Rusk
He watched the cameras.
The system logs.
The fuel cells.
None of it really mattered.
One data point returned to him again and again:
Her.
Survival chance: 27%
Morale drop if deceased: 87%
Risk of crew disarray: 94%
He exhaled.
She'd listened to him.
Laughed with him.
He hadn't seen that in… too long.
Doc (later, alone with her)
She remained still.
Unconscious.
He didn't dare touch her.
Every line had been stabilized — meds, breath regulators, molecular clamps over the failing heart.
Still… she bled.
Not outwardly.
Inside.
As if her heart had refused to close.
"Who did this to you, princess…
and more than that… why didn't you tell us?"
He clenched his fists.
He might have been a flirt. A fool.
But he could recognize an unspoken sacrifice
when it bled in front of him.