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Melshi’s always been good at handling conflict. A childhood of bailing out his nerf-herding sister has given him ample practice. Greer would tease him about his spy face, how he could bury everything that made him vulnerable beneath the surface. It’s what makes him a good soldier.
Now, huddled in a recess of the citadel barracks, more blood on his clothes than in his body, Melshi can feel his soldier-self slipping away, and that’s when he knows he’s fucked. This is supposed to be the time for him to rally up the last of his strength, go out fighting for the Rebellion, but he’s just so tired.
Sef’s body lies not even four feet from him, and for one ridiculous moment, Melshi hates him. He hates Sef for getting killed, for leaving them behind. He hates Sef because all Melshi wants to do is lay his throbbing head against the durasteel floor and close his eyes, just rest awhile.
(Maybe forever.)
Other emotions manage to slip through the cracks in his armor: guilt, fear, even a bit of wonder, thinking that after so many years of outrunning death, this is it. His chances are finally spent.
The roar of AT-AT canon fire pulls him back into the present. A string of curses whistle past his teeth as he tries to sit up. The console can’t be more than a few yards away, taunting them with how convenient it seems, like they’re children playing a game.
(It’s called Flip the Switch. Just make it past the death troopers without getting shot and you win!)
The abject unfairness of it all hits him like a physical blow. He’s always so close, but never close enough. He’d almost saved Greer that day on Lothal. Countless fellow soldiers he’d almost gotten to safety in time. The master switch, almost in his reach. Almost, almost, almost.
Every heartbeat brings a new ache to his attention, so it takes Melshi a moment to realize that the monk, Chirrut, is looking at him. Melshi startles slightly, wincing against the pull of his muscles.
(It isn’t that he’d forgotten the guardians were there. He was simply… preoccupied.)
The intensity of Chirrut’s unseeing gaze flusters Melshi, and he wonders if the old man can sense his defeat, somehow. When he was young, Melshi’s parents had tried to impress upon him the power of the Force. He’d been skeptical, even then, but something deep inside Melshi is telling him that Chirrut knows.
The monk turns away, pulling himself up with enviable strength, and Melshi watches something settle over him – more than an expression, an ambience of pure resolve. His soldier-self is screaming at Melshi to stop him, protect him, but all he can do is stare. Chirrut grips his staff, holding it erect with almost hallowed rigor, and steps out of the alcove.
Blaster fire strikes the archway above them, rattling Melshi to his core. Baze calls out for Chirrut, and even with his vision waning, Melshi can see the shock and horror blighting his face. It breaks something inside of him, memories flooding his brain so suddenly he may drown.
Greer disappearing behind a cloud of smoke. Melshi screaming her name, begging her to come back to him. Everything around him quaking as the building collapses.
Melshi squeezes his eyes shut. No, he can’t lose himself in the past, not now. This is not Lothal. That is not his sister. Chirrut is out there, risking his life to give them another chance, and Melshi is taking it.
Drawing a few quick breaths (or trying to), Melshi turns onto his side. He cries out, blood white hot, and blinks until the world is no longer sideways. Slowly – agonizingly so – Melshi adjusts his blaster. He takes aim, shoots thrice, but only manages to hit one trooper.
(His mum, who’d taught him and Greer how to shoot, is probably rolling over in her grave.)
Blaster bolts streak past his shoulder and take out three other troopers, but when Melshi turns back, Baze is not even looking at them. His eyes are locked onto Chirrut as if they’re physically tethered. Melshi knows that look: a special kind of helplessness that comes from watching someone you love put themselves in harm’s way.
Chirrut strides, unyielding, across the beach, a revenant cloaked in smoke. Almost every trooper has their weapon trained on him, but the bolts rush past like they’re too afraid to touch him.
“Chirrut,” Baze is still screaming, “come back!” but Melshi knows that isn’t an option.
“You’re almost there, Chirrut!” he calls, “It’s on the right!”
His stomach roils with anticipation, the pulsing in his head beating out two syllables over and over – almost, almost, almost.
Whatever spell is holding Chirrut breaks when he reaches the console, and Melshi could faint when he sees the monk flip that fucking switch.
Baze doesn’t share his relief, and screams again, “Chirrut, come! Come with me!”
Chirrut turns back to them, and Melshi can’t explain what comes over him, next. It may just be soldier’s instinct. It may be the Force (he thinks he’d believe it, at this point). All he knows is that everything around him falls out of focus, save for the death trooper raising his blaster. Melshi doesn’t think, doesn’t allow room for almost.
He takes aim and pulls the trigger.
The bolt catches the trooper in his shoulder, knocking his blaster off target as it fires. The subsequent explosion still shakes the ground and Chirrut is sent flying.
There’s a breath of time where Baze is petrified, rage and terror contorting his features, and then he is sprinting across the beach.
Melshi tries to keep the troopers off of them, but with the way his hands are shaking and the white spots in his vision, they probably won’t last long. He doesn’t bother calling out to Baze, he knows the guardian won’t hear him. Love has a way of making everything else seem like background noise.
“This is Rogue One calling any Alliance ships that can hear me.”
The static that follows grinds against Bodhi’s skin like broken glass. He hurls his goggles to the floor.
“Is there anybody out there? This is Rogue One!”
The cruel irony of the situation dawns on Bodhi and it’s everything he can do to keep breathing. He should have warned Cassian that he was the exact wrong person to do this. Bodhi’s voice has never held any power, never said anything of consequence. His thoughts get all jumbled and his words don’t make sense and he can’t do this.
Galen understood him. He didn’t care if he stuttered or got tongue-tied, because Galen heard the things Bodhi couldn’t say. Without him, Bodhi doesn’t have the words. He’s alone, speaking a language no one else in the galaxy understands.
Then, “This is Admiral Raddus, Rogue One. We hear you.”
We hear you.
(For an instant, Bodhi isn’t on Scarif anymore. He’s miles and miles above Jedha, seeing through a bird’s eye for the first time. He brings the ship higher until the horizon falls away and nothing but stars surround him and Bodhi is free.)
He tries not to trip over his words as he explains the situation, but his mind is running at warp speed and it’s hard to focus on anything other than the pounding of his heart.
His heart. Bodhi panics and fumbles with the front of his vest, sighing in relief when his hands find the data drive in his breast pocket. He readjusts it quickly, making sure it’s safe.
(Bodhi wonders why K-2 entrusted him with something so important, instead of Cassian or Jyn, who’re far more capable than he is. A bitter, distant voice tells him it’s because they’re going to die, but he tramps it down.)
“Stand by, Rogue One.” says Raddus, “We’re on it.”
The transmission cuts off and for a moment Bodhi feels a little delirious. He did it. He got the message out, again. He can’t believe it.
Galen would have. Galen had always believed in Bodhi.
“You’re no politician.” he’d said once, another late-night talk crawling into the early hours, “You may never have a way with words. But you have a kind heart, a brilliant mind, and a skilled hand. Use them.”
“This is for you, Galen.” and though Bodhi doesn’t say it, he feels the warmth of the word inside his chest. Father.
His elation quickly fades and everything around him comes back into focus: the staccato of blaster fire, the sting of the smoke, the blurs of color as men run past the ship. He hears the grenade hit the back of the hold, watches it roll toward him, Galen’s voice in his head.
use them. use them. move. run, run, RUN!
He’s sprinting down the ramp when his feet come out from under him and the world goes white.
Cassian should be ashamed that it takes him a full minute to remember where he is, but he’s too amazed he’s alive to care.
(Amazed and – in the dark corner of his mind that he refuses to acknowledge – a little disappointed. Cassian’s been in this fight since he was six years old, and he is very tired.)
There is still a mission to complete, though, and Jyn still needs him, so he forces his eyes open.
The pulsing lights trigger an onslaught of nausea and he shuts them instantly, fire erupting in his lungs. His mind scrambles for a distraction, grasping at a swarm of incomplete thoughts.
Brown sable hair falling in front of deep green eyes. Soft lips that rarely smile, but stars, when they do…
He takes a breath, and then another.
Brown hair. Green eyes. Soft smile. Brown hair. Green eyes. Soft smile.
Gritting his teeth, he manages to push himself up on his elbow and look around. Jyn is nowhere above him, and when he peers through the gaps in the durasteel platform, only the two death troopers lie below.
Cassian quickly stifles the relief unfurling in his stomach. Krennic’s body is not there, either, which means Cassian needs to move now.
The door Krennic had appeared through is still open, no less than ten stories above him. Swallowing hard, he eases into a sitting position and eventually hauls himself to his feet.
Pain explodes across his right hip, radiating up his side and down his entire leg. Somehow he manages to stagger to the edge of the platform and get a hand hold on the data files. Taking a punctured breath, he tests his weight.
The torture on his body rips a cry from his throat, muscles straining like they’re being torn in half. Panic rushes through him. If Bodhi can’t get word to the fleet, if Krennic reaches Jyn first, all of this will have been for nothing. K-2 will have died for nothing.
Cassian will not let that happen.
Every movement is punctuated with a swear and after a few feet he has to spit up blood. He’s shaking down to his core, but he doesn’t stop. Kay had told him to climb, so he keeps climbing.
Sweat beads down his temple as he maneuvers himself to the outside of the tower. The compulsion to look down is overwhelming, but he keeps his eyes on the platform. Waiting long enough to calibrate his movements, but not long enough to second guess himself, Cassian jumps.
Everything goes white. His ears are ringing. The air leaves his lungs in a violent gust, but he holds on. It feels like a dream as he pulls himself into the corridor, pain giving way to numbness and coating everything in a sheen of unreality.
Leaning heavily on the wall, he stumbles around the corner and onto an elevated walkway. The smell of burning metal assaults him before he actually sees it.
K-2
The smoke and charred armor make him almost unrecognizable, but it’s still him. The droid that kept Cassian sane all of these years, kept him safe, kept him human. Now… what does he do now?
Cassian closes his eyes, breathes. He forces his legs to move, toward Jyn, away from this. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to. The image will plague his memory until he dies.
Baze’s lungs are burning as he drags Chirrut across the sand. He’s limp, like a broken toy, and the dread in Baze’s chest increases tenfold.
“I’ve got you, Chirrut.” he rasps, “Stay with me.”
“Even in death, my love, I will never leave you.” He’s so quiet. Baze only hears because he’s spent his entire life listening for that voice, picking it out of crowds or following it to secret rendezvouses.
Baze wants to yell at Chirrut, curse him for bringing forth such fond memories at a time like this, for bringing tears to his eyes when he needs to be strong.
The blaster fire picks up as they reach the alcove, probably death trooper reinforcements. Melshi can’t fend them off alone, anymore.
Baze is not proud that he uses a fallen soldier to prop Chirrut upright, keep his head elevated, but he doesn’t hesitate. Once Chirrut is settled, Baze places a rough kiss against his temple (hoping it will encourage him to stay awake) and moves to the front of the alcove.
He was right about the reinforcements. At least thirty troopers attempt to advance on the barracks, but Baze cuts them down. The rage of losing Jedha (and every loss before) takes over, until he doesn’t feel attached to his body anymore. Red begins lining his vision when the explosion goes off, knocking him back to his senses. A single, gigantic pillar of smoke roils above the tree line.
Bodhi, Baze gapes, wondering when he’d stopped thinking of him as the pilot.
The pragmatic voice inside reminds him that their only way off this planet was just blown to bits. It wants him to come up with a plan, but all he can do is think it isn’t fair, he was so young, it isn’t fair.
One shot nearly takes Melshi’s head off, and Baze reciprocates with a blaster bolt through the trooper’s heart.
The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force.
He can’t think of how they’re going to get another ship. He can’t think about the fact the shield gate is still up. He can’t think, and so he doesn’t.
The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force.
He does what he can, the only thing he knows. He hopes, he shoots, and he prays.
Bodhi lies still, like a dead man because that’s what he is, isn’t he? He saw the explosion, felt it in his bones. He must be dead. Warm blood runs behind his ear and down his jaw, but Bodhi registers it distantly, like it’s happening to someone else.
“Bodhi.” a voice whispers. Tonc?
Now Bodhi knows he’s dead, because he watched a blaster bolt tear through Tonc’s stomach. If this is life after death, maybe he’ll see his mother, soon. He hopes he doesn’t see Jyn or Cassian.
Tonc hisses, “Bodhi.” Why does he sound so urgent? They have the rest of eternity to talk.
Slowly – very slowly – Bodhi opens his eyes. Tonc is flat on his stomach, arms braced like he crawled over here. His eyes are the size of planets.
“Oh thank the stars.” He exhales and presses his forehead into the asphalt. He lets out a few disbelieving breaths before bringing his head up, all levity in his gaze disappearing, “They’re clearing out of this pad. We need to move.”
(Ah-ha. Bodhi knew it smelled too bad to be the real afterlife.)
Bodhi attempts to rest his eyes, but Tonc makes an apprehensive noise, so he forces them open again. “We need a ship or it won’t matter.” he says, voice so fractured and strained he wonders if Tonc can even hear him.
Looking somewhere over Bodhi’s head, Tonc jerks his chin, “There, to the southwest.”
“Pad Eight.”
“Yeah, Pad Eight. There’s no smoke. Maybe it hasn’t been compromised.”
Bodhi wants to look, but the effort to turn his head sends his vision spinning.
“We should go now.” Tonc says.
The soldier raises himself onto his knees, struggling to find his balance. The new angle reveals blaster burns marring his ribcage.
“Come on, Bodhi.” He reaches out with shaking hands, grabbing Bodhi’s arm. The pilot chokes out a whimper, the touch burning like acid. His nose is overwhelmed with the smell of charred flesh and he realizes that’s me.
Tonc lets go immediately, “Kriff, man, your arms.” But Bodhi feels the blinding pain everywhere – his arms, his legs, the base of his spine. His chest convulses and Tonc hauls him up just in time for Bodhi’s stomach to let go.
He’s cradled in Tonc’s arms, head hanging limp as spittle runs down his chin. Both of them are shaking and they haven’t even stood up, yet. I can’t do this, he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. He can do this, he has to.
“You’re our only way out of here.”
Tonc allows him another moment to catch his breath, then says, “On the count of three.”
They’re staggering along the edge of the monorail – Bodhi leaning against Tonc, Tonc leaning against the durasteel – when the soldier’s communicator goes off.
Melshi’s voice crackles through the static, laden with exhaustion, “Tonc? Tonc, do you read me? I can’t get a hold of Bodhi. Do you have eyes on him?”
Bodhi blinks, processes. He must have either dropped his com link or crushed it when he fell. Oh no…
“Tonc, stop.” he gasps, “Stop.”
“What’s wrong?” Tonc panics. They trade positions so that Bodhi’s leaning fully against the monorail, Tonc’s arms hovering close by.
“Chest pocket,” Bodhi whines, forcing the words out, “inside my vest.”
He wants to check himself, but his limbs are too heavy. Tonc understands without another word. He fumbles with the vest (trying not to exacerbate Bodhi’s injuries) and pulls out the small data drive. The pressure inside Bodhi’s chest eases, somewhat. Tonc turns the drive over, inspecting it.
“Memory,” Bodhi hisses. It’s getting harder to form sentences, “K-2.”
“Captain Andor’s droid?”
Bodhi tries to nod but doesn’t manage to bring his head back up. Tonc swears and tucks the drive into his pocket. One hand goes to his com link, the other draws closer to Bodhi’s side. “Melshi, we’re both here. Pad Nine was overrun. We’re making our way to Pad Eight now to try and get a shuttle.”
“Copy that.” Melshi says, sounding less hopeless than he did a moment ago, “The guardians are with me.” Despite everything, Bodhi smiles. Then, Melshi adds, “Chirrut was caught in an explosion. He needs medical attention, fast.”
A violent coughing fit follows. Bodhi and Tonc exchange worried looks. “We’re trapped at the east entrance of the coms tower. Baze and I are holding off the troopers, but we won’t survive another round of reinforcements.”
“We’re on it.” Tonc says, switching off the communicator and whispering to himself, “Hang in there, Melshi.”
Traipsing through the jungle when they can both barely stand is as terrible as Bodhi expects. Pain eclipses all feeling in his body. He wants to say something, to keep his mouth busy in hopes that he won’t vomit, again. “We can do this.” is all he can think of, over and over and over, until Tonc is saying it back to him.
The blur of colors around him takes shape again, like he’s coming out of hyperspace, and together they stumble to the edge of the tree line. Tonc helps Bodhi settle against one of the palms. He rests his head on his shoulder (now red and damp and reeking of blood) as he surveys the landing pad. A lamba-class shuttle sits completely unattended, and Bodhi thinks he may cry.
(First class hyperdrive with three separate shield generators. It’s perfect.)
He tries to banish the thought as soon as it enters his mind, knowing now that he’s gotten his hopes up the shuttle will probably burst into flames.
Tonc grumbles, “They’ll shoot us out of the sky.”
With the last of his energy, Bodhi wills his lips to form a complete sentence, “Not if we shoot first.”
Tonc looks at him, surprised, either by his coherence or his tenacity, and gives a muted smile.
Their attention returns to the platform. Still no Imperials in sight, save for one security droid inspecting the exterior of the ship. A K-X security droid.
“Tonc,” Bodhi rasps.
The soldier’s already winding into attack position. “If we can get the drop on it, I may be able to take it down.”
(They both know that isn’t remotely true.)
“No,” Bodhi chokes out, “need it. Bring it.”
Tonc blanches. “What?”
“Trust me.”
“I trust that you’ve sustained serious head trauma.”
Bodhi feels every emotion surge through his body and pool in his eyes. Tonc can only stand it a moment before he sighs. “Alright, fine. Looks clear now, but they aren’t going to leave a ship like that unattended for long. We stay low and stay together.”
He pulls Bodhi into his arms and they leave the safety of the trees.
When Melshi spots the imperial shuttle coming toward them, he’s certain they’re about to die. Then it opens fire on the row of troopers and he simply thinks fuck it.
Baze already has both arms around Chirrut, half dragging, half carrying him across the beach. He barks over his shoulder, “Time to go.”
In that same moment, Melshi sees the blue light, a current of energy rippling across the heavens. Hope, fierce and ruthless, blazes inside him, but he stifles it. Don’t lose your head. It’s not over yet. Take this chance, then the next. Focus.
Every last ounce of Melshi’s strength is channeled into running in a straight line. It’s difficult to keep his footing on the uneven turf, even more so to avoid the array of bodies. He doesn’t look at their faces, just keeps running.
(How many did he know by name? How many had people back home waiting for them?)
The ramp feels as if it’s a mile long and by the time Melshi makes it inside, he’s basically crawling. His eyes take a moment to adjust in the artificial light of the cabin. Seats line both sides of the spacious interior. Chirrut is prostrate with Baze above him, who has removed his gloves to better assess his partner’s injuries. Tucked away in the corner, Melshi notices a seemingly disabled security droid.
(He must really be starting to lose it.)
Tonc appears in front of him like an apparition, helping him ease back against the cabin wall. His eyes are as wide as his smile, both full of disbelief. Melshi catalogs the blaster wound across his ribs and the swelling bruise along his cheek.
The corporal hardly seems effected as he sits back on his heels. “Kriff, Melshi, am I happy to see you.” Then awkwardly nods, “Sir.”
Melshi would laugh if he didn’t think it would fracture his ribs. Tonc moves to one of the overhead compartments, revealing another blaster burn on his lower calf. He pulls out a medpac and sets it at Melshi’s feet.
His attempt to protest is thwarted by another coughing fit, so he merely holds Tonc’s wrist until it passes. “Just a stim shot.”
Tonc huffs, “You need actual treatment, Melshi.”
“Chirrut needs it more.” His grip tightens, “Just a stim shot.”
The severity in his eyes leaves no room for argument. Tonc grumbles under his breath and hands Melshi the syringe. He manages to inject himself, despite his trembling fingers, and asks, “Remember what to do for possible spinal cord injuries?”
Tonc tucks the medpac under his arm, “Stick a bacta patch on and walk it off?” He smiles again, “Don’t worry, Sir. I’ve got this.” Then scuttles over to the guardians.
Melshi sighs and tilts his head back, waiting for the rush of adrenaline. They are so close. Just one more chance. Enough almost.
When the stim shot finally kicks in, Melshi shivers. He takes a few experimental breaths before rising onto his knees. The pain in his leg and side is still vicious, but he’s able to push past it and stand on his own.
He limps into the cockpit and nearly pisses himself. Bodhi looks like the living dead. A gash behind his ear leaves his neck and shoulders drenched in blood. The sight (kriff, the smell) of the pilot’s arms would cause a less experienced soldier to faint. What remains of his clothes has been fused to his skin, all of it red and simmering.
Melshi approaches slowly, “Bodhi, are you good to fly?”
“I’m good.” he slurs, “I’m the pilot.”
The glazed look in his eyes isn’t reassuring, but Melshi doesn’t have much of a choice. “Okay, we’ve got to go. We can’t stay here. We need to get airborne and out of this system, now.”
Bodhi blinks and scans the beach. “Jyn… Cassian.”
He sounds so lost, Melshi has to look away. “They’re soldiers.” He says mechanically. He hates himself for it. “They knew the risks. We’ve done everything we can.”
Almost everything.
Melshi swears and is surprised to find his eyes stinging. He should be used to this, by now, losing good soldiers. Men and women that don’t deserve to die but do anyway because Melshi’s never fast enough, strong enough. He shakes his head, gripping the pilot’s chair to anchor himself.
“We have to go, Bodhi. There’s nothing left we can do.”
Jyn should’ve known Cassian would be too much of a kriffing martyr to accept her help without a fight. He refuses to lean on her until she practically commands it, pulling his arm over her shoulder and weaving hers around his back. The weight is agony on her ankle but she’ll happily bear it because he’s alive, so beautifully alive.
The world around them is in chaos, both earth and sky consumed by the firefight. She’s gazing out, wondering if anyone else made it, when Cassian catches her off guard. “Do you think anybody’s listening?”
She takes note of his labored breathing with a jolt in her heart. His tone is curious, however, almost casual, and his eyes are soft.
(She smiles at that because how could she not?)
It should take her longer to answer. There should be more hesitation. The universe has never been kind to people like them and there’s no reason to start now.
Still, she considers only a moment before saying, “I do.” It’s the truth, though she’d lie through her teeth to see Cassian smile like that. She says with more confidence, “Someone’s out there.”
And she knows it, somehow. She knows in a deep, untouched part of herself that even the pain of her history could not reach. Lyra told Jyn to trust the Force, but she was too young to understand what that word really meant: trust.
She understands, now. It’s stronger than any instinct she’s come to rely on, every sense of self-preservation. It’s what rebellions are built on. She didn’t have hope before Cassian, before Rogue One. They awoke that dormant part of her, and she trusts it, trusts them.
The belief unfurls inside her, and if it’s the Force that brought them all together, fine, she’ll trust in that, too.
Chirrut gasps as his senses are overwhelmed by light – serenity he can taste, rapture he feels in his bones.
Baze startles above him, voice thick with concern as Chirrut reaches out. His body is humming with energy, his smile awestricken. “She’s alive, Baze. Jyn is alive. I can feel it.”
When the doors of the turbolift slide shut, Cassian thinks he’s fallen into another dimension. There’s no trace of the battle raging outside, just the sound of their breathing and the white light gliding across Jyn’s face. Her brows are drawn, assessing his pitiful state.
He almost tells her that she can go. They’ve completed the mission. He’s only slowing her down, killing her chances of making it out of here alive. But he knows she’d never do it, probably curse him for even suggesting it.
Jyn takes a breath, as if drawing up her courage, then tentatively raises a hand to his face. “Cassian,” she says, in a voice that seems too soft to be hers.
(Then again, this is the woman who ran into a firefight to save a child. The woman who clutches her mother’s necklace for comfort. The woman whose face was so open when she told him no one had ever stuck around. Jyn Erso is lethal and jagged, but she is also kind. She is gentle. She is beautiful.)
She says his name again in a way that makes him think she’s been talking for a while and he missed it. Her other hand finds his face, holding him with more force. “Cassian, look at me.”
Without thinking, he uses some hidden strength to pull her closer. Her hands lock around his neck reflexively (probably the beginning of a choke hold). She is rigid and wide-eyed, so much that Cassian can see accents of gold in her irises.
“I am.” he breathes, and her stance relaxes. Her hands move to the nape of his neck, one fist curling in his hair, trying to keep him focused.
“Are you with me?”
“All the way.”
He says it without hesitating, and she seems surprised by that, too. There’s no explanation for it, why he trusts her undoubtedly, why he has since they first met. There’s nothing he can think to say, which is fine because she’s kissing him and his lips are a little preoccupied.
He wants to thread his fingers through her hair, run them along the rise of her cheek. There’s so much that he doesn’t have the strength to do, so he settles for leaning into her, chasing her lips. When she pulls away, he doesn’t feel empty. He feels new.
“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” She sighs, almost to herself.
He shares her subdued smile, resting his forehead against hers. They both know she’ll never get the chance.
Bodhi doesn’t know which sense to give his attention to: the green light halving the sky, the sound of the explosion, the distant rumbling of the earth blowing apart. Tonc asks what’s going on. He wasn’t on Jedha. He doesn’t understand the horror of watching a city be eaten alive.
Melshi turns to him from the co-pilot’s chair looking grave. “We have to leave, Bodhi.”
He merely stares at the controls, all surrounding stimuli fading away. Chirrut said Jyn is alive, and like smoke to fire, Cassian is sure to be with her.
“One sweep,” around the citadel, he means, but can’t find the energy for so many words.
Melshi’s trepidation is palpable, but he doesn’t argue. Bodhi doesn’t think he has the energy, either.
“Looks like we get to choose our last words.” Jyn says absently, looking toward the inferno on the horizon. In their lines of work, where death is so commonplace, it feels like a luxury. She glances back at Cassian to find the softest, most tender smile on his face. Her eyes narrow, playfully suspicious.
“Your father would have been proud of you, Jyn.”
The tears are unbidden and her chest swells with something she wishes she had time to name. She reaches for him.
“Baze was right about you.” He raises an eyebrow, boyish curiosity lighting up his face. “You do have the face of a friend.” Only friend doesn’t sit right in her heart. It doesn’t feel like enough, so she quickly says, “Thank you, Cassian.”
Yes, that’s it. That feels right, his name. It’ll be immortalized on her lips, live in the air between them long after the dust of Scarif has settled. Her fingers wind in between his while her other hand grasps the crystal above her heart, and at last she is at peace.
Jyn’s spirit had always been bright, despite the child’s best efforts to suppress it. Now that she is free, now that her heart is open to the Force, Jyn shines.
“On the shore.” Chirrut whispers, following the light. “The shore.”
Cassian’s past is written in his scars, both visible and not. There is nothing for him to hold, nothing salvageable from his life before. He holds Jyn, now, the only future he has.
There is so much he wants to say, not just to Jyn, but to himself. His conscience bares the weight of so many sins. He’d like to clear it before he dies, but he says nothing. Their last words will be each other, and that is a better end than he ever could have dreamed of.
Jyn gasps, disrupting the alignment of their breathing. “Bodhi.”
(Well, it was a nice thought, anyway.)
Cassian offers what little comfort he can. “It’s possible that he made it out. The others –“
“No, no Cassian!” Jyn releases him and jumps to her feet, ankle buckling. Cassian pitches forward and is barely able to catch himself. The pain snaps something in his brain, the world losing its haze for just a moment. He sees the shuttle, the ramp, someone running toward them (Tonc?) but it’s all happening too fast.
Jyn drops down and hooks her arm around his waist. “Come on.” Her voice cracks in what could be a sob or a laugh if he were alert enough to tell.
Of all the impossible things he has witnessed today – no, in his life – nothing is more awe inspiring than tiny Jyn Erso hauling him to his feet and dragging him across the beach. He tries to help her but his limbs won’t cooperate. Then Tonc is at his side, taking half his weight off Jyn and Cassian could kiss him.
He can feel the shock wave against his back as he’s carried up the ramp. The dim lights of the cabin leave him blind for a moment but he can hear Melshi screaming, “We’ve got them. Let’s go! Come on, we’ve got to move!”
The shuttle begins pulling away and the ramp retracts, shutting out the apocalypse beyond.
They are so close. Too close. Everything feels too close and too tight and Bodhi thinks he’s choking. The earth is rising up, trying to drown them.
Get to the sky, Bodhi, he hears his mother say. You’ve always belonged to the sky. You can do this.
He brings the ship higher and can’t tell if anyone is speaking, if anyone is breathing. It’s just him and the wide open sky.
I can do this. I’m the pilot. I can do this.
They climb until the ground disappears and all he can see is a red sky, violet around the edges. He thinks happily of Jedha.
I’m the pilot.
He sends the ship into lightspeed.
I’m the pilot.
Jyn is trying to assess the damage of Cassian’s hip when Bodhi slumps forward in the pilot’s seat. Fading adrenaline becomes ice-cold fear in her veins.
“Bodhi?” She can’t let go of Cassian but cranes her neck for a better look. She feels him shift beneath her fingers, probably doing the same thing.
Melshi switches on what she assumes is the ship’s autopilot while Tonc eases Bodhi out of the chair and pulls him out of the cockpit.
“Erso,” Melshi says, and for an instant she forgets that’s her, “we need to disable the ship’s tracker before we can set course for Yavin.”
She nods. It’s reasonable. It makes sense. But her eyes aren’t searching for the control panel she’ll need to open. They’re locked on to Chirrut’s bruised and broken form, Baze whispering a prayer Jyn doesn’t need to hear to understand. She looks at Bodhi – sweet, honest Bodhi – as Tonc begins cutting away his clothes in an attempt to treat him.
They found her again, somehow. She can’t fathom it.
“Erso.”
Jyn whips her head around to Cassian and leans in. “Stay awake, okay?” He blinks at her slowly, eyes glazed. Her heart constricts. “Hey, hey, hey, you have to stay awake, Cassian.” His name earns some recognition, but his stare remains distant. Jyn can’t breathe.
She kisses him, holding his face as gently as she can manage. When she pulls back his eyes are wide and clear as crystal. “All the way, remember? Stay awake.”
To his credit, Cassian does try. His eyes follow her trembling fingers as she disables the ship’s tracker, sets the coordinates for Yavin IV, lifts the hem of his shirt to clean his wounds.
Well, his eyes do flutter closed at that. He can’t help it. She touches his arm, his face, begs him to open his eyes. He doesn’t deny her, doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to, again.
“I will never leave you.” he vows. He doesn’t realize until later that he says it in Festian, not Basic.
His senses take the world in through fragments: the heat of Yavin’s atmosphere, the smell of the main hangar, overhead lights that are far too bright. Jyn’s hand is in his until it isn’t and he panics and tries to get up, find her, but there’s something covering his face and when he breathes in there is no stopping the numb bliss that takes him away.
Mothma is alone when the news comes. Survivors. The Senator is never one to break her composure, but she takes off toward the hangar in a run. They’re filing off the ship when she arrives, walking miracles.
(Though out of the eight survivors, only half of them are actually walking.)
Her eyes travel down the line as if watching a cavalcade. Two very unfortunate privates are trying to haul a disheveled security droid down the shuttle ramp. In front of them medics buzz about, securing the most injured of the group onto gurneys. She doesn’t recognize the soldier accompanying Sargent Melshi, but she does recognize the unconscious man beside them.
She covers her mouth at the sight of him. Bodhi Rook looks far more like a corpse than a man. His condition is clearly the most severe, as the medics whisk him away toward the medbay, calling out vitals and instructions as they go.
The second worst off is a man in long robes, guarded vigilantly by a man with heavy armor. She notes to make their acquaintance later. Finally, her eyes fall on Captain Andor. He doesn’t appear to be responsive, but Jyn Erso is beside him, hand in his, saying something earnestly in his ear.
Mothma can’t help but smile. “Rogue One, welcome home.”