38. Chapter 38

Dinner’s waiting for him when Kylo gets back to his cell, and he eats the porridge without tasting it. Rey lingers outside, but he’s so wrung out from today’s deposition that he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. After she leaves with a soft Sweet dreams, he sits on the mattress on the floor, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Something slimy-hot writhes in his stomach, and for an instant his head spins and he’s falling.  

Rey’s voice clamors in his head, an incomprehensible, savage noise that tears him out of sleep.  His stomach aches and his head is too heavy as he sits upright, thoughts racing, skittering around his mind without traction. “What?” He’s not sure if he’s speaking aloud or through the connection that wobbles between them.

There are people who want to hurt you. This is not an authorized execution. He’s nauseous and wretches but nothing comes up . I am on my way. I will keep you safe. His brain feels like it’s liquified. It sloshes around his head when he shakes it, trying to understand what she is saying. Don’t hurt anybody!  

Her words cut into him, confused but dancing on the edge of comprehension. Kylo blinks, tries to stand but overshoots, falls flat. What? People…? Are you okay? His thoughts are slow, oozing, sludge in his head.

The door to his cell bangs open and Kylo tries to rise, to move, to do something as shapes swarm in from the hall. It does not go as planned. His torso twists, his legs jerk and twitch, but his body isn’t answering like it should. He just about manages to sit up, arms thrown out for balance, but then they’re on him.

Hands clamp down like they mean to tear him in half. He is jerked off the bed and his knees crunch against the floor as something dark and reeking of laundry soap drops over his head. There’s a pressure around his neck and it tightens .  He struggles, looking for something, reaching, but what is he reaching for? He knows there is something, something he can do, but he can’t think. He can’t breathe. He flails, tries to tear at the binding around his throat, but it’s a weak motion, his limbs sluggish and stiff. Someone grabs his wrists, wrenches his arms behind his back. A circle of cold metal digs into his temple.

I’m almost there! I’m almost there! Don’t hurt anyone! I’m coming!

The voice hurts, fingers of terror scraping against the grain of his thoughts, but it’s not half as painful as the hard blow to his gut that knocks him forward, sends him slumping against the pressure on his arms. Something cracks against his jaw, snaps his head back and forces him upright again. There’s something he should be doing, some way he should be able to protect himself, but he can’t do it, can’t do anything. He grunts, gagging as more blows rain down on him. They seem cautious at first, a fist to his torso, a boot in the back, but they grow stronger, more vicious. People are shouting around him but he can’t make out any words. He sways as the pressure at his temple returns.

He ought to feel something more than pain and nausea. Maybe he should worry about puking into the bag on his head?  It all feels surreal, almost funny. Something thuds against the side of his head and his vision whites out and then pops back in little points of light. Somewhere above him raised voices ring out, followed by senseless shouting. Should he care? Something in his mind shifts, like a wave lapping at a shore. He knows that feeling and cannot place it, but it’s a good sensation, so he lets it wash over him.

There’s a ripple, a change in the voices, then screaming. A thundering roar. There’s something familiar there, too. He turns his face in the direction of the thuds, roars, and shrieks.

He wants to see what’s happening but there’s only the endless black of stifling cloth. The pressure on his arms is released and something slams into the back of his neck. He teeters and falls, arms knocked away as he tries to catch himself. He lands hard. There’s a crushing pressure on his shoulders,  metal digging into the base of his skull as the sounds of chaos – a battle? -  make his ears ring.

The voice, Rey’s voice, pushes into his head again, high and frightened. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic! I’m here! We’ll take care of you!

I’m not panicking. Something hard grinds between his shoulders and he grunts, air wheezing out of crushed lungs.

Her adrenaline bumps up against the soft thick walls around his thoughts and he feels, dim and distant, the burn of her arms and the sting of her knuckles. Something hits her leg and she kicks out, fierce and savage. Rey is close and her proximity jumpstarts part of his brain, helping him take stock of what is happening. The food. There was something in the food. He reaches for the Force but can’t hold it, can’t bend it to his shaky will.

Someone grabs at his head, ripping at his hair through the bag, and the pressure around his throat increases as his head is yanked up.  He struggles, thoughts beginning to flow again, but still too slow.

A voice near his ear screams and Rey’s presence in his mind stills. “Stay the fuck out of this, girl! The things he’s done - a bolt to the head is the least he deserves.”

That’s not quite as funny, but he chuckles because it’s true. Rey’s yelling and there’s a bellow that he knows. His head swims. What a way to go, gunned down by a mob after agreeing to sell out the First Order. Admiral Statura won’t be happy. That thought is funny, and he wheezes out a broken laugh, pulse pounding as he closes his eyes and tries to focus, concentrate, breathe, anything.

“You think this is a joke?” The hand gripping his hair shakes him hard enough to make his teeth rattle.  The metal at his temple presses hard. “I’ll give you something to laugh at, you fucking assho-”

There’s a scream, a crunch of bone, and the grip slackens. He flinches as something heavy lands across his back and shoulders, knocking him flat again.

He gets his hands beneath him, tries to push himself up, and then the weight on his back disappears and the bag is ripped away. Kylo lifts his hands to his face, trying to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. A large furry face leans down, very close to his.

“...Uncle Chewie?”

A roar of delighted Shyriiwook shakes his bones and Kylo is squeezed into a wide, furry chest. “What… How did… What?” Chewie lifts him up, holding him tight as his feet dangle inches from the floor, and then sets him down as if he might break. Kylo glances around the room, squinting in the light, then blinks down at the man by his feet. There’s an unnatural bend to his neck. Heads shouldn’t point that way. Forms lay scattered around the room, some struggling to move, others are still, but all are alive, as far as he can tell.

Rey is nowhere to be seen.   Where are you?  

She’s running, breathing hard, but her mind is clear and focused. I’m getting the leaders. This was an assassination attempt. I killed someone. They need to know, now, and they need to hear it from me.

Kylo looks up to Chewie, who reaches over to brush some of Kylo’s hair out of his face before starting a thorough check for wounds. He yodels at the bruises blooming on Kylo’s face, at the raw, rough line around his neck, and wipes away a trickle of blood from his temple. Kylo breathes out another laugh, winces.  This is all so bizarre.

“You shot me with the bowcaster, Uncle Chewie. I’ll make it through a little roughing up.”

The Wookiee chuffs, groans, roars, differentiating himself from these attackers, and pulls Kylo in for another hug. He pokes Kylo in the side, right in the center of the scar, before he releases him.

Kylo flushes at that, bats at the prodding fingers, a little too slow, a little too clumsy. “Well thanks for that, I guess.” Chewie murmurs an inquiry. “Yeah, it’s all healed. Don’t worry about it.”  A sudden wave of dizziness rolls over him, and he staggers, hinging forward at the waist until his head is almost between his knees. Chewie catches him, rubs his back. “I’m okay,” he says, and sits on the mattress, head in his hands. The springs complain as Chewie sits down beside him, warm and solid by his shoulder.

He stays like that, occupied with the precarious task of keeping his head on his shoulders until there are footsteps in the hall. Rey has returned with a crowd in tow. He can’t tell them all apart through the fuzz in his head and the ache in his stomach, but the General is here. He’d recognize her Force signature anywhere.

With a groan, he tilts his head up as a half-dozen figures come into the cell. Rey’s speaking, looking between the General, the doctor who had injected him yesterday, and a tall heavy-set man in yellow, muttering about Master Skywalker waking him up. The man scowls at the figures groaning on the floor. Behind the doctor is a squad of soldiers, and overhead, a small droid hovers, sensor panning to record the scene.  Kylo tries to look up, to listen more acutely, but his head is pounding and he can’t focus.

“General?” The Doctor jerks her head in Kylo’s direction.

“If you would, Kalonia.” The General’s face gives nothing away as she stands by the man in yellow, though her eyes linger on the dead attacker, neck twisted, blaster still clenched in his hand. She gestures to the gun, directs a pointed look at the man in yellow. “Mob justice, Major. Active dissent right under our noses!” She snaps at the guards, points to the prone figures, and the squad moves in, clapping cuffs on each of the attackers.  The General moves around the cell, examining everything with a gimlet eye. The Major and the droid trail in her wake. Watching them makes his head spin, so he looks back down at the floor.

The snap of a disposable glove jerks him up again and he almost vomits as the world shifts sideways. Rey brushes, soothing, around the edges of his mind. She’s going to help. You did so well. You didn’t hurt anyone. No one can be angry at you for this.

Doctor Kalonia nods to Chewbacca as she pulls on her other glove, he rumbles an acknowledgement back at her. Then she turns her attention to Kylo. “I am going to examine you now. Can you speak?”

“Yeah.” His throat is raw, sore where the bag cut into his windpipe.

Her fingers are cold through the glove as she takes his pulse, holds his eyelids up and shines a penlight into them. “Are you experiencing any nausea? Any stomach pain? A headache?”

Kylo says that he is, and then recites what he can remember about the several hours before the attack. His story is halting and rambling as Kalonia narrows her eyes, shines the light over his neck, tugs up the sleeves of his shirt and repeats her examination on the insides of his elbows.

Doctor Kalonia listens to his chest, has him follow her pen light with his eyes, sniffs at his mouth, and then stands, “General, he’s in stable condition, but he should be monitored through the night in case he has a concussion. I’ll run a full toxicology screen. He’s been drugged, that’s obvious from his response time, pupil dilation, and cognitive impairment, but I can’t say what, exactly, they gave him without a blood sample. I could probably infer the substance and dosage from what will be missing from the pharmacy, but-”

“Do it,” The General snaps. “There is going to be a full investigation into what happened tonight. I want everything to be comprehensively evidenced. No screw ups.” Her eyes flash as she turns to the Major. “Ematt, take all of the attackers into custody. Get their statements and put them… somewhere.” The General flicks her eyes around the cell, and she mutters under her breath, “We’re going to need an actual jail if this shit keeps happening.” Chewie yodels at that, placing a protective hand on Kylo’s shoulder. The General nods, the tightness around her eyes relaxing. “Yes, thank you, Chewie. I’d love for you to stay with him tonight. You’ll need to give your report first thing in the morning.”

Kalonia pulls an empty syringe from a pocket in her coat and removes the protective cap. Kylo watches, detached, as it slides into a vein in the crook of his arm. Once she’s collected enough blood, she caps the hypodermic and stows it in another pocket. She turns to  Chewbacca, voice firm. “He is not to be left alone tonight. Contact me if symptoms persist beyond four hours, or if he develops a fever, encounters any respiratory issues, or begins hallucinating.” Chewbacca growls and Kalonia nods. “Very good. General, I will take my leave. I’ll get the results of the analysis to you as soon as it’s done.”

“Please do.” The General works her way around the cell as Kalonia departs, coming around to stand before Kylo. “Major, we’re not keeping my son in this damned cell another night.” His stomach twists, tries to escape out his mouth. “It’s not safe to keep him here and there’s no salvaging that door. Get someone from logistics to arrange it. There must be a spare room in the barracks.”

The Major frowns, but nods. “Yes Ma’am, but the increased proximity may be viewed as a provocative action-”

“A provocative action?” The General snorts. “This assault was a provocative action. We’re fighting a war, and I do not have the time or the energy to be worrying about attacks from my own side.  I’ll assign a guard rota myself since it has come to this.” She shakes her head, and when she speaks it’s just a touch softer. “These are my men too, Caluan. We’ll do this by the book and we’ll make it right.”

Major Ematt looks around the cell again, sighing. “New quarters will be arranged for tonight. I will see to it myself.” He salutes and leaves the cell, muttering into a wrist-comm.

Rey’s tentative anxiety flutters against Kylo’s consciousness as she eases forward. “General Organa-”

“You did the right thing, Rey.” The General’s voice is quiet and hard, but her eyes soften as she looks at Rey.  “It’s never easy, taking a life, but from what you’ve told me, it was your best option.” She sighs. “Regardless of circumstance, a soldier died at your hand tonight.  We all answer to the laws of the New Republic here, and that means that you’ll need to be party to the inquiry into his death and the attack itself.” Kylo feels her gaze drop to where he leans against Chewie. “Get some rest, all of you.” She reaches up to touch Rey’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then marches off, issuing orders to the soldier trailing behind her.

Are you alright? Rey stands by the door, on guard with a solid looking length of pipe taken from one of the mob.

Kylo gives her a mental shrug. My head hurts.  She wants to comfort him, to run her hands through his hair and kiss the bruises on his jaw, but someone is coming down the hall and her mind is dark with suspicion, wary of the newcomers.

It’s a runner from the Major. It’s time to move.  Chewie helps him to his feet, steadying him when he wavers, and Rey moves to his side. They flank him as they’re escorted to a tiny room with a bed and ‘fresher attached.

Chewie ushers them inside and then takes his position outside the door with a soft grumble, tugging the door shut behind him. The pipe clatters to the ground and Rey’s arms slide around him before the door closes.  She pulls him down to her shoulder and he nestles into the crook of her neck. Her hands smooth against the side of his face, through his hair. I’m so sorry. I had no idea this would happen! You were so good! You didn’t hurt anyone! Thank you. Thank you.

Her skin against his pierces the thickness left from the drugs and he runs his hands down her back. Everything comes into focus all at once. He recoils from the undeserved  praise. I would have killed them if I’d been able. She twitches under his hand as he finds a fresh bruise on her hip. His temper flares. He should have killed them. They dared to drug him, to touch him, to try to kill him. They hurt Rey. A slow death at his hands seems like fair repayment.

Stop it! She pushes back against his thoughts and tugs his face up from where it's pressed into her shoulder, giving him an uncompromising glare. You didn’t hurt anyone. No one can possibly say that tonight was your fault.

No, she feels that the blame lies on her shoulders, as if she could have done anything to prevent what happened. He doesn’t look away from her glower, catches her chin between his fingers and returns her severe expression with a frown. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I promised to protect you!”

You did. The frown eases and he tucks her head under his chin and closes his eyes as her breath whispers against his skin. He thinks of the crunch of the man’s neck  and holds her tight as Rey flinches away from the memory.

I didn’t even think. It was him or you, and it couldn’t be you. Rey shudders, swallows, and then straightens up, nudging his chin with her nose as she pulls herself to her full height. I’ll deal with it. We’ll be okay.   She squeezes him again as a low bellow filters through the door, rising and falling in response to men's’ voices. I’ll see you tomorrow. She stretches up on her toes and kisses him, quick and quiet.

He kisses her back, but it’s over too soon and she slips out of his arms, ducking around Chewie and disappearing from sight through the opened door. Kylo sags onto the bed as the Wookiee enters, almost too large for the low ceiling, and yodels a question. “That’s none of your business.”

He swings his legs up onto the bed as Chewie sits on the edge. “What, you’re just gonna sit here all night?” Chewie moans and nods. “Suit yourself.”  He rolls away so he doesn’t have to look at the wise, kind expression. He doesn’t want it. He doesn't deserve it. But he can’t escape it, not even behind his closed eyelids.

Chewie settles himself, rumbling, and begins to croon, soft and low.

Kylo’s breath catches in his throat. He’s known this song all his life. He learned the tune before he learned to  speak, before he knew the difference between Shyriiwook and Basic, before he knew his own name.

Ben Solo is five years old in his bunk on the Falcon and his dad is reading aloud from the story book while Uncle Chewie sings the sleeping song. There’s no voice in his head tonight. It’s just Dad and Chewie and Ben, and he feels important, loved, safe. His father’s hand is on his cheek, calloused and strong.

Kylo Ren stands over the chasm over the oscillator on Starkiller.  He removes his helmet, tosses it aside. His father’s hand is on his cheek, steady and tender. He has no choice. He’s never had any choices. A hiss of ignition. Thank you. His father’s eyes flicker, the life gutters out. Then a great and terrible silence broken by an agonized bellow, a scream of anguish. His father’s hand slips and he falls away.

Kylo curls into a ball and sobs.   A warm, heavy palm rests against his head, smooths down his hair before moving to sweep a soothing path, back and forth, over his shoulder blades. The lilting song surrounds him, swaddles him, and rocks him to sleep.