KotOR: Grey - Chapter 9

Atton's fist could almost anticipate the pure joy of knocking Mical's perfect white teeth down his throat. By some miracle of self-control – he sure as hell didn't know how – he kept it clenched at his side instead of indulging in the violence that scraped through his veins.

"There isn't much I can do, Atton." Mical's calm acceptance dragged across his frayed temper. If the healer also sounded weary and broken, it meant less than nothing to Atton as he watched Bish struggle to breathe through a crimson froth that bubbled up from her lungs.

"I don't care what you think you can't do, kid! She's dying. Do something!" It was only exhaustion that caused his voice to skirl upwards, sounding ominously like rising panic. His fist did lash out, then, but only to connect with the solid wall of GOTO's flying fortress.

"There isn't a single medpack left and I… I'm exhausted. I haven't been able to touch the Force since that last round of droids…"

Mical continued to talk, but the words swept past Atton on the ship's filtered air as he knelt in the blood that pooled beside the tiny form huddled on the floor.

"Hey." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, Bish. Don't listen to him, he's an idiot. We'll think of something, right? Just … hang on a little bit longer and I'll go and knock some heads together until someone coughs up a medpack, OK?

The Exile's brown eyes rolled back into her skull and a single red bubble formed and broke at her nostril.

"Oh, no you don't!" He shook her – not gently, despite Mical's shout of dismay – and forced more words past the hard stone lodged in his heart. "Don't you dare, Bish! Eyes open, soldier! Come on!"

It had taken all night to find his way back to the grimy little room. He didn't get lost, but it took a longer route to get to the amount of alcohol that was needed to numb the vibrant hum of life that pulled at his skin. If felt like blood rushing back into a bound limb. The sensation made him drag cracked nails down his forearms.

When his grey eyes were cold, people turned away from him, silent and nervous. Now, they actively scrambled to get out of his way, tripping over each other, knocking over stacks of merchandise in the markets. He'd never hated anything more than he hated the planet of Ulicia at this moment.

His own step was steady, measured and sure. He knew what he needed. Denied that, he settled for Juma.

Lots of Juma.

He slapped her hard across the face, smearing blood and slime over her round cheek. A small, tight breath hitched in her chest, and her eyes seemed to vibrate in their sockets.

"That's it. Good girl. Now focus, Bish. Just …" He panted around his desperation, not bothering to push the fear down. "… Just look at me. Just wait a little longer … Pansy boy here'll be able to fix you up real soon … just a little longer."

He started when her fingers drifted across the back of his hand and grabbed hold. Her chest trembled under his touch, struggling with each attempt to inhale.

"You…" It was less a word than a gasp, but he understood.

Understood, and hated himself more in that moment than any other of his miserable, forsaken existence.

What can you pray to, when the only thing you believe in is pain?

"Bish … I … I can't. I can't…"

Her fingers tightened around his as her eyes flew open. Brown met grey for an instant only and, through pure instinct, he threw his shields up – a wall of numbers and card turns, lust and avarice.

She blinked.

And then she smiled, she gave him her understanding, her compassion, her forgiveness. He fell into that smile, tumbled forward into nothing.

Her eyes closed and it was gone.

Everything was gone.

She was gone.

He had no choice but to follow.

He was going to bleed to death. He should have died long ago. That he had placed one foot in front of the other for the last two years – for the last ten years – enraged him. But feeling? Now?

Unacceptable.

He finished his first bottle before he lowered himself to the threadbare mattress.

Years ago, a dying Jedi had peeled his mind open, shown him the strands of the universe that wound around his fingers, showed him how he made the light bleed with each cut. He had felt her death through his skin, through his blood. He had staggered away from that encounter cleansed, but crippled by pain and guilt.

It was nothing. Nothing compared to the agony that sizzled along his being as he plummeted into B'Sharyl Leong. He felt pain arc along his back and through his chest, the echo of the droid's laser strike that blasted through her body, but even that was insignificant. Less than, really. It was a whisper of sensation inside her, where a million, million hooks pulled on her soul – one for each voice, each scream, each heart.

One for Mira, one for Mical. One for Bao-Dur, one for Visas Marr. Kreia's spider strand. Even one for the Mandalorian.

One for every single soldier and Jedi lost on Malachor V.

Each hook disappeared into the grey-green murk, but Atton could feel the strands carry on through her.

This hook belonged to a Republic sergeant who had cheered when General Leong had rallied her troops. His line extended out into cables that held his family together in their grief – a mother, a sister, a wife and a child.

Another hook belonged to a Jedi. She had followed Bish, stirred by the elder Jedi's call to action. She had no family, no loved ones, and Bish had doubled her strand back into herself to mourn the girl alone.

This hook…this hook…it hitched to a blood-red cord that coiled around Atton's chest and sank deep into him. It pulled at his breath with every heartbeat. It tore at her, ripped through her. His mouth gaped open at the horror of it.

She hung, suspended in her own web, caught in the lives and loves of each soul she'd ever touched. Her black, black hair draped over her face and down her body, dripping blood into the void.

Three bottles ... or was it five? He should be numb by now. He demanded oblivion. It seemed the universe wasn't done with its habit of never giving Atton what he wanted.

Her eyes opened, two bottomless black holes in a sky full of stars and strands. Her full mouth smiled sadly at him.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I had to try but ... but I don't know how."

"It's alright, Atton."

"No...NO!"

His grasp on the Force was clumsy still, but strong, like using a concussion missile when all you needed was a blaster. She had healed him enough times, pulling his flesh over the holes in his soul again and again. He knew how it should feel.

He reached for the energy that hummed around them, twisting through and around the lace of strands and hooks that dug into her bones and pulled at her flesh. He grabbed it by the armload and pushed it through her – only to feel it come trickling out, back through the strands, to the universe, to him.

"SonofaBITCH!"

The constant stream he pushed into her barely touched her as it swirled by, carelessly ... uncaring ... He felt it re-enter his body through that crimson tendril and pool in his gut like fear.

He howled into the gloom, and plunged his hands deep into his own chest. Long fingers grasped for the thick, oily line that coiled around his heart. It seemed alive, evading his grasp, slick with his own blood, but Atton was nothing if not nimble. He clamped down on the thing and pulled with every bit of strength he possessed until it left his body with a sickening, sucking pop.

Holding the slippery, dripping cord, he focused his remaining energy on it and threw it all at her…

Atton twisted and retched over the side of the cot. Fingers, tight with pain, clutched at his chest as he heaved, bringing up nothing but dust and memories.

He lay, his face pressed to the durasteel frame, inhaling the scent of sour, spilled Juma and dry rot. His eyes, once open, were cold grey, polished stone, and grim with purpose.

Someone had to die.

Maybe him.

Doesn't matter.

He would do his very best – and that was saying something – to take his target down. But there would be no more preparation. No more waiting.

Sliding from the pallet to the floor, Atton crawled over to the worn pack that leaned haphazardly against the wall – the last of his possessions. He checked the contents without thought, fingertips touching, counting, categorizing. He allowed himself a single slowly drawn breath and then hauled himself to his feet.

Slinging the leather satchel over one shoulder, and shielding his eyes from the sunlight, he strode out the door.