"But he-"

"Leave him. I know when a man is broken."

Jom concedes. The two of them peel away, fleeing Tolruck's chambers. The man's gabbling laugh follows them as they go.

- A triumvirate of Star Destroyers floats in the slate-gray sky-gauzy shapes hanging there above Kashyyyk like executioner blades.

And destruction rains from those ships as they earn their name.

Death comes in streaking flame and shrieking light. It comes from the shuddering batteries of turbolasers. It comes from the bellies of the beasts, dropped as propulsion bombs. It is clumsy and brutal-an act of killing like spraying a hive of wasps with a flamethrower. Imprecise, yes.

But over time, effective.

Jas steps out the side door of the Halo and takes a moment to watch as the ships-far off for now-fire on the planet below with their massive, world-scouring weapons. The ground shakes just slightly even here.

Soon, she knows, the ships will come this way.

Centimeters from her head, a laser bolt thwacks against the side of her ship. She flinches as it brings her back into the moment. They landed the Halo smack dab in the center of the fortress, taking out a couple of bolt-throwers and the troopers operating them as it found its landing zone. Now, as troopers rush to greet them with screaming blasters, all they can do is hold off the swarms of Tolruck's men, hoping like hell that Sinjir and Jom show.

Hatchet is by her side now, and he's got Jom's heavy cannon-a BlasTech DSK loaded with steel-melting dragonsfire cells. The Weequay refugee bellows and hoots, spraying the incoming troopers with green fire.

A shaggy shape darts forward off to the side-it's Greybok. A blade gleams in his lone hand: She sees the scythe-like swoop of a ryyk blade. He howls some battle cry in the Shyriiwook tongue and begins slicing and dicing troopers like they're nothing but paper to be cut into dolls. Bits of armor fling and fly. A helmet tumbles to the ground, its head still in it.

"Greybok is having a good time!" Hatchet yells over the din.

"Just look for the others," she answers.

Come on, come on, where are you?

In the distance, the three Star Destroyers begin to drift apart-each likely going on a separate bombardment course. It'll take a long while to bomb this world into submission with just three of those ships, but in the meantime the death they cause will be unparalleled.

And who, truly, will stop them?

An ill feeling leaches at her guts: Their success in liberating this planet will do them no good if the result is blowing it all to hell.

"There!" Hatchet growls, and lays down covering fire as Sinjir and Jom come bolting out through a wooden archway-behind them, forest troopers storm after in close pursuit. Jas reaches on her belt, pulls a detonator, primes it, and pitches it.

The orb flies, beeping as it goes.

It lands at the feet of the troopers.

Gotcha, she thinks.

It's fire and spinning bodies as the detonator goes off-the wave of concussion almost lifting Sinjir and Jom off their feet. But the two stagger and keep hurtling forward. As they reach the Halo, Jas helps them aboard.

"Hello, honey, I'm home," Sinjir says, giving her a wink. "I found this poor orphan, and I thought we could adopt him."

"Emari," Jom says, giving her a nod.

"Your eye," she says. It's...gone. Her hand moves to his cheek, fingers searching out the crude stitching.

"Didn't think I could get any prettier, did you? Proved you wrong again." He leans in, gives her a peck. "Let's get this bird flying before hell rains down on us from those Star Destroyers, eh?"

- Tolruck sits, laughing at nothing. He is barely aware of the shape standing before him. His eyes, blurry, strain to focus.

Ah. A Wookiee.

He knows this one. Subject 6391-A, designation: Cracktooth. She once tried to bite her way through shackles, which broke most of her teeth. She learned the hard way that escape was not an option-and since then, she's been one of the most docile beasts in all of Tolruck's fortress. He uses her for more delicate matters-gardening, cleaning, putting up tents. She's often nearby and she never turns her gaze to him. Cracktooth is very respectful. Very respectful.

She reaches in, her hands closing around his neck.

Grrk!

Cracktooth bares her yellow teeth.

She snaps his neck like a bird bone.

So ends Lozen Tolruck.

"All right, Mister Hetkins, lean forward and step down," Doctor Arsad says. "Gently, gently, left leg first," she adds.

Dade screws up his face and eases forward off the bed.

He does as she says: left leg first.

As for the second leg, well. That one's gone. Blown clean off back in the thicket of Endor. He and his team were doing cleanup in the weeks after the Death Star's destruction, tracking down ragtag Imperial battalions that never made it off the surface of the Sanctuary Moon. All it took was one-one!-scout trooper. A scout trooper with a box of thermal detonators and the willingness to use them. Then- Boom. A crater in the ground vomited fresh dirt. It rained down around him as he fell, clutching the spot where the right leg below his knee once was. Then darkness took him. Thankfully, triage saved his life.

(If not the leg.) And now he's here. At a New Republic vet hospital on Hosnian Prime.

Living the dream, he thinks.

"Go on," Arsad says. She's an older woman, with lines drawn in her skin-deep enough they're like a knife carving a name into dark wood.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, and eases forward.

The prosthetic foot clicks against the ground, and awareness blooms in the sole of the metal foot. It isn't his flesh and blood; he can feel it connect with the floor. It doesn't feel the same as the other foot. This is cold and electric.

He hates it.

His new toes drum impatiently, even angrily, on the floor as Arsad asks him to hold still. Nearby, an FX-7 droid's dozen spindly limbs furiously tap buttons on a diagnostic machine while also measuring and examining a scrolling holographic readout beamed above. The droid whirs and beeps.

She has him stand. Then walk. Then sit again, then stand again. Flex and stretch. Move and pivot. The droid continues to work diagnostics.

"Things look fine here," Doctor Arsad says.

"Thanks, Doc. Guess I'm good to go." He stretches the leg out, and the crass facsimile of a half leg hangs there like a curse. It shines. Red wires braid up through its pistons and screws. I'm less than who I was before, he thinks-an idle thought that causes anger to surge inside him like an eruption of hot lava. It's hard to swallow and force a smile, but he manages.

"Not just yet," Arsad says. "The leg is fine. But how are you?"

"Like you said. Leg is fine. So I'm fine."

But the way she looks at him is almost like she's looking through him. Or, rather, seeing through his smokescreen. "Any bad dreams?"

"Nope," he lies. He doesn't flinch at remembering the one from just last night-trapped in trees falling all around him, hopping around on one bloody leg, the last man alive on a forest moon full of Imperials.

"So you're sleeping okay?"

"Like a purring nexu." Another lie.

"And no mood problems?"

I definitely didn't kick a potted plant to death yesterday with my one good leg. That poor little kaduki plant. All those crushed flowers, all that spilled dirt. "Not that I can see."

"Suicidal thoughts?"

"Zero." That, at least, is not a lie. He wants to live. He's just not particularly happy about it.

The FX-7 warbles and buzzes. Arsad nods.

"The droid suggests you are not being entirely truthful."

His eyes pinch shut. Droid traitor! He should've known that being hooked up to that thing gave a lot more bio- and psycho-feedback than he figured on. "Listen, Doc, I'm fine. I'm good. Okay? I got my leg, I'll learn to use it, no problem. As for the rest, I knew what I was signing up for. I didn't decide to go toe-to-toe with the Empire thinking it would be like riding the grav-rails at Domino Park. I knew what could happen. I'm alive and I'll take that as a blessing, thank the Force."

"And yet," Arsad says, leaning in and watching him with those kind eyes. "Republic protocol demands I not let you leave without some help."

"Don't need help. Leaving is help enough." Been in this hospital for two months now.

She hits the button and the auto-blinds rise, letting light in from the hospital courtyard. Outside, Alliance vets sit on benches or move about on hoverchairs, many tended to by FX droids. Beyond that are the crystal dunes on the outskirts of the city, on which sit dome-style Hosnian homes. "There we go. Let a little light in. We all need light."

"That feels like a precursor to something."

"I have two prescriptions for you. First is that you return here every month for group therapy-other combat veterans gather here and talk about what they've seen and what they're feeling. It helps."

He laughs, though it isn't a happy sound. "Doc, I wasn't planning on sticking around. I was thinking of going back to the NR, doing another tour-maybe something in the Outer Rim, I dunno."

Now it's her turn to laugh. "Oh, Dade. No. Your time at war is done. For you, it's peacetime. If you let it be. Now, if you want to leave Hosnian Prime, we can set you up with a therapy group on other worlds. Chandrila. Corellia. The light of the Republic reaches new worlds every day now."

"I..." He bites his lip. "Okay, fine. I'll talk to a bunch of scarred-up old battle idiots like me. Are we good?"

"As I said, there is a second thing. Wait here, please." As if he's going to just get up and run laps.

A mischievous twinkle shines in her eye as she leaves. Dade sits there for a while, tapping his new metal toes on the floor-cl-cl-click, cl-cl-click-when she returns to the room.

A droid follows close behind.

This droid is unlike one he's ever seen before. It's got a clunky, squarish head, but it rolls around slowly on a blue-and-gold ball-shaped body. Smaller than your standard astro-droid-this one only sits about knee-high. It warbles and blurps at him, focusing a pair of ocular lenses on him as it juggles its own head, which sits improbably upon its body like a box balanced poorly on a child's ball. The droid tries to stay balanced as its head dips dangerously to the side.

"What is this?" he asks.

"It's a droid, Dade."

"Yeah, Doc, I see that, but why is there a droid here?"

"This is QT-9. He is your droid."

Dade arches an eyebrow so high he's pretty sure it hovers a few centimeters above his head. "I don't recall owning a droid."

"Think of it as renting one, except for free. QT-9 is a prototype therapy droid."

"I don't want a whatever-that-is."

Arsad smirks. "I could put you in for a therapy Ewok, instead. Some of the native Endor creatures have agreed to travel offworld to help veterans like you recuperate. As a manner of recompense for saving their home."

"Oh, yeah, I don't want one of those. They smell horrible."

"Good news, then. The droid smells clean as new metal. In part because it is new-with the Empire falling, opportunity arises across the galaxy for new technologies. Droids included. This one is designed to be friendly and familiar. Like a pet."

The droid rocks back and forth, purring.

He sighs. "I have to take the droid? For real?"

"And come to meetings."

"Doc, you're killing me."

"I think you mean, Doc, you're saving my life."

"If you say so."

She holds his hand and clasps it tight. "I do say so, Mister Hetkins, I do. Congratulations on your new foot, your new droid, and your new lease on life. The galaxy is yours to conquer."

"Thanks for your help. I guess."

Doctor Arsad hugs him, then leaves him alone with the droid. Dade stretches and groans as he stands fully. Again he feels the floor up through his clearly fake foot. Nearby is the silicaform sleeve (aka skin sock) that she told him he could pull over it if he wanted to. But honestly, he'd rather just have a weird metal foot. Why pretend? He leaves it behind.

QT-9 makes a string of trill-beeps at him. He just shakes his head and says, "Come on, you roly-poly pain-in-my-ass. Let's go home."

(Wherever that is.) The droid squeals with robot delight as it trails behind.

Dreams.

Leia knows she's just dreaming. She recognizes them for the illusion that they are. But they trouble her just the same, threading in and out of her sleep. Phantasms pursue her. She dreams of Han, dead in the snow. She dreams of poor Chewie in a cage somewhere. She dreams of herself on a table, dying as her child-no, children-are born. Then comes a vision of Luke, lost among the stars, searching for something and failing, never returning. She dreams of being lost in a forest, and then of being lost inside the Death Star-she and Luke and Han are fleeing stormtroopers, trying desperately to get back to the Falcon after Obi-Wan powers down the tractor beam controls, but now she knows the dread truth: He failed, he died, and the ship is still anchored there, and even if they could find their way out of the tangle of passages, they'll never escape...

Her stomach twists. Not an alarming pain, but a kick from the child inside her. Oof. She has to sit up. Her brow is slick with sweat. The bed beneath her is, too. Her hand moves to her belly and feels the shape there, shifting and stirring. He's hungry. Which means she's hungry, too.

But then, a shape in the doorway.

It's T-2L0, one of her attendant protocol droids.