As an adult, you’d think I’d be use to this happening to any positive representation for the community. But I’m not. And this one hurts extra bad, because I saw so much of myself in this. And now I don’t see the happy ending. Again. And my very real fears come back that I’m never going to get one either. And it fucking hurts. And maybe something magic will happen and maybe Chyler will save us all. But right now, in this moment, I am fucking devastated. Again. So much love and hugs to all those feeling this way. We are stronger together, even if they try to tear us down.
part 5 of 7: a rescue-mission story for Jyn Week | rebelcaptain & spiritassassin | [Ao3 link] - updates daily | tysm for bearing with me reading! ^^;;
“Why did you save us?” he asked
“Maybe I only saved her,” Chirrut said.
-Alexander Freed, Rogue One Novelisation
There are footsteps, paced and even, Chirrut Îmwe lets his captors guide him through the passageways. Baze is behind him, his stride heavy and resentful, Chirrut can hear a rope chafing against the older man’s wrists.
Chirrut, who has never given cause for concern, is left unbound.
“Who is passing by?” Chirrut asks curiously. The second set of steps are hurried, uncertain. There is something else too, something heavy dragged behind them. Not a living thing, the sound it makes echoes sharp and impermeable. But there is feeling there, like all that moves with the Force, and that feeling is clear and light.
“Outpost guards. And a droid,” Baze grunts.
“A droid. I did not suspect our lodgings had droids,” Chirrut offers, listens to the rustle of cloaks as his companions turn.
Chirrut is correct. They did not expect to see a droid.
“Security type,” says Baze, earns a cuff across his elbow for too much talk.
They come to a halt, Chirrut waits patiently as the two groups exchange murmurs. They do not speak Basic unless they wish prisoners to understand, instead favouring the curt, harder tongue of the outer militia cells. Not Imperial by birth it would seem, and nor, Chirrut has come to understand, by nature.
Instructions are given, and when Chirrut is asked to move again, their direction has changed. They travel upward, this time the droid is hauled along behind them, its limbs scuff and grate in the narrow passage. Chirrut is familiar with this route too, there is a recognisably leafy scent on the way to all higher quarters. This may be his first opportunity to speak with the group’s leader.
Chirrut has waited a long time.
“My teachers,” comes the voice, and Chirrut is not unmoved. On Jedha, the words were once a gesture of respect to the Guardians, spoken now with the tone of one who has heard them before.
Lived on Jedha, then.
“You have some sentimental friends.”
Baze makes a derisive growl, Chirrut only smiles. Truth ever walks hand in hand with the Force.
The leader sighs, Chirrut feels Baze tense beside him.
“I have not enjoyed keeping you here,” the Jedhan continues, flat. “I never thought politics would be my lot, until the tide of the universe forced it.”
“You want confession? Got the wrong religion,” Baze snaps, elicits what might’ve once been a laugh.
“I suppose I do. I suppose I don’t,” comes the answer, there’s no bite to the shrug that follows. “Either way, you are free. You and the droid too, once we’ve secured its memory data. Surprisingly resistant to extraction, for a KX.”
Baze huffs, low and gravelly; Chirrut wonders if he almost sounds proud.
“And our sentimental friend?” he asks, leans mildly on his staff.
“Will remain a while longer, until the information garnered from his trade is of use.”
Chirrut draws a sad breath, lets go of the emotion as soon as it surfaces. The Force wavers and swells around him, prickles toward a single pinpoint of bright. From the passage closest to the outside, there is running.
These footsteps are swift and strong.
Baze braces for battle, Chirrut folds his hands and turns.
Jyn bursts into the chamber, the air tightens and snaps, spills into a rush of confused muttering. There is a curt noise, a brush of fabric. The leader has signalled for silence.