the Cause. the Creed. the Code.

1 Confined

Each footfall of her boots echoed through the cold hallway like distant thunder in a steady, determined rhythm. General Hera Syndulla walked with purpose towards the cell, frustration building deep beneath her skin. As she approached she could hear a whispering from behind the hum of the electrogate. Names. Over and over.

--illa Suduri. Eno Cordova. Cere--

She came to a stop in front of the cell, her shoulders squared and arms crossed in front of her chest, her chin pointed down as her sharp green eyes peered at the man kneeling in the room. He was missing an arm, his prosthetic was confiscated when he was thrown in the cell because of the possible weapons hidden within it. His remaining wrist was laid on his thighs, clasped in a binder and connected to the wall by a long, loose chain.

He continued whispering names in that quiet kind of meditation she was used to, seeing Ezra grow up under Kanan's tutelage, but not quite like this.

-- Cordova. Cere Junda. Jaro Tapal. Trilla Suduri. Eno Cordova. Cere Junda.

Each syllable was clear and deliberate, each name punctuated by a deep inhale then an exhale. How deep the man was in his meditation, Hera didn't quite know. Without his droid beside him, she wondered if he'd ever notice her.

Slowly, the names trailed off into slow and quiet breaths. He took a few moments to fill his lungs with the stale, cool air of the cell. Then his face turned up towards her and his eyes opened to observe her.

Green met green, and with the slightest relief she gave a huff. At least they're not yellow. She thought.

"General..." he breathed, "Will Adan be alright?" Were the first words of his mouth.

"He's still in surgery but he's stable," Hera's words came quick and stern.

"And... IT-O?"

"The damage is superficial, his memory is intact. His chassis suffered most of the damage," she explained. The man bowed his head, his limbs pulled close to him, the chain on his wrist pulled taut.

A shallow breath, "Can I see BD-1, please?"

"No, he's still with Kallus, trying to clean up this whole mess," Hera chastised. The man seemed to shrink slightly, she wondered if it were a shiver from the cold air.

"Can I call Merrin?"

"She's already been informed about the situation, Kallus told her. But she can't come to see you yet."

The man frowned but nodded.

"Kestis," Hera called firmly, "Caern Adan is very likely to press charges, if he does, you'll be court martialed."

"I don't want—" he stammered, he gathered his wits and his breath and spoke, "I can't violate the Agreement."

"Then why did you do it?" Hera retorted, nearly hissing. "He may lose sight in one of his eyes, Kestis. Why did you do it?"

Kestis' chin was pressed against his shoulder as he avoided meeting Hera's gaze. A breath in and out and in and out as he struggled to remain calm. A problem Kallus had been concerned about for a while. "They were supposed to help you with this," she gestured to the whole of him, "this aggression. Kallus said you were improving, what happened?" Hera asked. She watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply.

"He. Insulted. The Jedi." Kestis forced out of his mouth.

"That's the worst excuse I've ever—"

"It's not an excuse... just an explanation," Kestis sighed. A tired breath. "For more than twenty years now I've heard vicious lies about the Jedi, no matter how many times in however many ways, it still hurts. I can expect that propoganda banthashit from stormtroopers. But not Adan, I thought he would've been smarter than that," Kestis snapped, his voice harsh with a rage she knew was storming inside him, begging for release. Maybe that's part of why he lashed out, beat the other man half to death and nearly destroyed the droid.

"He misspoke?"

"General, he called us a cult." Kestis' fist shook, knuckles white.

She'd have to review what sort of modules Adan and IT-O had studied to get to that conclusion. She didn't quite like that kind of stereotype either. But she told herself she wouldn't have reacted quite like Kestis would have.

"We can install new programs and modules into IT-O once he's been repaired. The data he was working off of may have been tainted by Imperial propaganda and revisions—"

"I don't want IT-O. I want a new therapist, not a torture droid," Kestis demanded.

"IT-O has been reprogrammed. He's not a torture droid anymore, Kestis, he's supposed to be your therapist."

"I can't work with IT-O," Kestis argued, "I thought I could. I tried, General Syndulla, I tried. But even seeing him brings back bad memories..."

"You got along fine with K2-SO," Hera scoffed.

"Saw Gererra didn't make me use KX series droids against his POWs," Kestis retorted. With the mention of that name, the fallen Jedi cast frost upon Hera's skin. She fought a jumping nerve in her leg by pressing her heel into the durasteel floors of the cell block.

With a breath, she knelt down and sat on the floor, and faced Kestis on his level, just the electrogate between them. "I'm sorry he hurt you, agent Kestis, what did he do?"

Kestis' shoulder sagged as he rubbed his hand along his left ribs. "You know how Saw Gerrera was a ... uh... 'the ends justify the means' kind of man..." Hera nodded. She was familiar with Gerrera's scorching personality, his burning passion for the Cause. He and Cal Kestis were alike in that regard. Or they were in the past. "If Gerrera wanted something, he'd do anything to get it. No matter the cost, I ... I hurt people, for the information in their heads. I don't regret my service with the Partisans but I don't like who I became. And every time I looked into IT-Os lens I saw the man I was when I was with Gerrera. I don't want to be like that anymore," he admitted. Hera knew this wasn't Kestis being vulnerable, the man wore his heart on his sleeve, this was just who he was.

"What do you look for in a therapist?" Hera shifted her weight to consider his request. IT-O was the Rebellion's second attempt at treating Kestis' disease.

"I don't know, sir, honestly," he admitted quietly. "I just want someone who understands what the Jedi were, who I am. When I hear the propaganda or the empty platitudes it really feels like I'm the last of my kind. My people were killed and our culture erased from the Galactic consciousness... I feel alone," he rasped.

Hera closed her eyes to think. She once knew a few people who understood the Jedi better than anyone else in the Rebellion. But they were all gone, and of the few remaining Jedi in the Galaxy she was left with Cal Kestis. She got up and paced in a small circle in front of the cell.

"If Dodanna had his way you'd be court martialed and sent to farm protatoes for the rest of the war. But you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Hera asked, a hint of a sneer tugged at the corner of her mouth as the words passed her lips.

"I have one year left on my contract," Kestis said, "I intend to see it through."

"As per your Agreement with Senator Organa," Hera sighed, "but he isn't here to vouch for you anymore."

Kestis' lips were drawn tight and thin. Draven still believed Kestis was an asset, he could do things alone with no need for extra support and any mission he was sent on was successful. But Kestis was sick. Dodanna could see the cracks forming in him again, Hera knew how bad it could get.

"I'll pass on your concerns to Captain Kallus, he'll find you a more suitable therapist," Hera said as she turned to walk away.

"Thank you, General Syndulla," Kestis called quietly, "I want to get better, honestly. I want to be a good Jedi."

"You'll never be half the Jedi Kanan was," she thought to herself.

"I know," Kestis called, his voice like a spark through the electro gate, "Kanan Jarrus was the best of us."

Hera let out a deep breath then stalked down the hall, far out of sight of the worst Jedi she'd ever met...