Days passed, and Kallus found himself caught in an unsettling limbo. After the intense scrutiny of his debriefings and medical examinations, he was given orders to stay in his assigned dorm and wait for further instructions. It was an oddly civilian experience, one he hadn't had since before the Empire had consumed his life. Now, he was forced to wait—something he was not accustomed to. No orders, no mission. Just... nothing.
His dorm was small, shared with another soldier who was rarely around. The cot was uncomfortable, his side of the room bare except for the essentials. It was a stark contrast to the disciplined life he had led within the Empire. He had been used to purpose, to structure, to the constant movement of military life. Now, he was adrift.
At first, Kallus had tried to explore the base, but every time he stepped out of his dorm, the stares followed him like shadows. Some Rebels looked at him with open contempt, their faces twisted with disgust at the sight of the former ISB agent. Others glanced at him with more caution, wary of what he might do. He wasn't sure which looks were worse—the outright hostility or the quiet suspicion.
On one occasion, Kallus had overheard a group of soldiers whispering as he passed by, their voices low but dripping with disdain.
"He's probably just biding his time, waiting for the Empire to come for him."
"Shouldn't be trusted. He's probably still feeding them information."
Kallus had clenched his fists, resisting the urge to snap back. What would it matter if he did? They wouldn't believe him anyway. The truth was, he was waiting—for orders, for purpose, for any sign that the Rebellion truly trusted him. But it seemed like trust was a long way off.
After that, Kallus had started to avoid public areas altogether. His one excursion to the mess hall had only solidified his decision. When he had first stepped inside, he had been shocked by the sight before him. The Rebels—soldiers, mechanics, officers—were sitting around tables, eating actual meals. Real food, not the bland, nutrient-packed ration bars he had grown used to in the Empire. The mess hall was filled with chatter, laughter, and the clatter of plates and utensils.
He had stared at the food in disbelief. Stews, bread, fresh fruits. It was a bounty he hadn't expected in the Rebellion's hidden base. He had known they were resourceful, but this... this felt like a luxury. And it unsettled him. In the Empire, even high-ranking officers weren't afforded meals like this regularly. They ate rations, sustenance designed for efficiency, not pleasure.
The sight of the food felt like an insult, somehow. Like it wasn't meant for him. Kallus had stood there for a long moment, uncertain, before grabbing a single ration bar and turning on his heel to leave. He couldn't bring himself to eat with the others, not yet. He hadn't earned it. He hadn't proved himself to them, not really.
Since then, he had retreated to his dorm every day, spending hours in the uncomfortable silence, sitting on his bunk and staring at the walls. He felt like he was rotting in that tiny room, the stillness slowly eating away at him. He didn't belong here. He wasn't part of this rebellion, not truly—not yet.
Kallus had fallen into a strange routine: He would wake up early, as he had always done in the Empire, out of sheer muscle memory. He would sit on the edge of his cot, running through old ISB protocols in his mind just to keep his thoughts organized. Then, at lunch, he would make his way back to the mess hall, avoiding eye contact with everyone, grab another ration bar, and retreat once more to his dorm.
He didn't allow himself the luxury of real meals, not yet. There was something deeply ingrained in him that told him he didn't deserve it. The others—the Rebels—they had been fighting for freedom, risking their lives, losing comrades. And he? He had been hunting them down, tracking them like prey for years.
Even now, with the Ghost crew beginning to trust him, Kallus couldn't shake the feeling that he was still an outsider, a traitor in waiting. The guilt clung to him like a second skin. He didn't know how to strip it away.
One afternoon, after another silent meal of a ration bar, Kallus sat in his dorm, feeling the weight of isolation pressing down on him. His mind wandered back to the days when he had been an Imperial officer, when every moment had been filled with purpose. He had lived with a sense of righteousness, of certainty that the Empire was the only force capable of maintaining order in the galaxy. But now?
Now, he wasn't sure about anything.
The door to the dorm slid open, and Kallus snapped out of his thoughts. His roommate—a young Rebel pilot—walked in, casting a quick glance at him before moving to his side of the room. The pilot didn't speak to Kallus much, which suited him just fine. But today, there was a tension in the air, and the pilot seemed unable to hold back his thoughts any longer.
"You know," the pilot said, his voice tight with barely concealed resentment, "you don't have to hide away in here all the time. You could actually join us. Or is that too much to ask from someone like you?"
Kallus met the pilot's gaze, his expression unreadable. "I'm just following orders. I was told to wait for further instructions."
"Yeah, but you've been here for days. You could at least act like you care about what we're fighting for," the pilot muttered, shaking his head. "You've been in that damn dorm, eating those ration bars like you're still on some Imperial mission."
Kallus didn't respond right away. He wasn't sure how to explain it—to explain that the weight of his past, of everything he had done, made it impossible for him to just... join in. He wasn't one of them, not yet. And he wasn't sure he ever would be.
"I haven't earned it," Kallus finally said, his voice low. "Not yet."
The pilot looked at him for a moment, surprised by the quiet admission. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "You'll never 'earn it' if you keep acting like you're still one of them."
With that, the pilot left, leaving Kallus alone once again in the dimly lit dorm.
Kallus leaned back on his cot, staring up at the ceiling. The pilot's words echoed in his mind. Was it really that simple? Just... stop acting like an Imperial? Could he do that? Could he shed years of training, of loyalty, of belief?
He wasn't sure. But as he sat there, the realization slowly dawned on him.
He couldn't keep living in this limbo. One way or another, he would have to make a choice.
Would he continue to live like a shadow of his Imperial self, rotting away in isolation? Or would he try to become something more—something different? A Rebel.
The thought terrified him. But maybe... it was the only way forward.
