Kallus had been spiraling, though he'd never admit it out loud. His days on the Rebel base were a haze of self-doubt, isolation, and a growing obsession with control. He tried to ignore the whispers, the way the other rebels looked at him—some with suspicion, others with outright hostility. He could handle it, he told himself. After all, he'd been an ISB agent, used to being alone, used to having to rely on no one but himself. But this felt different. Every day, he felt like he was shrinking.
Physically, he was wasting away. He hadn't eaten a full meal in days, his routine of ration bars and minimal water leaving him visibly thinner. His uniform hung loosely on him, and even though no one had commented directly, he could feel their eyes on him. He spent his free hours obsessively cleaning his bunk, organizing his things, straightening the small space over and over. It was the only thing that made him feel in control when everything else was falling apart.
But no amount of tidying could fix the sinking feeling in his chest. The longer he stayed with the Rebellion, the more lost he felt. He had defected, sure, but that didn't mean he had found himself a place. The Empire had been everything to him—it had given him structure, purpose, a cause to fight for. Now, without it, he was adrift. And it didn't help that the other rebels seemed to want nothing to do with him.
The snide comments from passing officers, the cold shoulders in the mess hall—it all weighed on him. He told himself that he didn't care, but the truth was, it cut deep. He hadn't truly belonged with the Empire, but now it felt like he didn't belong here either.
Hera had noticed, though. She always did.
**
She wasn't blind to Kallus' decline. She had seen the way his uniform seemed to hang looser on his frame, how his face had grown gaunter over the past few weeks. He barely ate, barely slept, and when he wasn't meticulously cleaning or organizing, he seemed distant, lost in thoughts that darkened his already burdened expression.
But Hera wasn't sure how to approach him. She wasn't a counselor, and while she had experience helping people in tough situations, this was different. Kallus wasn't like any of the other Rebels she had taken in. His trauma, his identity crisis, and his complicated past with the Empire made him a far more fragile puzzle to solve. So she turned to Kanan and Sabine for advice.
Sitting in the quiet of the Ghost's common room, Hera voiced her concerns to them one evening.
"Kallus is getting worse," she said, her voice low, glancing around to make sure no one overheard. "He's barely eating, and I can see he's slipping. The others... they're not helping either. Some of them are harassing him."
Sabine frowned, her arms crossed. "I've seen the way people look at him. It's hard for them to see past the fact that he was once part of the Empire. But we've all seen how he's tried to change. That's not easy for someone like him."
Kanan nodded, thoughtful. "The fact that he's stayed with us this long means something. But I can't imagine what he's going through in his head. Leaving the Empire is one thing, but actually dealing with the trauma... that's something else."
"I think he's trying to handle it all alone," Hera said, her concern deepening. "And it's tearing him apart. He's not asking for help, but... I don't think he knows how to."
"So what do we do?" Sabine asked.
Hera hesitated. "I'm going to talk to him. And I've already told his therapist about what's happening. But I think he might need more than just a few sessions. Maybe he needs more support from us. We need to show him that he's part of this crew, that he belongs."
Kanan gave a small nod of agreement. "It'll take time. He's been trained to live by the Empire's rules for years. He doesn't know anything else."
**
She approached him one day, her face a mask of concern. "Kallus, can we talk?"
He stiffened, his eyes darting around the room. "About what?"
Hera glanced at him carefully. "About you. I've noticed you're... struggling. You don't look well. You're not eating, you're not—"
"I'm fine," Kallus cut her off, his voice sharp. He didn't need her pity. "I've survived worse."
Hera sighed, stepping closer. "I'm not saying you haven't. But this isn't about survival anymore. You're part of this team now, and we can see you're not taking care of yourself. I've talked to Kanan and Sabine about it."
That stung more than Kallus expected it to. He didn't want anyone else involved, didn't want his weakness to be so obvious that the rest of the crew was talking about it behind his back. "You didn't need to do that."
"Maybe not," Hera admitted, "but I did it because I care. Kanan and Sabine care too. We all do."
Kallus fell silent, staring at the floor. It felt like his chest was tightening. He didn't know how to respond. He hadn't asked for help—he didn't even know how to ask for it.
"I also spoke to the therapist," Hera added quietly.
That made Kallus flinch. His head snapped up, a flash of panic in his eyes. "Why would you—"
"Because you need help, Kallus," Hera said firmly. "You're not eating, and you've lost weight. You're obsessing over keeping everything in perfect order. You're not handling this transition well, and that's okay. It's not something you have to go through alone."
"I don't need therapy," he muttered, though his voice lacked the conviction it once had.
Hera studied him, her expression softening. "Kallus, you've been through so much—more than anyone should have to bear. You've seen things, done things, that would break most people. You need to give yourself a break."
He wanted to argue, to tell her that he didn't need anyone's help, that he could manage on his own. But the words wouldn't come. Deep down, he knew she was right. He wasn't managing at all.
Hera stepped closer, her voice gentle but unwavering. "You don't have to carry this alone anymore. You're not in the Empire. We don't expect perfection here. We just want you to be okay."
Kallus looked away, blinking rapidly as a familiar, unwelcome sensation rose in his chest. It felt like everything was crashing down around him, and the urge to retreat, to shut it all out, was overwhelming. But he also knew that if he didn't let someone in, he might not make it through this.
"Hera..." His voice wavered for the first time in a long time. "I don't know how to—"
"You don't have to know," Hera interrupted softly. "Just take it one step at a time."
He nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to say anything more. There was a heavy silence between them, and for a moment, Kallus felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to jump or pull back. But then, to his surprise, Hera reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"We're here for you," she said quietly. "And that means we'll help you through this, whatever it takes."
Kallus swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to acknowledge just how much he had been struggling. He hadn't eaten because he didn't feel like he deserved to. He had clung to control because everything else in his life had been spiraling out of it. But maybe, just maybe, Hera was right. He didn't have to do this alone.
"I'll... try," he said, his voice hoarse.
"That's all we're asking," Hera replied, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
As she left the room, Kallus sat down heavily on his bunk, the exhaustion of the past weeks suddenly hitting him all at once. He didn't know how to fix what was broken inside him, but maybe, with the help of the crew and the therapist, he could begin to figure it out.
For now, he would take that first step. And that, Hera had said, was enough.
