The Art of Broken Pieces

101 Porgs

Ben stood on a high balcony overlooking the work going on below. Workers scurried back and forth like ants at his command, preparing his armada for the war to come. Row upon row of gleaming fighters, newly built and ready at his word to deploy to the fleet of destroyers that orbited in the outer atmosphere of the planet. Wind swept up from below, scurrying along the black metal of the tower, playing in the crevasses and tangling in his hair. It carried with it the shouts and clamor of the men below, his men. The Supreme Leader's men. The First Order was rising and they would darken the stars and finish the work that the Emperor and Vader had started so many years ago. Turning away from the view, he stepped through the double doors that led to what should have been the war room--

--chaos surrounded him, soldiers racing back and forth across the ship's decks. A gout of fire from a side hall threw Ben from his feet as the ship shuddered in space, threatening to tear apart. His ears were ringing with the klaxons that blared and the screams of a nameless ensign pinned beneath a falling panel. Stumbling to his feet, Ben threw his hands out to catch himself as he tried to catch his balance, panic thudding in his chest. This was all wrong, he could not be here. He had not been here. The ship was both achingly familiar and unknown to him, most certainly not of First Order design. It was one of the old class of trading ships re-purposed for the newly reinvigorated rebel alliance. He cursed them even as he headed in the direction that should be the command center. They had brought this upon themselves, refusing to give up, to crawl into the holes they had come from! The last survivors should have disappeared, taken their miserable little lives and lived them. He was running now. He knew the battle, knew what came next. He had given the order to take the ship as collateral for the surrender of the insurgents, but Hux had ignored the message. Ben raced the inevitable.

The doors of the command center were before him when the first photon torpedoes tore through the hull of the ship, explosions deafening. Heat seared his skin, breath ripped from his lungs as ship and space seemed to shatter around him. He could feel his flesh tearing away, blood and screaming filling the void around him suddenly silenced by the vacuum. He was dying, but it was not him, it was her death he was feeling. It burned through every fiber of his being, shredded through his soul. Her arms were around him, soothing him, singing away his childish tears, and then she was gone and the Force was empty and the cold was all that remained. He was dying with her, he was--

--standing in the ruins of the ship. Shattered fragments drifted lazily, silently across a backdrop of night. The twisted metal catwalk upon which he stood turned slowly in space, and yet he was grounded upon it as the bodies of the dead wandered out into the stars. Ben turned slowly, a distant observer in the midst of destruction. There was no color here, only night and shades of grey. As he turned he felt the presence on the catwalk with him, and the weight of his lightsaber in his hand. It sparked suddenly red, casting hellish shadows across the colorless scene, and Han watched him with the eyes of the dead. Han stood anchored as well, only a hand's reach from him on the narrow catwalk that floated through the remnants of what had been Leia's ship. He was speaking, but Ben couldn't make out the words, the emptiness of the galaxy stealing them away from him. There were tears in Han's eyes that Ben suddenly hated. How dare he cry, act the victim! They had turned their backs on him! They had abandoned him, given up on him, tried to kill him! He was screaming silently at Han's tears, at the regret and apology carved into the deep lines of his tired face.

His hands were not his own, and as the red glow came between them, as Han's eyes widened in shock and pain, Ben drew back in horror. It wasn't right, it hadn't been like this, it hadn't been--

--Rey, falling slowly to her knees as her hands came up in shock to cover the wound. Her eyes met Ben's with confusion, and his lightsaber fell from nerveless fingers. He reached out to her, desperate, pleading, hands covering hers as blood poured through their fingers and beaded, drifting into space like rubies cast aside. His screams were still denied him in the unforgiving silence, as were the words her lips struggled to form as she sagged in his arms.