Rubinrot

Rubinrot — Rubys Schreibstübchen

Vorwort

Herzlich willkommen in meiner Fanfiction-Sammlung. Tretet ein in mein kleines Schreibstübchen, in dem ich meine Kurzgeschichten und eventuell längere Werke veröffentliche, die ich gerne gemeinsam mit euch teilen möchte.

Was beinhaltet diese Sammlung?

Derzeit liegt der Schwerpunkt meiner Kurzgeschichten auf dem, was sich hinter den Kulissen einer weit, weit entfernten Galaxis abspielt. Falls du Star Wars magst, hoffe ich, dass in meiner Sammlung etwas dabei ist, was dir gefallen könnte. Ich behandele dabei vorwiegend Episode 7 (Das Erwachen der Macht) und Episode 8 (Die Letzten Jedi) der Skywalker-Saga sowie die Serie Andor.

Sofern ich in den nächsten Monaten Zeit und Muße haben sollte, werde ich meine alten Pokémon-Kurzgeschichten über Rubin, Saphir und Smaragd ebenfalls zur Verfügung stellen. Zudem juckt es mich in den Fingern, eigene Poesie vorzustellen, bin mir diesbezüglich allerdings noch unschlüssig.

Außerdem sind alle meine Werke, die vollständig editiert sind, bereits auf AO3 verfügbar. Nun möchte ich sie gerne Stück für Stück mit euch auf dem BisaBoard teilen. (Ausgenommen sind Geschichten, die ab 18 Jahren freigegeben sind!)

Aufgrund der Tatsache, dass ich meine Texte ausschließlich auf Englisch verfasse, werde ich leider keine deutschen Versionen zur Verfügung stellen. Ich selbst bin keine Muttersprachlerin, daher wird es vermutlich zu einigen Grammatikfehlern oder einem inkorrekten Satzbau kommen. Ich bitte dies zu entschuldigen.

Persönliches

Das Thema Fanfiction begleitet mich seit Frühling 2016. Noch im selben Jahr hatte ich begonnen, mehr über das Schreiben zu lernen und versuchte mich an meiner ersten Attack On Titan-Kurzgeschichte, verlor jedoch schnell den Mut und legte das Projekt Hobbyautorin zunächst auf Eis.

Dann, vier Jahre später, kam die Pandemie. Durch die mehreren Lockdowns und den damit zusammenhängenden Zeitüberschüssen konnte ich zwischen 2020 und 2021 endlich meinen kleinen Traum von einer ersten vollständigen Fanfiction mit süßen 70.000 Wörtern wahrwerden lassen (Harry Potter: Severus Snape x Lily Evans).

Seit Anfang 2022 ist das Schreibe meine Leidenschaft geworden und habe es zu meiner favorisierten Freizeitbeschäftigung etabliert. Derzeit arbeite ich an einem Entwurf für einen Psycho-Thriller.

Verzeichnis

• Remedy (Star Wars: Andor)
  
• Catharsis (Star Wars: Andor)

Title: Remedy

Fandom: Star Wars (Andor)

Relationship: Dedra Meero/Syril Karn

Additional Tags: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Sharing a Room, Trust Issues, Post Episode: s01ep12

Summary:

After the bomb attack on Ferrix leaves Dedra Meero in a state of shock, Syril Karn decides to return to Coruscant along with her. Once there, in his apartment, Dedra has only little sympathy for neither her medical condition nor Syril and the bond of trust he had originally expected after the rescue. However, a blaster and a remedy might be able to change Dedra's conviction.

Remedy

It was not a particularly nice area in which Syril Karn lived.

Outside the windows of the small apartment made of concrete and glass, which was hidden somewhere on a lower level, looked like any other, was as insignificant as any other, the sun was not always visible over the skies of Coruscant from so far below.

Life down here was not fulfilling. Everything was rougher, harsher. Colder.

The stench of polluted air burned in Syril's nostrils with every single breath, causing his lungs to ache. The streets were filthy. Burglaries and robberies were the order of the day, the underworld's black market was constantly growing, becoming impossible to control anymore.

Syril was familiar with all of this. It was depressing.

And yet, as miserable as his life had been, nothing was as awful as the disaster from a day ago that had changed the destinies of two souls forever.

Ferrix — The funeral, Rix Road.

Dedra Meero. White coat, tight blond bun. Attentive eyes widened, face contorted with panic as she noticed the bomb. A frightened heartbeat later, the explosion.

It had been a bloodbath. The corpses. The screams. Puddles of intestines and dismembered limbs. Children crying for their mothers. The gunpowder itching in Syril's throat as he had rushed to search for Dedra in the dense smoke. Everything still felt so close, so real whenever Syril closed his eyes. It was burned into his mind. All of it. A nightmare, branded in forever.

They had sought shelter in an abandoned warehouse, escaping the road of death and terror.

"I. . . I should say thank you."

Hyperventilating, Dedra had stared at Syril. Wide eyes blurry, bottom lip quivering. She was trembling all over, unable to move, unable to process what had happened, since Dedra had expected to never let her lungs fill with air again.

Carefully, Syril had held Dedra by the shoulders, helping her to continue standing.

"You don't have to."

Dedra had collapsed. She had passed out the moment her eyes rolled back in sheer exhaustion, losing control of herself and her surroundings. Panting, Dedra's warm body had sagged ungainly into Syril's protective arms, her legs ultimately lost all their strength. Syril had sensed Dedra's subdued heartbeat pounding against her ribcage, rapid and violent. Full of fear. Panic. Life.

They had managed to leave this cruel place. By pure luck.

The surviving attendees of the funeral, who also lived on Coruscant and had ended up fleeing as well when the bomb had unleashed a stampede, might have demanded an absurd, far too high price for taking Syril and Dedra — who had still been unconscious and now been carried on Syril's back — to their home planet, yet ultimately it had been the fastest way to depart Ferrix.

Nonetheless, the aftereffects of Rix Road were still weighing heavily on Syril's chest. The knife, wrapped in cold sweaty fingers, was shaking in his hand. Syril's pulse quickened. He needed to brace himself against the kitchen counter, using his palm to support his trembling body. A nasty flicker flashed before his eyes. Syril felt sick.

"Breath." He reminded himself. His throat was parched. Dried blood stuck to Syril's bottom lip, the thin skin sore and shredded from absently biting down on it in fear. "She is safe. Meero is safe."

He inhaled deeply. With his lungs fully inflated, Syril held it for a moment — counting one, two, three — and grounded himself with a stretched exhalation.

"Meero is safe. . . Meero is safe."

With each breath, Syril's head cleared itself further, suppressing the dreadful disaster involving Dedra haunting his mind. Syril patiently repeated the process until his body released all its tension, and the cramped muscles were relaxed and loosened again. Mentally, he was a dazed mess.

With dull eyes, Syril focused both gaze and knife back on the fruit he was chopping. The fruit was pure white. It was rare. Hard to get. Poisonous sharp spikes were on the fruit's thick rind. Care was needed. Nevertheless, if the correct tactics and the necessary steps were mastered successfully, the core, which had an unexpectedly sourly sweet flavor, became accessible.

A remedy — Syril had learned that when he had been in training for his former position. The fruit's soft pulp assisted the mental state of a person who was in shock and helped accelerate the healing process. Useful on a battlefield.

When the remaining spikes were skillfully removed, Syril chopped the rest of the delicious fruit into small, bite-sized pieces. The knife and cutting board he placed into the sink. Syril would take care of that later. Lastly, he stuck a fork into one of the pieces, carefully lifted the bowl, and headed towards his bedroom.

The room was dark.

Only occasionally was it temporarily illuminated by moving spotlights outside the window. In the distance, a muffled siren sounded while the interior quietly quivered under the gentle vibrations of passing ships. The heater was on full blast, the air hot and stuffy. Syril felt a little woozy as he tiptoed inside.

Curled up into a ball under a comfortable blanket was Dedra Meero, nestled between squishy pillows and fast asleep. Her breathing was shallow. Slowly, Dedra's chest was rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. The bright neon lights shining from the endless city illuminated her pale face. Uncombed messy strands of blonde hair fell over Dedra's forehead, softening the typical stern expression which was, even in her slumber, still slightly visible on Dedra's features.

It was peaceful. Nearly surreal to see her like this. So calm. So human.

In the bedroom's corner, Dedra's white uniform coat, stained with gravel and ripped by the hands that had viciously forced her onto the cold ground of Rix Road, hung over a chair. Next to it were Dedra's boots, standing nice and neat. Her blaster sat on the desk. Unloaded.

Silently, Syril sat down on a stool next to Dedra, the bowl of fruit protectively enclosed in his lap.

The bedframe squeaked. Blankets and pillows shuffled. Syril's presence had not gone unnoticed. Of course, it had not.

It took Dedra a few shallow breaths to realize she was not dead and a couple more until she regained consciousness. Her head was buzzing. Everything around Dedra was spinning. Moaning weakly, she blinked her eyes open, vision hazy as Dedra tried to orient herself in the bedroom's gloomy darkness right before she caught sight of Syril's silhouette sitting in front of her.

Their eyes locked through the black, tender shades. Syril was the first to speak.

"How are you feeling?"

Dedra was the first to look away.

She opened her mouth to answer yet did not speak right away. Instead, Dedra hesitated, closely considering how and whether to respond to Syril's question. Or more like — Whether his pointless worry was equal to her precious time.

"You. . . You should have taken me straight to ISB headquarters," Dedra snapped drowsily, eyes tired. "They need me up there."

That was all Syril needed to know.

ISB headquarters — The place where Dedra had to somehow explain herself. Had to somehow redeem her reputation.

Dedra had not managed to control the funeral. Had not found the mysterious Axis as ordered. Had been overpowered by not even a handful of Rebels. Had almost been killed. Dedra's office chair empty, replaced by a man's bed, warm and lazy, who had disappointed the Empire — A scenario that would surely be found (more or less) like this in Dedra's resignation file should someone from the ISB catch wind of it.

Nodding, Syril acknowledged her concerns. "I know," He admitted. His tone was barely above a hushed whisper. "Yet I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger again, Meero. The assassin. . . well, is still on the loose. We have not caught them yet, and the possibility of another attack is. . . not unlikely."

Bristly, Dedra clicked her tongue. Who does Karn think he is talking to here?

"No, absolutely not. I will not be intimidated by a pathetic assassin. I have duties to perform, I have to report on the funeral disaster, on the bombing!" Dedra insisted, her words, however, were flattened by exhaustion. "Unlike you, Karn, I do not fail in my service to the Empire!"

After all, Dedra Meero was a supervisor. Her position moderately high within the hierarchy of the ISB. The Empire, her superior Partagaz, and Dedra herself had high expectations of her service. Of her valuable, immaculate work. She would not give the Rebels what they craved — To break her. To make Dedra voluntarily stab the Empire in its back with a dagger made out of fear and traumatization.

"The ISB relies on me."

Swallowing, Syril felt a thick lump tightening his throat. He chewed on his wounded lip. No, not even a thousand lukewarm praises from some old ISB superiors in white uniforms were close to being worth it now. They could wait. They could surely wait.

Syril's tone was small. "Meero, please. Listen to me. You have to take it slow. I understand how much you depend on your duties, I. . . I really do, but you are in a state of shock and—"

"Do you not know who I am?" Dedra spat bitterly. She was getting impatient. "Do you not know all the important functions I am responsible for so we can win this war? How utterly important I am to the Empire? The ISB needs me!"

The will to prove herself made Dedra's heart run into fierce overdrive. With gritted teeth, she ignored the sharp pain in her dislocated shoulder joints as Dedra struggled to prop herself up and surprisingly managed to change into a more or less sitting position.

Unfortunately, the injured elbows were unable to bear the weight.

They slipped away. Unable to brace herself, Dedra slumped back onto the padded mattress like a dead weight, panting.

"Bloody hell." Dedra snarled under her breath.

Doubtless, the truth was pinching at her ego. The dimensions of her overall condition, which were far worse than she had ever anticipated, began to slowly dawn on Dedra. If she was incapable of even sitting up by herself without collapsing in a matter of seconds, Dedra was certainly in no position at all to return to ISB headquarters and — which, upon closer inspection, had her stomach twisting in knots — physically defend herself.

Bloody hell.

The stool was shoved across the floor. Still lost in apprehension and shame, the sudden smell of something sweet thickened the hot air.

"I brought you something," Syril spoke. "An ancient remedy. It will help you recover faster from the shock. You see, the core has a rather unique yet incredibly delicious sweet flavor. I think you will like it."

Warily, Dedra traced every single movement of the bowl approaching her, focusing attentively on the unfamiliar white wonder drug which Syril had speared on a plastic fork.

What a cheap attempt. I thought he was smarter than that.

"A remedy, huh?" Dedra hissed, narrowing her eyes with skepticism. Alternately, she glanced at Syril and the fruit. "How can I be positive you are not going to poison me, Karn?"

"What? You believe I am planning to. . . to poison you?"

The question tasted like cardboard on Syril's tongue, plain and so absurdly wrong. Was that really what Dedra suspected he was up to?

"Might be," Dedra admitted dryly. "However, I will give you a chance to prove otherwise. Give me my blaster."

Syril blinked in bewilderment. Had he just understood that correctly? Well, to him, it sounded more like Dedra was the one planning to kill someone here. For whatever reason.

"But. . . I. . . You. . ." Confused, Syril struggled to find the correct words. "I am afraid I do not. . . quite. . .understand. Why would you need it? Are you going to shoot me?"

"I said," Dedra pressed. "Give me my blaster. Now."

Syril hesitated.

Perhaps obeying was a bad idea. Perhaps he was digging his own grave right now, intentionally or not. It was a game with fire. But at the same time, it seemed to be the only way to win Dedra's trust. Which was what Syril wanted. Besides, he probably would have asked the same. After all, in such a situation like this, exhausted, weak, and in a stranger's bedroom, it was more than reasonable to defend yourself, or have at least some measure of control. Therefore, Syril could not blame her.

"All right." He eventually complied. Syril leaned back to grab the blaster on the desk, and as soon as it was in Dedra's reach, she ripped it out of his hand, instantly aiming it straight towards Syril's forehead.

"Trust is mutual, Karn."

Syril froze. His heartbeat sped up. He stared wide-eyed at the blaster pointed right at him, expecting his face to be torn apart at every second. "I. . . I. . ." Syril stammered.

Dedra's message took a moment time to sink into his overwhelmed head and even longer for Syril to register that he was, in fact, not bleeding out on the floor. So she was, indeed, willing to give him a chance to prove the opposite.

"Go ahead." Dedra prompted.

The blaster was stable in her hand. She had her index finger placed on the trigger, ready and prepared to be activated should Dedra detect the saccharine poison coating her lips.

It was to either kill each other or trust each other.

Hesitantly, Syril brought the fork closer to Dedra's mouth, maintaining focus on the blaster out of the corner of his eye.

The small piece of fruit was lightly brushing against Dedra's lips. Its juice was already trickling gradually into her mouth, thick and sugary, treating her with a first impression of the delicious taste she could either accept or deny. One drop was enough to make Dedra's mouth water, and — this was the most important issue here — to prove that Syril had not intended to poison her. Neither was there a bitter undertone nor a light rasping of a fine powder, which signaled deadly sabotage.

Edible. Dedra concluded. It is safe. He had not lied.

Gradually, the blaster sank downwards. Relieved, Syril drew in a shuddering gasp.

The components of sweet and sour harmonized perfectly with each other. Voluntarily, Dedra widened the gap of her parted lips, allowing Syril to push the luscious remedy further inside.

The bowl emptied. Bite by bite, the blaster sank further down until it ended up falling quietly onto the floor. By now, Dedra had become tired again. Combined with the remedy, which created a pleasant weight in her stomach and the fruit's apparently anesthetic effect, Dedra curled back up into a ball right after Syril had fed her the last fork full.

There was a faint noise coming from under the blanket. Had Dedra said something? No, definitely not. She was tired and saturated. It was probably nothing more than a yawn or a heavy sigh.

Silently, Syril got up from the stool. He glanced down at the blaster, considering whether or not to put it back on the desk. For now, it should stay there. Right where Dedra could easily grab it without having to stand up or rip it out of someone's hand with a racing heartbeat.

Carrying the empty bowl, Syril walked to the bedroom door. He was ready to push down the handle when the identical muffled noise caused his movement to freeze.

". . . Meero?" Syril whispered over his shoulder.

Had he forgotten something? Should the blaster be stored somewhere else, perhaps? Was the heater set too high?

"Do you need something?"

With the handle still in his hand, Syril stood there awaiting further details. Now that the distance between them had increased, only a blurry round silhouette of Dedra cocooned under the blanket was visible. The shadow changed positions. Though Syril could not see too much, he still clearly sensed Dedra's gaze wrapped itself around him, fixed yet tender, making sure that his movements continued to be interrupted. At least for one final heartbeat.

"Syril, I . . . Thank you."

Notes:
Oh, what a series Andor was! Let me tell you, it was an emotional roller coaster for me. I was honestly scared that Dedra was going to die in the season finale. Well, good thing she didn't or I would have probably cried myself to sleep, no doubt about that. Still, I'm really excited for season two and find out which path both Syril and Dedra will take.

Thanks for reading!

Title: Katharsis

Fandom: Star Wars (Andor)

Relationship: Cassian Andor/Kino Loy

Additional Tags: Platonic Relationship, Touch Starved, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Existential Crisis

Summary:

Each passing day on Narkina 5 leaves yet another crack in Cassian's usually tough shell. Until the night he's on the edge of breaking. Kino Loy is there to patch him up again.

Catharsis

It's awful how comfortable it is to sit on this bench. This bench which is also his bed. Much too small and narrow to get a decent night's sleep. The thin padding quickly sags under Cassian's weight as he slumps against the wall with a stretched sigh, relishing the feeling of not having to stand. Finally, no more standing.

His bare feet are dirty, toes sore from walking through that same sterile hall just like every day. Cramps in the calves. Stiffness in the knees. Complaining about a hunched spine is nothing but a waste of time. It's all part of his life now. At this point, Cassian isn't even sure if he still wishes he'd been given some shoes like he'd hoped for when he arrived here, feeling like a lab rat trapped in its death trap with bare paws. But now, the unfamiliar hard surface of solid footwear would probably only lead to more pain. Whatever. Cassian has to work either way. With or without proper attire.

He's been here for a long time. Just like all these men with whom Cassian has to share this dormitory, this endless tiled corridor. This prison. Crammed into these identical-looking cells like livestock. He hasn't really spoken to most of them, knows only a few from their names. Still, everyone has the same goal: To get the hell out of here. As fast as possible.

Cassian yawns. He's tired. Feels woozy. His eyelids droop, head spinning from the constant buzzing of these huge machines at their work tables, leaving a nasty tingle in his ears that appears to be permanent by now. It's exhausting. Draining. And yet none of this compares to the deafening silence in his mind whenever Cassian tries to fall asleep. Left alone with his thoughts. Worries. Fears. Regrets. The question of whether he'll ever see the sun rise again.

He's almost the last one who's still up. As always.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cassian notices something moving. A silhouette scurries past him, then takes two steps back where it eventually comes to a halt at the threshold of Cassian's booth, staring at him from the side.

Broad shoulders. Gray hair and scraggly beard. Of all the prisoners, Cassian knows him best.

"Why are you still awake?"

The floor light is white. A good sign. It'll switch to red as soon as Kino Loy has finished his patrol. He does it every evening, always checking on his crew to make sure everything's fine before he'll disappear into his booth as well to get some rest.

"Is something bothering you, Keef?" Kino presses, glancing at the floor light. Still white. "Listen, I'm not blaming you for us almost getting fried today. Just be faster tomorrow, will you?"

The voice barely reaches Cassian's ears. It's dull. So far away, like a lost echo in a dark, endless tunnel. Slowly, Cassian looks up at him. Kino floats out of focus in front of him, his bulky work overall a blur of white and orange as he squints. If only this headache wasn't so bad.

"No. No, that's not it," Cassian mutters at last. He feels sick. Suddenly senses a strong and overwhelming wave of fatigue, and although he doesn't want to keep Kino waiting, well aware of the floor getting burning hot at any second, Cassian struggles to grasp a straight thought. It gets worse every day. Crushes his brain.

Cassian blinks his gaze away, staring back to his feet. He hesitates. Needs a few seconds to find the right words.

Kino's a good leader. Realistic. Straightforward. Fair. He's always there for his crew. Even if Kino rarely shows it, seeming nearly unreachable with his gruff demeanor and raw attitude, and Cassian knows he has to be careful when opening up to him if he doesn't want to cut himself on the sharp spikes Narkina 5 has caused to sprout on Kino's hard shell.

"Sick, injured, you talk to me. Problems with another inmate, I'll know before you do. Losing hope, your mind, keep it to yourself."

Kino's words had been clear. Don't bug me. Do your job. Don't waste my time. Still, Cassian has no choice. He's shipwrecked and Kino's his lighthouse in the far distance. His lifeline. His only hope before he goes completely insane.

"I know you don't want to hear it. I know you told me to keep it to myself." Cassian pauses briefly, anxiously scanning Kino's face for a reaction. "You take care of us. Keep us together. And I don't know who else to turn to if not you, so I. . ."

Cassian's words die with an abrupt whiff. He winces. Tenses up. Groaning softly, Cassian rubs over his itching eyes. For some reason, everything around him seems so abnormally bright. Irritating. Overstimulating. The flickering of the screen displaying that big number of his remaining shifts makes Cassian nervous, giving him the strange urge to crawl into a corner, eyes and ears covered as he'd wait for it to finally turn off.

"Keef? Are you okay?" Kino's getting impatient. He doesn't have much time left. "Come on, get a grip and talk to me."

Cassian trembles. He takes a fragile breath to try and collect himself, then continues speaking. "It's all become so much. The routine. Getting fried. My bones hurt, my skin is sallow from the lack of sunlight, and I don't know what to do, Kino, I feel lost and I—"

A loud voice cuts him off. Deep and artificial. It's omnipresent, coming from the many speakers lining the ceiling and echoing through the entire cell block.

"Protection activation in seven. . . six. . . five. . ."

Cassian's familiar with the alarm. Knows what it means. So does Kino, who jumps onto the hard bench next to Cassian without hesitation, cursing under his breath as he just manages to save himself from the horrible stench of his own burnt skin while the countdown continues to tick off, flashing the white light red once it'll strike zero.

". . . two. . . one."

With a snap, the room darkens. Creates a veil of shadows and a crimson glow throughout the dormitory. Hot. Deadly. Tempting for the ones who have gone crazy.

"Floor protection activated."

"Kriff, that was close!" Kino pants laboriously. He tilts his head back against the clean plastic wall, catching his breath. "Well, at least the work here keeps me fit. One good thing about this shit hole, right?"

Cassian sways back and forth on the bench. His eyes are bleary. Smells the stench of sweat and cheap aftershave as Kino keeps swearing right next to him. Cassian can feel his headache getting worse, and he has to prop both of his elbows up on his thighs to stabilize himself.

"How do you. . . not give up?"

Frowning, Kino stares at him. "Sorry?"

Cassian's tongue feels numb. He swallows, sensing a soreness in his throat as a thick lump starts to swell and clogs his windpipe. "How do you manage that? To not give up but to keep going? Because I don't know how much longer I can endure this place. . ." Cassian's voice is brittle, cracking into muffled sobs that he can barely stifle. "Please, Kino. Tell me how."

Confessing is a peculiar feeling. It's devastating. It's refreshing. A tear runs down Cassian's cheek, and he isn't entirely sure whether the miserable smile he cracks to look less pathetic makes him feel ashamed or relieved.

Kino shifts closer to him. His bitter face appears to soften in the red glow. It's atypical to see Kino like this. To be near him. To hear his breathing, almost to the point where it's palpable. To take notice of the delicate, azure tint of those bloodshot eyes which have witnessed far too much, leaving Cassian only guessing what hopes and dreams might be hidden behind them.

Tentatively, Kino reaches for Cassian's hand. His skin is parched, covered in tiny scars. Cassian lets it happen. He isn't afraid. He trusts Kino, fully aware that his actions have no evil intentions but to help Cassian get back up. Their gazes never stray as Kino allows their fingers to meet for the very first time, the touch smooth and tender like a bird's feather in the endless skies.

"Listen to me. We've all been at this point of giving up. You. Me. Everyone on the crew," Kino whispers. His thumb lightly brushes over the back of Cassian's hand. "Hang in there. We'll find a way out of here one day. See our friends and family again. Enjoy the warmth of the sun, fill our lungs with cold air by the seaside."

"You believe in that?" Cassian asks curiously. He strains to keep his head up, gasps as he endures the dizzying throbbing on his forehead. "You really think we can do it? Do you already have a plan?"

Kino lets out a heavy sigh. He gives Cassian's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "No. I don't," Kino says, shaking his head. "At least not yet. But if there's one thing the Empire hasn't taken away from me, it's my will to fight."

"Will to fight," Cassian repeats quietly.

For a moment, he thinks about telling Kino everything he knows. About the fledgling Rebellion. About the heist on Aldhani. About Vel and Cinta, and that Cassian has been on the run for weeks, living under changing aliases with the blood of innocent souls sticking to his hands. Kino would listen to him. Would perhaps relate to him. With his hatred for the Empire, he may be even considering joining Cassian once they leave this prison and eventually team up with the rest of the Rebellion, wanting nothing more than to finally take revenge for all the harm Narkina 5 has done to him and his crew over those many years of terror.

But the idea only remains an inspiring vision. At least for the time being.

Kino clears his throat. He stands up and stretches his limbs, stiff and twisted from sitting on the bench. The temporary compassion has faded, and Kino stands in front of Cassian like the leader he's born to be, his tone a coarse rumble as he sets out his order for the upcoming hours.

"You go lie down, Keef. I'll watch over you to make sure your condition doesn't get worse during the night. Tomorrow, I'll get you a medical check-up. And if you're lucky, you'll be allowed to stay off sick for the next shift. I need you fit if we want to get out of here some day. Got it?"

Cassian looks up at him. He nods. "Got it."

Notes:

Cassian and Kino share a very unique bond and I really liked how the growth of their friendship was handled. What a bitter end it was for them. I miss the boys.