Chapter Text
The cold is, perhaps, worse than the searing pain in Kallus’ leg. At this point, the numbness is a welcome sensation. Alexsandr cannot feel his fingers or his toes, and he hopes that the chill will spread to his leg soon enough.
He glances towards the transponder, still blinking faithfully, and exhales, watching the plume of air swirl in the wind before him.
It’s been- an hour- two? since the Ghost arrived to save Garazeb. Kallus looks to the spot in the snow where the ship had landed, but flurries have already covered the indentation. Good. Perhaps, then, the Empire will have no clue that he was trapped here with another, that he’s only made it this far because of the mercy of a rebel.
A traitorous thought sends a shiver down his spine- maybe if he were wiser, he would have taken Zeb’s offer to go with the Lasat and his crew.
No. Kallus wraps his arms tighter around himself, nesting the meteorite against his chest, pressing it against his pounding heart. He has no doubt that the rebels would treat their prisoners more kindly than the Empire- but Alexsandr is still their enemy. He has chased them across the galaxy promising their demise, has tortured one of them. The singular act of neglecting opportunities to murder Garazeb Orrelios when his back was turned is not enough to grant him forgiveness. Stars know that the Empire- that Kallus himself- would not show Zeb any mercy for saving Kallus were their positions reversed.
Kallus shudders involuntarily, leaning against the alcove. The tip of his nose is exposed to the wind, which is the most miserable part of this experience. He wonders how long it takes for frostbite to set in, then considers how he would move forward if his nose froze off. Or, even, if he lost his leg, first to the break then to the freezing cold.
Despite himself, he snorts. The ISB would likely give little concern to his injuries. Perhaps it would even be better if he were mechanically enhanced. He could be stronger, faster, less puny and breakable. This, of course, is more optimal than Agent Kallus with a limp, Agent Kallus who needs time to recover and heal. Just cut the damn thing off and move on. Maximum efficiency, minimal time and cost.
Maybe that’s why it’s taken so long for the Empire to rescue him. Maybe that’s why they may not come at all. One man isn’t worth the fuel, the effort it takes to track a foreign signal to some remote moon.
Would it be better to die here, a man so faithful to the Empire that he wastes away waiting for them to save him? Or to spend the rest of his life a prisoner of the Rebels, hated by his captors but at the very least, alive?
He seems to have made that decision long ago, when he was just a boy, not yet a man. A cadet, not an officer. He made the same choice again and again since then. To serve the Empire, to give his life to the cause long before it ever killed him.
This is what his loyalty has earned him. A broken leg and slow death, alone after rejecting the mercy of his sworn enemy.
There are worse ways to die. Less honorable ones, slower, more torturous ones. Lonelier ones, unkinder ones, because at least Zeb was there, in the beginning. He could have perished because of that beast in the cavern, he thinks, and chuckles at the memory of their near escape.
If the Empire does not come, Zeb will be the only one who understands Kallus’ fate. When Kallus disappears, when he is not there to try and foil the rebels again and again, Zeb will realize that the Empire never cared to pick up their agent, that the fool who rejected Zeb’s offer died alone on the ice moon. He doubts the Lasat would share this information with anyone else, and he dismisses the notion that Zeb would ever go back to check, to see if Kallus’ remains lay beneath the snow.
His mother would not be surprised, Kallus thinks dryly. Alexsandr Kallus, missing in action. Declared dead however many months later. It is the fate he knows she expected for him, ever since he announced his plans to serve Imperial Intelligence. His father extended approval with a small nod, but his mother had stared at him, lips pursed, and said nothing. Kallus doesn’t remember when he talked to her last. Perhaps her birthday or anniversary, half a cycle ago. He hadn’t answered her call on his own birthday. A new insurgent cell had popped up, and he spent the entire rotation arranging a task force to address the threat.
They are all going about their expected roles, then. Kallus, dying in service to the cause, the Empire, allowing his death as to not divert from more important matters, and his mother, mourning quietly and quickly because her only child was not strong enough to survive.
He hates surprises, so it is just as well. There’s nothing wrong with something steady and predictable, even if that includes a slow, stupid death alone on a moon nobody in the galaxy cares about.
Kallus sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the rock. The wind howls, louder than ever before, and another chill rips through him. He presses his eyes shut, but he cannot make himself any more compact, cannot shelter himself from the climate. He’s tired, aching- he will sleep, for now, he decides. Someone will rescue him and he will wake, or he will go quietly in his sleep.
The exhaustion fogs his mind, depriving him of sense and reason. As he nods off, he imagines a warmth next to him, the strong frame of a Lasat leaning against him. It is the only comfort he can fathom, but it brings him peace in his last seconds of consciousness.
The mechanical whir of a ship disturbs him. Kallus blinks his eyes open with some difficulty- there are snowflakes in his hair and on his eyelashes, sticking them together. He can’t feel anything, which is mostly a relief.
His first comprehensible thought is that the Ghost has come back for him. This conclusion makes the most sense, but as his vision focuses, he realizes that the ship is too large to be the little rebel freighter.
He straightens, suddenly at attention. The Empire is here for him. With some difficulty, he stands, staggering to his feet unsteadily. A fresh wave of pain spikes in his leg but he grits his teeth, tucking the meteorite under his arm, dragging himself forward and into sight.
Two Stormtroopers are making their way towards him- regular troopers, not Snowtroopers, their armor hardly discernible against the snow. They spot him quickly enough, but Kallus does little to acknowledge this, biting down hard on his lip and forcing a neutral expression.
“Sir,” one of them says. “Is there anyone else with you?”
“No,” Kallus bites out, trying not to let his teeth chatter. He pushes past the two troopers without looking at them, making his way up the ramp. Each step is agony, but he forces himself to put weight on the broken leg.
“Do you need medical treatment, sir?”
Damn. He must be limping. Kallus pauses for a fraction of a second, then continues as if he never heard anything. He finds a seat in a lonely corner of the shuttle and remains there in silence. He hears the pilot confirm they’ve made contact, that they’ve rescued Agent Kallus, and the shuttle takes off.
Thawing out is miserable. His leg sears with pain, his fingers throb, yet Kallus stares straight ahead, each second passing in silence. He’s the first to depart when the shuttle arrives on the cruiser, again without a word of thanks to his rescuers.
The trek back to his quarters is slow and agonizing. It’s as if he’s invisible, aside from the occasional bow of the head or sir muttered lowly as he passes his subordinates. Even Konstantine doesn’t care so much as to look up from his datapad. Nor should he. The detour is over; the inconvenience addressed.
He makes it back to his small room, unable to help his limp as he staggers through the door. Even when he’s alone, Kallus maintains his composure until he’s sitting, the meteorite placed safely on the shelf behind him. It’s then he lets out a short gasp of pain, reaching towards the splint on his leg.
His hands are shaking- the pain is blinding, and his vision wavers. Any numbness and adrenaline are gone, and he has lost all barriers between him and the pain. Kallus groans, ripping the splint off messily. It comes off in pieces, first the makeshift bandage unraveling, then the brace clatters to the floor. He chokes back a sob as he brushes against the broken bone and fresh hurt spikes through him.
He debates how to proceed- he cannot now go to the infirmary and be whispered about more. In his quarters, he has meager medical supplies, in addition to those he just arrived with. At beginning of the night shift, perhaps he will be able to retrieve more- get some bacta, make a neater splint.
Kallus starts now by ripping away his pants, grasping the fabric firmly, and tearing it in two. From there, he sheds his armor, casting it aside on the cot. He stands slowly, leaning heavily against the wall and staggers forward, but his leg gives after the first step.
On his hands and good knee, Kallus drags himself forward, pulling himself towards the refresher. It is arduous and subhuman, but there is no weight on his leg and this relief alone is worth the crawl.
It is in this position that he dry-swallows the pain medication, that he washes off the blood and grime. As the water pours over him, stinging the wound, he lets the shameful tears fall, disguised by the fall of the shower. He can think of little more than the agony erupting in every fiber of his being, and he is more tired than ever more.
But the medication- of which he took far more than the advised dose- does its job. Kallus can stand, mostly, an hour later, when the makeshift splint is redone under a fresh uniform. Scuffling in the hall signifies the change to night guard, and once the noise fades away, Kallus steals away to the medbay, taking the least populated route he can think of.
Only a few meddroids are there, all of which he dismisses. He rummages through the drawers of supplies on his own, grabbing what he can and stuffing it into pockets.
The bacta will bide him. The injury will heal, in time. And tomorrow, Agent Kallus will resume his duties, loyal and at the service of the Empire once more.