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Get in touch with everyone, that had been the thought that had sustained him. Let the Council, let Abric and everyone know he was still alive, and then he'd go and save the galaxy. Except it ate at him, incessant, agonizing.
Your eyes were as burning coals.
The overseer had acted as if this was his first time with a torture device, but Doc, and Rusk...
You were torturing your crew. They screamed for mercy...
They had been injured. Had it been torture?
...but your heart was cold, alien. Sith.
His former Master's ghost had said he'd been made to do "terrible things". That could not have been his first time. Had he done that to them, too?
Kira had to pull him from the taxi when it settled on the apartment's landing pad; he could not find the strength to move his legs. He could feel her worry for him, but the incentive to act it should have been died somewhere in translation. Booted feet thudded on the floor, and Flow found himself wrapped up in Oberon's arms, face pressed to the body-warmed metal of the Sith's pauldron. Oberon was crying for him. Why? He did not deserve it.
He was shuffled from embrace to embrace in a daze, unable to answer questions beyond the smallest noise of acknowledgment. Flow was vaguely aware of Kira telling them the story, much as she knew it, that he'd been captured by the Sith Emperor and controlled, made into a perfect Sith acolyte puppet. He tried to sink into himself, to not hear it, to be less present when the sympathy and despair renewed themselves, and they tried again to chase away his demons with their open arms.
He had been warned, yet he had walked right into it. He did not deserve their affection or their sympathy. The galaxy deserved better shoulders to rest on, because he was pathetic, he had no strength left to save it.
"Guess you couldn't pretend you were okay anymore," Kira said, and Flow realized he didn't know when they'd moved inside, when he'd been led to the guest room. "Our new 'friend' says we've got a little bit of time, but..."
He couldn't answer. If she hadn't guided him onto one of the beds in the room, he might have sunk to the floor.
"...Looks like we'll need it. Hey, saving the galaxy by the skin of our teeth makes a more thrilling story, right?" The joke was wasted on him. He stared blankly at the floor, through the floor, not quite seeing anything. Her hand lingered on his shoulder. She knew better than anyone what he'd been through. But here she was, standing - functional. Not like him.
"I'm not the stronger one." She'd thrown off his control on her own, too. He'd needed help. He realized she didn't know he'd been himself from the moment he'd walked into that room, expected to torture her. He couldn't bring himself to say that he hadn't thrown it off by the pure strength of his loyalty to his friend. Master Orgus had freed him first, out of nowhere, in a training exercise.
"Actually, you-"
"Hey, kids. Anything I can do?" Abric stood in the doorway, same worried expression as all of them plastered on his face, rippling in the Force. They were wasting their energy on him. Flow tuned them out as he and Kira started to talk, and curled up on the bed, facing the wall. They didn't react - maybe they thought he was resting, that that's what he needed. Each of them took a moment to touch his shoulder in attempted comfort, and then he was alone.
But never for long. There was almost always another presence in the room. Kira and the rest of his crew drifted in and out as the hours passed, and the disappointment at his weakness from Rusk and Scourge made him wish he could be invisible. At some point, they stopped coming. Doc made some sarcastic comment about them, but Flow didn't retain much memory of it. Oberon would come in and sit beside him. He wouldn't say anything, only take his hand and let time pass in sorrowful silence. He hated himself for being comforted by this gesture.
At one point, someone left him food and drink. He had no appetite. He drifted in half-consciousness for a while, denied sleep. Natirru was the one to break that. He rolled him over, propped him up, and raised a glass of something sweet and slightly syrupy to his lips. "Here. You haven't eaten anything for a day. This will help you retain your strength," he said, and somewhere deep inside, Flow felt a combined flicker of sadness and fear as he realized Natirru considered - and he could not refute - that this might be long-term. It was the first thing he'd felt that wasn't self-loathing, and he held on to those, however much they hurt.
Oberon seemed to notice this slight change. He slept beside him, shedding the hard armor that could injure him and holding him close. Whatever Natirru had fed him was either sedative or alcoholic, because the choking haze in his mind dissolved a little, enough for Oberon's warmth to seep in, to lull him to sleep, where nightmares stalked in distant fog.
He apparently found his own way to the refresher later, but could not summon the will to leave its solitude. He didn't know how long he sat slumped against its wall, staring into space, but sooner or later, someone else had to enter. Abric and a Mon Calamari Flow had never met before helped him back, where he collapsed into the dazed heap he'd been the day before.
"Wow," said the Mon Calamari. "And your friend's a Knight? I thought-"
"Guss?"
"Yeah?"
"Can it."
It should have hurt. Jedi are supposed to be...not this. But he felt nothing. Not even the self-loathing that had plagued him before. Was that an improvement, or was he getting worse?
Time passed, marked by the shuffle of feet as people came to check on him. The mattress creaked under a second person's weight as Natirru took a seat beside him.
"Flow," Natirru took a deep breath. "I can't pretend to know what you're going through, exactly. I've heard enough of the story to know that you have no memory of what you were made to do. I can't imagine how terrifying that must be. I don't know which would be worse, really, watching yourself act or having to guess at it..." Another sigh, with a slight shudder and prickle of fear that Flow felt, caught - despite himself he found himself actively listening, focused in a way he hadn't been able to muster. There was a weight in Natirru's voice and a pain in his presence that spoke of experience. The agent put his broad hand on Flow's back. "You've been through something traumatic. It isn't uncommon for these things to come with self-blame. For the victim to ask if they had somehow...invited it, or let it happen, if they had been able to break free..." He paused, and Flow shivered in the wave of fear that rolled off of him. Natirru gently rubbed his back, like a father comforting his child. "It isn't your fault. And...whatever you were made to do isn't you. Don't let it define you - you are your choices, not your actions. Ideally, they are one and the same, but mind control takes that away. Don't forget to make that distinction. Don't forget that nobody can change the fact that your mind is your own. They can only pretend it belongs to them, and hope you fall for it. Don't forget who you are."
Flow let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and tears spilled from his eyes, emotion that he couldn't even consciously name. Natirru's words would have felt empty if they had not been coming from a place too much like his own. They weren't, and it was overwhelming after the nothingness and self-hate that had consumed him.
"And... Miss Carsen, I can teach you how to properly feign sleep if you want."
"Damn it," Kira said softly, without bite, from across the room.
Flow found his voice, thready and croaky. "It's okay. I think she needed to hear that too."
"'Too'," Natirru repeated, a smile in his voice. "I'm glad I-...I could give you something worth value." He gave his back another comforting pat before he stood to leave. "I'll bring you some food, in case your appetite returns, all right?"
"I'll help," Kira offered, her clothes rustling as she stood. But instead of immediately moving to leave, she approached him instead. "Was beginning to worry you'd lost your voice," she half-joked. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder - and this time, the warmth of contact did not feel like something stolen from the more deserving.
They brought back food, but not even its pleasant smell could stir his appetite. The moment of clarity washed back into his daze, the quagmire in his heart. He had a galaxy to save. Everyone, everywhere was counting on him, and he crumpled under the weight of this trauma. How could he save everyone? How could he do this if he was so easy to break?
The pressure was nearly literal, pinning him to his bed and his mind in inaction. He was letting everyone down, and giving them false hope, and it made his body all the heavier. It would have been better if Natirru hadn't gotten through to him in the first place.
He imagined he could feel it, too. The sparks of hope as visitors poked their heads in, that went out as they realized he still couldn't drag himself out of bed. He relied on his Force sensitivity to tell him these things when his mind was wont to interpret the worst but... He "felt" the same thing from Teeseven of all people, and then he knew he couldn't trust it, either, the way focus slipped out of his grasp.
Perhaps it was best to let it be, to not fight to hold on to these lights his friends cast into the dark for him. But they would keep trying. Wasting their time and energy trying to speak to him. Wasting their resources trying to feed him. The thought of crushing his own heart against his ribs flickered to mind briefly, but he could not find the will to summon the Force to work where he couldn't see, or even to move his hands to focus it.
"Hey, bud." Abric's voice came unexpectedly, startling him from his grim thoughts. He hadn't left the apartment this entire time, but he hadn't spoken to him much, either. Abric was never very good at dealing with the emotions of others. But here he was, hand on his shoulder, no doubt drawn to his side by another uncanny hunch.
The privateer paused, but went on when he got no response. "Look, I know I'm lousy at this and I'm doing a crappy job at this whole 'being there for a friend' thing, but hear me out. I've been thinking about this whole prophecy thing and, uh...are we sure it's gotta be you? A whole galaxy is a lot for one guy. It's not fair for the Grand Master to call on you and you alone just 'cause she thinks the Force says so. Maybe it was just trying to tell her you'd bring it to light or something? Can't stop a plan nobody knows about. And it's not fair to try to push you to do something when you're all burnt out. That's just asking to fail. Point is, just say the word and I'm in. I'll help. You're not alone and...and it's okay to count on me. Promise."
He waited for a reply, but Flow could give none. What could he say? It was a foolish offer. Abric was more skilled than he let on, but to ask him to fight the Sith Emperor? He couldn't send his best friend to his death.
And yet, the offer lingered in his mind, and something changed, subtle and quietly stirring inside him.
That night, Oberon curled up beside him again, his breath stirring his hair. "Abric told us about his offer," he said quietly. "Natirru and I agreed that it extends to us too. This involves all of us. My Master has ordered me to Quesh for an important assignment, but...for the galaxy's sake, I think I can ignore him. As Abric said, just say the word." A long pause, where Flow could still not find words. Oberon sighed and tightened his hold on him. "I love you, Flow. Wherever we go from here, I love you."
---
He could feel it from there, the shift in ambient attitudes. The apprehension of preparing to leave, and the worry of leaving – leaving him, most likely. They'd probably already contacted Darth Imperius regarding his new guest - if one of them wasn't able to stay behind, surely their friend could make arrangements. He did have a following here on Nar Shaddaa, after all, dedicated to healing.
He thought of their offer. Who was acting in his stead, then? Abric? Kira? She'd been through this, too. He'd had to fight her off, himself.
What if everyone died without him? What if he was the sole survivor of the group just because he couldn't get out of bed? He wouldn't live with that survivor's guilt for long, at least, if the Emperor got his way.
Dying didn't seem the comfort it had the previous afternoon. He couldn't let them pick up where he left off. The galaxy depended on him. Wasn't that why it had hurt so much? That it had to be him? Everyone seemed to be saying so, from the Jedi Grand Master to the former Emperor's Wrath.
But now, it didn't have to be. He didn't want to put his friends or his boyfriend in danger. But he could rely on them. He remembered their incredible synergy when the pirates on Hoth had forced Republic and Empire to unite against them, and they had the opportunity to fight as a team. He thought of how the red crystal in the lightsaber Oberon had given him had turned white in that battle. The bonds they shared had healed the crystal, corrupted in the hand of a ruthless father who belittled his son for needing the help of another Sith.
It had been corrupted by a Sith, too, turned into something it wasn't, used in ways it had never been attuned for. And it had recovered, through the strength of unity. Was that why Kira and Natirru, too, were still so strong?
All was not lost without him. He was not alone. He was more than whatever he had been made to do.
That was enough to move one leg off the bed, and then the other.
If he focused on each single, shuffled step at a time, he would still make it to the landing pad.