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Stay in Motion

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It’s the sound of screaming that wakes her up.


The inside of her nose and mouth still smells of sand and burned hair, but there’s a dryness on her tongue and an odd, aggressively sterile taste. She lets go of an exhale, her lips waxy and chapped around it.


The screaming grows louder, a pounding in her ears.


Jyn’s eyes flicker open, her lungs cough out something wet. Head swimming, she does her best to filter around the ringing in her head, to understand what’s going on.


The screams grow closer. Feebly, an arm reaches under her stomach for the blaster at her hip-


-it’s no longer there.


Jyn’s eyes dart to the exit. A man in long-sleeved blue shirt and a brown vest speeds by. Stops. Doubles back. He grips the frame of her white door like something is about to blow him away.


“We did it!” He cries, eyes wide and teeth bared in a smile. Jyn thinks he’s young. Hardly twenty. “WE DID IT!”


And he’s off again, one more blur against the hoards that are running by.


She exhales, pushes herself up on the bed. There’s something hooked to her arm, but she mentally puts it as a second priority as she looks around the room.


M E D W A R D is stamped in Aurabesh on the window.


Jyn’s lungs seem to squeeze. She looks to her side, and a faceless med droid looks back at her.




Cheers. Not screams. They were cheers.


“No…” she manages, pressing the back of her knuckles underneath her eye, rubbing. “No, that’ll be alright.”




Bodhi has paced this walkway more than a dozen times, but he can’t stop. Underneath, he sees the scores of pilots, engineers, and other Rebellion personnel flood into the hanger. Bottles of alcohol are popped, sprayed. Arms are flung around each other in celebration--the cries of victory echo around the base.


He rubs his hands. Straightens his goggles. His stomach twists itself into knots.


“Not going to join the celebration?”


Bodhi looks over his shoulder. Running down the walkway above him, there’s a man in an orange flightsuit. Blue eyes. Flyaway blond hair. Bodhi doesn’t think he’s seen him before, but he looks like a country boy.


He tries to smile, but can’t. “Not yet.”


“Waiting for someone?”


He swallows tightly. “...My friends.”


The country boy stares at him. And then his lips part with a realization. “You’re the pilot.”


Bodhi blinks, but then he nods.


“I heard about Scarif. Pretty brave.”


“I. Thank you.”


“What was the name of your ship again?”


“Rogue One.”


“Rogue…” The pilot nods thoughtfully, before he strides forward. He clasps a hand on Bodhi’s shoulder. “Join us when you can, alright? Sounds like your crew could use a drink.”


Bodhi can only watch in bemusement as the man in orange slides down the ladder and embraces the woman he’s learned is Princess Leia.




The droid told her she’s been 98% restored. Jyn imagines that 2% is what accounts for the hair. She runs a bandaged hand over the top of her buzzed scalp, feeling the new, dark fuzz under her palm. The heat had taken it. Her brows and lashes, too. Superficial losses for a miracle.


She steps out of the medward like a fever dream, limping and wincing as she pulls the fabric of her shirt over her bandaged shoulder. Bacta is a miracle worker, but there will be scars soon where the pangs are.


The racing members of the Rebellion barely part for her as they rush toward the hangar bay-- laughing, crying. The stimulus ought to give her a migraine, but there’s someone she needs to see before she lets herself break in anyway.


Every movement hurts. But it’s only 241 steps to the other medical wing, or so the droid has told her.




“Baze,” his name comes out like a wheeze. “I see the light.”


The hand he has folded in between his own wiggles its fingers. And Baze’s head shoots up from where his forehead was pressed to the medical bed’s side.


Chirrut coughs, a bacta patch covering a large part of his bared throat. “Wait, wrong room.”


Baze’s worry and exhaustion give way to unending relief, his eyes narrowing as the smallest of smiles makes it way onto his lips. Baze holds Chirrut’s hand to his cheek, presses a kiss to the center of its palm.


From his supine position, hooked up to several life-saving machines, Chirrut gives a strained attempt at a laugh. It’s shorter than usual--there had been a lot of fluid in his lungs.


“You’re going to be the death of me,” Baze grunts.


“Then you’ll have to get worse at rescues.”


“I don’t get worse at anything.”


“We’re stuck then.”


Baze grips Chirrut’s hand tighter. “Same as usual.”




The door slides open. Jyn gives herself a breath before crossing it.


There’s only one occupied bed.


He looks as bad as she feels. His hair length mimics her own, a dark fuzz that covers his scalp, cheeks, chin, and throat. His eyes are closed, there’s a new scar on the corner of his mouth, tugging it into a frown even in sleep.


She looks at the machines. Sees a heartrate, a healthy pulse.


Jyn slides down to her knees, landing on the ground and staying there.




An organic is blocking the door.


It is not surprising that it is this organic.


“Oh. You’ve lived.”


The female organic ( Jyn, it  thinks with what the humans would call ‘a sigh’) looks down.  And down. It is impossible to feel embarrassment, it tells itself.


“Do I know you?” She asks.


“We are not friends,” K-2 says immediately. “Regardless of shared improbable survival experiences.” And, to clarify: “Those do not guarantee friendship.”


“... K-2 ?”


“Jyn Erso.”




It is impossible to feel embarrassment. K-2's body, does however, skid from side to side. “My original form was destroyed.”


“I see that.”


“This is the only one that was currently available to upload my memory core.” A slow skid. “It was not my first choice.” Another. “Or second. I had no choice at all.”


Jyn wipes leaking fluid from her eyes. K-2 understands this as empathy . Perhaps they are friends-


No. They are not!




The droid swirls around. “Is it...bad?”


She shakes her head. “I’m just.”  She... pets it . Which is irrational for several reasons, least of all being that the standard MSE-6 models did not have tactile sensory inputs. “I’m happy to see you, K-2.”


“I am happy to see you as well, Jyn.” The droid rolls forward. “It means my optical processing is still in tact.”




Jyn makes herself stand after K-2 moves past her into the room. The new, small cleaning droid body K-2 currently inhabits faster than her ability to process.


K-2 was alive. Cassian was…


She moves forward. With a slightly hesitant hand, she brushes her fingers against his forehead. Biting back something (a sob? A laugh? She doesn’t know), she rests her palm on his cheek, fingertips tracing the ridges of his face-


“The medical droids are able to check temperature with high accuracy.”


Jyn looks down to the small, moving black box by her feet.


“Much higher than humans.”


A grin fights its way onto her face.


Much higher.”


“But not as nice,” comes a whisper against her skin.


Jyn startles back, but a hand comes up to hold her forearm. Warm, calloused. She looks down into Cassian’s open stare.


“Welcome back,” she says softly.


“Welcome home,” he corrects.




There’s a knock on the door.


“I found the refresher,” Chirrut says happily over his shoulder. He walks in with staggered, pained steps--staff tapping the floor experimentally. “Larger than usual.”


“Chirrut,” Jyn greets happily from her place by Cassian’s bedside.


“Little sister,” Baze returns on Chirrut’s behalf, stepping in behind him.


“Apparently,” Chirrut begins as he finds a comfortable spot to sit on one of the medical supply cylinders. Baze stands next to him.  “There’s a party.”


“For what?” Cassian asks around a rasp, it is a struggle for him to sit up but he manages.


“The Death Star.”


Attention shifts to the quiet voice, whose owner stands in the threshold of the medical wing.


Bodhi Rook holds a small, portable comm in his hands. “Give me a second.”


The pilot moves to the side of Cassian’s bed, placing the comm on top of the portable thermoscanner. He adjusts a few knobs, toggles a switch, and takes a half step back.




K-2 rolls back, bumps into Bodhi’s leg.




Baze’s hand rests on Chirrut’s shoulder.




The hand Cassian has on Jyn’s forearm travels down. She interlaces their fingers.




And the crew of Rogue One listens together to the members of the Rebellion cheering in the background.