Chapter Text
The hours wore on in tense, suffocating silence. The rebels, scattered across the hideout, spoke in hushed tones, careful not to disturb the fragile silence that hung over the room. Cere remained by the table, her eyes drifting back to the corner where the Inquisitor—Cal—sat, slumped in his restraints.
Something about him didn’t add up. He wasn’t like the other Inquisitors she had faced. Those had been cruel and unyielding, their hatred a weapon as sharp as their lightsabers. Cal, though? He was quiet, closed off, but not hateful. He carried himself with an air of finality, as though he had long since resigned himself to a fate he couldn’t escape.
Vekara crossed the room, her expression hard as she stared at their prisoner. "You’re wasting your time, Cere," she muttered. "You see a project. I see a dead end."
Cere didn’t respond, her focus locked on the man in the chair. His head was bowed slightly, the edge of his red hair catching the dim light. His hands, though bound, rested limply in his lap, the subtle tremble in his fingers betraying the calm façade he was trying to project.
Finally, Cere stood, taking slow steps toward him. "Cal," she said softly.
Yet again, he didn’t respond. She knelt in front of him, her tone calm but insistent. "I know you can hear me. And I know you’re not as indifferent as you want us to believe."
Still, he said nothing. Cere sighed, her voice softening further. "Whatever the Empire did to you, whatever they made you do—it wasn’t your fault."
At that, his hands twitched, curling slightly into fists. His head tilted ever so slightly toward her, though he didn’t speak.
"You were a Jedi," she continued, her tone measured. "I don’t know how they turned you, but I know they use fear. Pain. They tear people down and rebuild them in their image."
Cal’s voice finally broke the silence, low and cutting. "Don’t act like you understand."
"I don’t," Cere admitted. "Not completely. But I’ve seen what they do. I’ve seen them break people. And I know what it’s like to feel like there’s nothing left of who you were."
He scoffed, a bitter, hollow sound. "You have no idea what they’re capable of."
Cere pressed, leaning closer. "I am begging you, Cal. Help me understand.”
Cal’s body tensed, his shoulders drawing inward. For a long moment, he said nothing. But then, his voice came, quiet and strained.
"They don’t just hurt you," he said, his words harsh and deliberate. "They make you grateful for it. They take everything from you, leave you with nothing but your own failure. And when you’re begging them to stop, when you’re ready to die just to end it—they tell you you’ve earned their mercy."
Cere’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to answer, and the rawness in his tone struck her like a physical blow.
"They break you in ways you didn’t think were possible..." Cal continued, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. "And when there’s nothing left, they give you a choice: live as their weapon, or die as their failure."
He lifted his head slightly, his head turning toward her. "I chose to live."
Cere felt a lump rise in her throat, but she forced herself to stay composed. "That doesn’t make you weak," she said gently. "It makes you human."
"Human?" Cal’s laugh was sharp and bitter. "You think there’s anything human left in me? Everything I was—everything I cared about—it’s gone. The Empire made sure of that."
"They couldn’t take everything," Cere said quietly.
He tilted his head slightly, as if he were studying her. "And what makes you so sure of that?"
"Because you’re still here," she said simply. "You’re still fighting, whether you realize it or not."
Cal’s silence stretched on, the tension in the room thick enough to cut.
"You don’t have to believe me," Cere said after a moment. "But I believe in you. And I’m not giving up." She stood, turning to leave, but his voice stopped her in her tracks.
"Why?" he asked, his tone softer now, almost vulnerable. "Why do you care?"
Cere turned back to him, her expression gentle but firm. "Because I’ve been where you are. And trust me when i say, there's always a way back."
Cal didn’t respond, his head tilting downward again as he retreated into silence.
The tension in the room was palpable. Cal hadn’t spoken in hours, and despite all the gentle prodding, he remained locked away behind his walls. Cere knew that she couldn’t just give up, but the silence was beginning to weigh on her, every minute that passed like a hammer on the edge of her resolve.
She approached him again, kneeling just out of arm's reach, her eyes steady and calm. He hadn’t made a move since the last exchange, his posture slumped in defeat, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"You don’t have to do this alone," she said softly, her voice firm but filled with compassion.
Cal didn’t respond, his head hung low. The hours of restraint had taken their toll on him, but there was something else—a sense of weariness that seemed to come from deep within him.
"I can’t help you if you don’t let me," Cere continued, her voice quiet but insistent. "i know you’re angry. I know you feel like there’s nothing left for you. But there’s still a part of you that wants to be heard, that wants out."
Cal’s fingers twitched slightly, though his face remained unreadable. It was the smallest movement, but it wasn’t lost on Cere.
"I was a slave to them," Cal said suddenly, his voice harsh. He lifted his head a little more, his tone now full of bitterness and pain. "I was nothing but a weapon. A tool to break other people, to hunt the last remnants of the Jedi. To break them and make them beg for mercy. And when I failed... when I couldn’t do it anymore, they punished me."
Cere swallowed, her eyes searching his helmeted face. "Punished you?" she asked gently.
Cal’s lips curled into a bitter sneer. "They don’t just hurt you. They make you thank them for it. They make you believe that you deserve it. Every bruise, every scar, every time they tear you down. And when you beg for them to stop, when you can’t take any more, they reward you with more."
Cere’s throat tightened, but she didn’t look away. "They made you believe you were nothing," she said softly, her voice trembling with a mix of sadness and fury. "Made you believe you were worthless."
"No!" Cal spat, his voice cracking with the venom of long-hidden rage. "They made me want it. They made me crave it. They broke me so thoroughly that I couldn’t even feel anymore. I had nothing but the mission. And every time I failed, I thought, maybe, just maybe, they’d stop..." His voice trailed off, as if the weight of the memories was too much to bear.
Cere leaned in, her voice a whisper. "I’m so sorry."
For the first time, Cal’s face—his real face—shuddered with a tremor of raw emotion. It was fleeting, but it was there. His jaw clenched tightly, his hands shaking in their restraints as he tried to hold himself together.
"They told me I was nothing without them," he whispered, as though speaking to the air, his voice soft but edged with the sharpness of a wound that would never heal. "That the only thing left was the hunt. That if I didn’t kill them, f I didn’t destroy what was left of the Jedi, I’d be a failure."
Cere could barely breathe, the weight of his words heavy in the air between them. She watched him struggle to control his emotions, his body trembling with the effort.
"Do you know what it’s like to be broken like that?" he asked, his voice a hollow, pained whisper. "To be forced to betray everything you believed in because you thought that was the only way to survive?"
Cere’s voice cracked. "I do," she said softly, unable to stop the tears that welled in her eyes. "I’ve lost everything too, Cal. And I almost lost myself because of it."
Cal’s eyes—green, filled with torment—locked onto hers for the first time. He didn’t speak, but the wall in his gaze cracked, just slightly.
"But the Empire doesn’t get to decide who you are anymore," she whispered. "You can choose who you want to be now. But you have to let go of their control. Let us help you."
For a long time, he said nothing. But his breath was heavier now, his gaze unfocused, drifting.
Finally, Cal’s voice was low, fragile. "I don’t know if I can," his gaze flickered, as if he wanted to believe her, but fear still held him back. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "I’ve been alone too long."
The silence between them deepened. Cere gave him a soft, understanding nod. "I know. But you don’t have to be alone anymore."
He didn’t respond, but for the first time, there was a flicker of something—something incredibly vulnerable beneath the anger and the pain. It was faint, but it was there.
Cere stood slowly, signaling to the others. "We’ll try again later. He’s been through too much to force it all at once."
As they began to leave, Cal’s voice stopped her again, quieter this time. "You don’t understand," he murmured, the rawness still evident. "I’ve done things… things that make me a monster. I don’t deserve your kindness."
Cere turned, meeting his gaze for one last time. "You’re not a monster, Cal. You’re just someone who’s been hurt. But you don’t have to carry that alone anymore. You can choose who you want to be now."
He didn’t answer, but for the first time, she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
The days blurred together. The atmosphere in their new hideout had shifted; gone was the hostile silence that had hung over Cal since his capture. In its place was a tentative calm, a fragile sense of trust growing slowly but steadily. He wasn’t the same person as before, but neither was he the monster he’d thought he was. Cere could see the internal war waging within him every time he stepped out of his cell, every time his gaze fell away from the others, like a man uncertain of his place in the world.
Despite his reluctant openness, Cal’s recovery wasn’t linear. There were days when he would barely speak, retreating into himself like a shadow. Other days, he’d be present, though the weight of his past lingered in the dark corners of his eyes. Cere knew it wasn’t something that could be rushed. Healing was slow, painful, and messy, but it was still progress.
That evening, the rebels had gathered in the common area to plan their next move. The war, after all, wasn’t going to wait for Cal to figure out his life. But as they spoke in hushed tones, Cere couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more Cal needed to face.
She found him alone in the room they had set up as his temporary quarters, seated on a cot in the corner, his back against the wall. His helmet sat on the table beside him, the once-feared Inquisitor no longer trying to hide behind it. He had yet to remove the under-armor tunic that kept him bound to his past, but Cere could see his body language shifting, less defensive, more worn.
She approached him cautiously, aware that even the gentlest conversation could turn into a landmine.
"How are you feeling today?" Cere asked, taking a seat at the far edge of the cot.
Cal didn’t immediately respond, his eyes staring out at the floor. His fingers drummed restlessly on the edge of his knee. The silence stretched long, and Cere almost thought he hadn’t heard her. Then, in a voice so quiet she could barely catch it, he spoke.
"They used to make me…" His words trailed off, like the weight of the confession was too heavy to carry alone. He swallowed hard, eyes flickering briefly toward her, then away.
"Used to make you… what?" Cere asked gently, her heart pounding in her chest.
Cal hesitated, his entire body tensing, his voice barely above a whisper. "They didn’t just break me, Cere. They made me...," he paused, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the fabric of his tunic.
Cere felt a chill run through her as he said the words, an instinctive horror filling her chest. She knew the Empire was ruthless, but something in the way he said it made her gut twist.
Cal took a breath, his voice quieter still. "My commanding officer. He was the one who—he made sure I understood what I was. Who I belonged to."
Cere’s mind raced, but she didn’t interrupt. She could see him struggling, fighting to let go of the walls that had kept him locked inside himself for so long.
"He didn’t just order me to kill," Cal continued, his voice faltering as he spoke. "He made me… serve him. Be his. I didn’t have a choice."
The words fell out like a flood, spilling from his lips before he could stop them. "He hurt me, Cere. Physically, emotionally… it wasn’t just training. It wasn’t just discipline. He made me feel like nothing more than an object, a tool to be used however he saw fit. Every failure, every mistake, he punished me for it. But it wasn’t just punishment. It was... more. He made sure I knew my place, what I was supposed to be."
Cere felt her heart break. She knew the Empire twisted people, broke them in ways that no one could understand. But hearing Cal speak of what had been done to him—it was unfathomable. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Cal… I…" Cere’s voice trembled, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I’m so sorry. No one should ever be made to feel like that. Not by anyone."
He didn’t look at her directly, his gaze fixed downward, his expression hollow. "I was nothing but a tool to him. And I—I let it happen. I didn’t know how to fight it. I thought I was doing what I needed to do. I thought I could make it stop, but I never could." His voice cracked, the vulnerability in his words more raw than anything he’d said before.
Cere’s breath hitched, and she reached out hesitantly, her hand resting just a fraction of an inch from his. It wasn’t a touch to invade, but one of offering, of showing that she was there. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, letting him speak, letting him release the pain.
"I never asked for any of this," Cal continued, his voice hoarse now. "I never asked to be their weapon. I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to become what I was forced to be."
Cere’s heart ached for him. She wanted to reach across that gap, to take away his pain, but she knew it wasn’t that simple. Healing was a long road—one that he’d have to walk, no matter how much she wanted to carry him.
"You’re not who they made you, Cal," she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. "What they did to you—it doesn’t define you. You have a choice now. You don’t have to live for them anymore."
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes flickered up to hers, his expression one of painful uncertainty. There was no anger in his gaze, no walls. Just pain, raw and exposed.
"I don’t know how to live with this," he whispered. "I don’t know if I can ever be anyone else."
Cere took a slow, steadying breath. "You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re allowed to take your time. You’re allowed to heal."
Cal’s lips parted, as though he might say something more, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he sat there, staring at her with an intensity that seemed to pull all the broken pieces of his soul into focus.
"I’m here," she said quietly, her voice firm but gentle. "And I will be, no matter how long it takes."
Cal’s eyes softened, though the pain never fully left them. But for the first time, there was a flicker of something else—a quiet hope buried beneath the ashes of his past. He didn’t speak again, but for the first time in months, Cere saw something in him that wasn’t shame or guilt. Something fragile, something tentative, but still there.
Hope.