Glory and Gore

[PACIFIC OCEAN - KAIJU YEAR 15]

Ezra places a hand atop Katja’s carrier. The Loth-cat paws at the bars, meowing in sadness.

Through the headphones, the helicopter jolting with their windy flight, Ezra soothes, “I know, honey. I know. Not much longer.”

Ezra lowers a hand to the bars. Katja sniffs and licks Ezra’s index finger before curling up in the back of the carrier. Her round eyes peer in the shadows.

Ezra looks at the helicopter pilot holding the controls steady. Mon observes him an arm’s length away in the cramped area. Her stoic form and eager eyes make Ezra think she wants to say something, so he arches a brow to prompt her.

Mon brings the microphone attached to her face towards her mouth. Ezra hears her in his earpiece.

“Yavin has changed since you left,” Mon begins, “I’ll need to catch you up.”

Ezra tilts the microphone apparatus towards his own mouth. “You can start with the pilots. Why did you recruit young blood?”

Mon squints her eyes slightly. She is careful in her phrasing as she answers, “corporate collectively decided to take what we learned with you and...revise.”

Ezra rolls his eyes. “Are they taking them younger or older?”

Again, Mon waits a beat in consideration. She seems to be perplexed by him. Trying to understand why Kanan stuck up for him in training and let him rise through the ranks so young.

Or maybe she was trying to figure out why he slipped through their grasp, gone faster than sand sifts between finger cracks.

Ezra didn’t know Mon. Before this, they had only spoken when there was an order being delivered and accepted. And Mon certainly didn’t know him.

Mon replies, “younger.”

Ezra hums. “Child soldiers, then? So you can mold them into sacrificial ground troops?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Mon says smoothly.

“Are any of them a Jaeger pilot?” Ezra criticizes, his hand pressing hard on top of the Loth-cat carrier. “Have you reached that point in your experiment yet?”

“No,” Mon casts her gaze downwards, “none of them have that capability.”

“Really?” Ezra tucks a loose hair behind his ear, refusing to allow surprise to enter his voice. “Not one is Force compatible? Who are the pilots, then?”

“Which would you like to hear about?”

“All of them, obviously.”

Mon leans back as the helicopter rocks with a powerful wind gust. Ezra emits a soothing tone to alleviate Katja’s hiss.

“Dazzling Fury,” Mon says, “is currently piloted by Han and Chewbacca.”

“Chewbacca?” Ezra snickers. “And that’s not a made-up name?”

“Their compatibility is an...oddity.”

“Ooh,” Ezra leans forward eagerly, “sounds like there’s a story here.”

Mon glances over as if hoping they are almost at base. But they weren’t. Not even close.

“We found them living in a junk yard,” Mon explains, “they were using recycled parts to build their own Jaeger.”

Ezra beams. “That’s fantastic! Did they succeed?”

Mon sighs, “they would have, had we not intervened and hired them.”

Ezra laughs. “Oh, that’s awesome! That must have given your guys a real run for their credits!”

Mon narrows her eyes, and Ezra decides to stop laughing after a minute.

“Ahsoka Tano figured they could be more than just Jaeger mechanics,” Mon continues, “and since she is always correct, they completed their training quickly and have been formidable assets.”

“Formidable assets,” Ezra drones, “why don’t you admit that two scavengers impress you?”

Mon tilts her head to the side, unsure whether to be offended or cordial.

Ezra simply smiles. “So,” he says breezily, “what about the flamethrower twins? What’s their deal?”

Mon blinks. “The Skywalkers aren’t inside that Jaeger. Only one of them is.”

Ezra furrows his thick brows. “What do you mean? You found a perfect set! Why would you squander a near-impossible match?”

Mon looks ready to growl or hiss. Ezra remembers his dear Katja, who has taken to meowing in frustration with her carrier.

“I promised their mother,” Mon emphasizes. “I let them work together at first, but the guilt of not keeping my vow was too much.”

“Huh,” Ezra says in disbelief, “congratulations on having a conscience. You’re already better than most of corporate, I’d imagine.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Heh,” Ezra’s mouth twitches, “I knew I’d get to you.”

Ezra has a flash of Kanan scolding him on the training mat for using quips as a distraction, relying too much on it, so he clears his throat.

“So,” Ezra asks, “if only one Skywalker prodigy is piloting, who’s the other?”

Mon is uneasy as she says in a quieter tone, “Ahsoka.”

“What?!”

His mind reels as he exhales through the wind buffeting his shoulder-length hair. He’s never heard of a person having Force compatibility with two different people before. Ahsoka and Mon’s Kaiju kill count was already impressive enough when they piloted Righteous Deliverance. With Ahsoka being one-half of Aggressive Negotiations, the Jaeger veteran must be the most decorated soldier in the entire program!

“Interesting,” Mon poses, “isn’t it?”

The truth dawns on Ezra.

“That’s why I’m here,” Ezra says measuredly, “you want to see if I’m Force compatible with anyone else.” Ezra narrows his eyes in suspicion. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that if I were you.”

“That answer is exactly why I am.”

Ezra shrugs, peering into the carrier. Katja was trying to shove her face through the bars. He huffs and sticks his tongue out at Katja. He offers the agitated Loth-cat a grin. “We’re almost there, alright?”

Katja offers a “mrow” in understanding, but decides to file her nails on the metal bars. Ezra allows it.

He doesn’t ask Mon any more questions for the remainder of their helicopter trip.

~

[YAVIN]

After settling Katja into Ezra’s new room, he ventures around the densely-populated base as employees gather in the mess hall. Ezra notes the space expanded even though funding for the Jaeger program is low. The base is cleaner, the technology is upgraded significantly, and the food actually looks appetizing. He files into line at the mess hall and receives a fairly-nutritious platter.

He does not realize the whispering until he turns around with his tray. Groups of uniformed recruits stare at him, which Ezra definitely wasn’t expecting.

Brushing it off, Ezra beelined for a corner, hoping that no one would-

“Damn,” an unfamiliar voice asks, “where’d they find you, Ezra Bridger?”

Ezra follows the dialogue. He’s never seen the man before, but he wore a mechanic jumpsuit. He was taller than Ezra and had a cocky demeanor. His brown hair flops across his head and his hazel eyes indicate amusement.

“Depends,” Ezra replies, “which time are you talking about?”

The man, older than Ezra, arches a brow, a smirk in his eyes. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

“And you are?” Ezra asks warily.

“Right,” he grins, “Han Solo. My guy Chewie is just over there.”

Ezra hums, following Han’s eastward hand. A behemoth sits at a table, grunting a faraway hello to Ezra.

“He’s not a talker,” Han shrugs, “but I make up for it.”

Ezra sighs in admission as the crowd blends around him, refusing to interrupt Han. “So you’re a Jaeger pilot, huh?”

“Sure am, buddy,” Han says amiably as they walk, “Chewie and I have been messing with Jaeger parts for years. Most of the pilots here have engineering experience.”

Ezra is ushered into a seat beside Han. Chewbacca simply nods across the table.

As Ezra picks on his food, Han continues easily, “I’m sure Mon’s told you all about us and everything, since she’s told us all about you. What was it like back in the day?”

Ezra trips up, furrowing his brows towards Han’s expressive face. “She told you about me?”

“Well, yeah,” Han laughs, “you think that everybody doesn’t know exactly who you are? You’re an inspiration.”

“How?” Ezra scoffs.

“You wasted a Kaiju alone,” Han says flippantly, “so the fact that it took you awhile to pass out before the mental strain hit you impresses recruits.” He shrugs. “I dunno, man.”

As Ezra eats, a young woman plops herself next to a silent Chewbacca. Her eyes are full of fire and her hair is braided down her lower back.

She asks Han, “how’s it going, junk trader?”

Han chews a meiloorun slice. “I’m doing great, honey. How are you, my darling fire harpy?”

The woman smirks as she leans on the table, elbows propping up hands on cheeks. “I’m doing lovely, thank you.”

Han uses his fork to motion to Ezra. “Well, Ezra Bridger, this is my girlfriend, the harpy.”

The woman’s eyes widen as they shift to Ezra. “So,” she prompts, “you’re the man, the myth, the legend, huh?”

Ezra poses, “does the harpy have a name?”

Han sputters out a laugh into his food tray. As the woman’s arm comes up to smack Han’s head, he ducks.

She plops back in her seat and says, “you already know who I am. Everyone does.” She folds her arms petulantly. “I’ll give you a minute to figure it out.”

Ezra doesn’t need a minute. She looks exactly like-

“A Skywalker,” Ezra concludes.

“Leia,” she chimes.

“Huh,” Ezra can see the resemblance between Leia and Anakin, “cool.”

Leia isn’t impressed by the sentiment. “You remind me of my brother.”

Ezra blinks; Mon was careful not to discuss the other twin.

She tilts her head in confusion. “He wasn’t mentioned?”

Ezra shakes his head, hoping his wide eyes didn’t betray his curiosity.

Why isn’t anybody talking about the brother?

“Well,” Leia rises from the table abruptly, “I’m sure you’ll see him around. He’s a trainer.”

She rounds the table and kisses Han’s cheek. “Bye, flyboy.”

Leia dashes off to who knows where. Chewbacca emits a grumble so that they know he’s alive. Han hides his blush in a sip of water.

Ezra eats the rest of his meal and bids farewell to Han and Chewbacca.

~

Ezra only makes it down the hallway before Ahsoka rounds the corner and stops him. Even though he had never spoken with the woman before, something implored him to listen.

Ahsoka folds her arms and stands them off to the side. “Bridger,” she says in Mon’s tone.

“Yes?” Ezra prompts, curbing his naturally-sarcastic tone.

“I know we never talked about Kanan.”

Ezra should have expected this. He really should have.

He clears his throat to cast his emotions aside. He is neutral when he looks up at Ahsoka. “It still hurts. But I’m okay.”

“Are you?” Ahsoka asks, her gaze piercing right into his layers of shields. “Because I don’t believe you.”

“Alright, fine,” he confesses hotly, his fists clenching, “I’ll never be okay with it. Never.”

Ahsoka purses her lips. Her head bobs slowly in agreement.

“Me neither,” she agrees.

There is fire in her harsh tone, a molten lava eking into her bloodstream. It curls around her veins, molding until it is as much a part of her as oxygen.

Ezra meets Ahsoka’s eyes. Her ferocity matches his at the injustice of it all, at the way everything could have been easily prevented if technology advanced faster. Kanan would still be alive, then. And it makes them both sick.

Ezra exhales, the flames simmering in his chest. He recognizes the same thing occurring to Ahsoka, and she nods once.

They part ways.

~

When Ezra reaches his room, they wait in front of his door. Staring. Stoic. Inescapable.

A jolt of fear skitters up Ezra’s spine. The chill causes goosebumps to rise on his arms, which he quickly cast behind his back.

In this situation, Ezra must be strong.

He advances, training his expression. He had no idea what he was about to walk into, and in a public hallway, no less.

Three pairs of eyes settle on him. Zeb’s are careful, Sabine’s are fierce, and Hera…

As Ezra gulps, garnering the strength to look into Hera’s expressive eyes, she moves forward.

She encapsulates him in a hug.

Ezra blinks down at Hera’s shoulder, stiffening as her hand rubs his upper back.

“Oh, honey,” Hera mumbles, “I’m so happy to see you.”

A lump forms in Ezra’s throat.

Why was this happening? Hera should be angry at him! Pissed! Furious!

Hera pulls back and frowns down at Ezra. “What’s the matter?”

Ezra swallows thickly. His voice comes out reedy. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Hera narrows her eyes. Her hand brushes Ezra’s hair away from his cheek, casting it behind his ear.

Her mind reels, searching his expression. When she realizes it, she stares in disbelief.

“Are you telling me,” tears rise in Hera’s eyes, “that you’ve spent the last five years blaming yourself for something you couldn’t have stopped?”

A lone tear falls down her delicate cheek. Ezra hates that she had to lose Kanan so soon in her life.

And no matter what she says, that will always be his fault.

“Honey,” Hera sniffles, her voice tinged with sorrow, “Kanan knew he would die.”

Ezra’s mouth parts as the air is sucked out of lungs. He inhales sharply, blinks rapidly, and backpedals into the wall.

“What?” He breathes, looking down at his feet as the dirty floor blurs with tears. “What?” He repeats, exhaling deeply as his eyes move towards Hera’s face.

Gathering his mixed emotions, with one final exclamation, he hisses:

“WHAT?!”

Passerby stop and stare. Zeb and Sabine flash their teeth and growl to get them to move. Their striking blue and orange hair dye, respectively, get cadets to backpedal from sheer proximity to the color violence.

Ezra hugs his middle. He swallows his emotions. He leans back against the wall and breathes. His mind is on a tailspin at the implications.

Concernedly, Hera murmurs, “Kanan could tell that his end was near. All Force compatibles can. He wouldn’t want you to feel this way, Ezra.” She sighs. “I’m only sorry you had to go this long not knowing that.”

Ezra worries his lip. There had been rumors that Force compatibles have foresight, but Ezra never experienced it himself, so he dismissed the idea.

But as Ezra replays Kanan’s behavior on the day of their Hoth Island Kaiju fight, he realizes that it’s true.

Kanan knew he would die. He knew, and he didn’t say anything to protect Ezra.

Ezra’s entire body sinks. The Prowling Ghost crew is eerily quiet, giving him time to process. It is very unlike the people he knew from five years ago, who would be teasing him for his idiocy.

Pushing away from the wall, Ezra says carefully, “thank you for telling me.”

He crosses the hallway like a drunkard, shuffling forward as if he expects to collapse at any second. When his palms press against his door, a whoosh of exhaustion sweeps over him.

Did he really just get here a couple hours ago?

Standing up, Ezra keys in the door code, barely remembering Mon’s earlier instruction. He mutters a “bye” to the concerned onlookers as he carries himself over the threshold.

He is grateful when the door closes on its own and he is welcomed by a restless Loth-cat.

~

As always, Ezra wakes with the sunrise. He sets out food and water for Katja before greeting the base in airy black clothing with his hair in a bun.

The hallway traffic is minimal, so Ezra wanders until a pushingpullingtugging guides him to a base sector he did not canvas the day before.

He’s never felt anything like the pushpulltug, so he follows it. He follows it past the mess hall, the war clock, the Jaeger hangar, the control rooms, until he approaches a dead end. He frowns at the empty wall, but a door to the left catches his eye.

He turns to face it. The door slides open from a motion sensor.

Ezra crosses the threshold and observes the layout: rusted pipes lining the walls, the boiler in a corner, and a gray mat lining the floors. A rack of bamboo sticks lay askew in their vertical holders.

The training room hasn’t changed a bit.

But the man inside is unfamiliar.

Ezra watches him fight with limitless energy. The man does not tire, moving quickly and effortlessly. He’s sweating an entire bucket, the sheen apparent on his tan skin, but his demons are strong. They do not control him, per se, but they influence his movements.

Ezra examines the fringe of the man’s bangs, how his hair changed color based on which ceiling light hit the strands. He looks murderous one second and completely calm in the next. There is a calculated method to his madness, which invited Ezra closer and warned him at the same time.

And his eyes. Steady. Bright. Harsh.

Soothing?

Strange. The pushpulltug is a spark. It is the flick of a lighter, igniting the start of a flame. It is two wooden sticks rubbed together to create a campfire. It is a flare, the hissing of a zapper, a light being switched on in the darkness.

It is a wave of fireworks being detonated into the night sky, blazing and luminescent.

The man backflips on the mat, bamboo stick vaulting him before landing on his bare feet. His gray sweatpants and white undershirt sway with his fluidity.

Blue eyes meet Ezra’s. Bangs stick to a sweaty forehead.

He drops his bamboo stick as the spark simmers in him, a defeated clop resounding in the training room.

The man narrows his eyes, feet smashing against the spongy mat. He approaches curiously, but pauses before he is an arm’s length from Ezra.

The man smiles. Ezra’s heart thumps at how his entire being lights up, the room rendering him golden from his hair to his dimples.

“Hello,” his voice is gentle, a thunder clap of power, “are you new?”

Ezra’s mouth is dry. His tongue is sandpaper in his throat. He swallows thickly to regain fluids.

“Uh,” Ezra ducks his head, unable to look at his brightness fully, “old, actually.”

Ezra’s hands clench behind his back. In his nervousness, he bakes from the inside out.

The man’s brows pinch together. His nose scrunches. “Is that right? How come I’ve never seen you before?”

“Uh,” Ezra smiles sheepishly, “I’m…well,” he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

“You’re...well?” The man struggles not to laugh in amusement. “What’s the matter? I won’t bite you.”

The words that come to Ezra’s mind are “you could’ve fooled me with those moves.”

The man smirks, and a tingle travels through Ezra’s spine. “The claws are away, I promise.” He holds up his hands as if expressing his harmlessness. “What’s your name?”

Ezra regains his wit, oddly at ease. “The name spoken with disdain and disappointment around here is Bridger.”

Recognition reaches the man’s eyes. “I heard you would make an appearance.”

Nonplussed, he whirls around, arches down, and grasps the bamboo stick. Twirling it to an upright position between his fingers, he regards Ezra again.

“My last name is also famous around here,” he says, “but you can just call me Luke.”

It hits Ezra as a lightning bolt. He bristles, but gathers his thoughts in a calm manner.

Luke Skywalker uses the bamboo stick as a cane. His head tilts to the side.

He exhales, “would you like to fight me, Ezra Bridger?”

Ezra’s instinct is to laugh, but the challenge emboldens him instead.

He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”