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His question about the rebel manifesto’s authorship lingers between them, brittle as the last brown leaf trembling before a hard winter frost.
“I’m afraid they’re waiting for you, sir,” Lagret’s voice almost trembles with sorrow, but it’s underpinned by understanding.
Partagaz straightens. Duty, even in disgrace, demands dignity.
So, the time has come.
“I told them I’d bring you down,” Lagret continues.
With a careful breath, Partagaz reins in the emotion pressing against his composure.
“May I have a moment to collect my thoughts?”
Lagret nods, silently granting a final gesture of respect, as he moves to make an exit.
Instead of cold acceptance, anxiety twists inside Partagaz, burning upward.
“One more thing, Lagret,” he calls. The effort to speak nearly chokes him.
“Meero...” The name barely escapes; it’s raw and unresolved. He can’t get the rest of the sentence out without turmoil becoming uncomfortably evident in his voice.
“She’s waiting in the transport,” Lagret responds, confusion flickering before attentiveness settles on his face.
Averting his gaze, Partagaz coughs loudly, as if the pretense will shield him from further embarrassment.
“She’ll still be in uniform. The other detainees... they’ll know she’s ISB. She won’t stand a chance.” The words fracture under their own weight.
Despite her mistakes and stubborn disregard for orders, as well as every other action that led them here today, he inexplicably still cares. The bitterness of it lingers.
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” says Lagret, with an assuredness that is surprising enough that Partagaz raises his head to make eye contact. The briefest taste of pride and gratitude simmers in his chest, but Partagaz is only able to offer a nod in acknowledgment.
As Lagret departs, the Major takes his chair at the gleaming black tabletop.
***
Dedra sits shackled, feet numbed by Coruscant’s chill, stripped of boots and dignity as she boarded the vessel.
The stares from the other prisoners bruise more than the cold.
She fixes her gaze on the vacant seat facing her, forcing her trembling to still.
A fleeting thought of whether frostbite is imminent in her toes disappears as she hears the echo of voices coming from the ISB building.
Lagret and the ship’s chief security officer are moving toward the open hatch.
“All right, prepare for take-off,” the officer’s gruff voice barks through the ship to the cockpit, striding past Dedra without a glance.
Lagret’s entrance is different. Taking several steps up the gangway, he exudes a sense of superiority foreign to Dedra’s memory of him. Defiance stirs, and she lifts her chin, eyes full of acid.
“I have a message for you from Major Partagaz,” Lagret says with a venom that catches Dedra’s breath. Her sneer almost turns to a frown.
The sting of being addressed by a subordinate and not the Major himself cuts deep.
She’d known Partagaz would be furious but expected - perhaps hoped - for a final word.
There had always been something different about their working relationship or so she had believed. It wasn’t exactly friendship, but over the years he’d been a true mentor.
Since her return from Ghorman, she’d even noticed rare glimpses of what she thought may have been concealed affection. An undercurrent of kindness from him that she would never have noticed... until experiencing the heavy absence of it in her own home.
***
The mechanical hush of her office door opening pulls her focus from the Jedha Working Group notes.
Closing the file with sharp precision, Dedra looks up.
Major Partagaz stands in the doorway.
“Sir!” She rises halfway, but he waves her down. His hands are gloved, his coat pristine. A reminder of standards that once seemed effortless before Ghorman.
Her eyes flick to the hem of her own coat hanging by the door. A single dangling thread. Frayed. Ignored.
“There’s no heroics in forcing yourself to stay hours longer than Heert, Dedra,” his tone is gentler than usual. The low ache she lives with tightens in her chest.
“The Axis desk is shared now. You can afford time to decompress each day."
But they both know she’s not still here for heroics.
“Thank you, sir. I won’t hold you up further,” Dedra states.
Please leave, she thinks.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he takes another step inside.
“I know it’s only been two months since Syril-”
“STOP!”
The word tears out of her throat, anxiety transforming into heavy, sinking shame in her stomach. Her breathing is suddenly ragged, both hands formed into tight fists, fingernails biting into her palms.
She stares unseeingly at the datapad in front of her, but her vision starts to blur. Eyes snap shut to prevent the revelation of unshed tears.
One. Two. Three. Four. Inhale.
One. Two. Three. Four. Exhale. Repeat.
When she dares to meet Partagaz’s gaze again, there’s no reproach for her insubordination. Instead, he takes a step backward and offers neutral, parting advice.
“Quality food and sleep are powerful tools as the investigation into Axis continues, Supervisor.”
And then he is gone.
The stillness in the room returns but it feels altered. Sluggish. She reopens the Jedha file.
Thirty minutes later, a chime interrupts her once more. A droid waits at the door with a steaming tray.
She accepts it in silence.
Syril used to do this. Make sure she ate, leave meals.
A reminder of him was usually followed by gut-wrenching grief. But tonight, for the first time, she allows herself to feel solace instead of weakness, at having someone else watch her back.
***
Lagret is closer now, towering over her. His face is hardened with menace, but his eyes hold a glimmer of something else. Pity.
His voice carries, projected like a practiced performance, ensuring everyone onboard hears it.
“Your betrayal of the Empire is beyond redemption.”
She feels the stares. All eyes in the compartment are on them.
“Some would argue death suits a traitor. But we know better. Your treason warrants mindless years, knowing it all amounted to nothing.”
His words land with confidence, each one crashing into the silence. But she hears what no one else does, the quiver beneath the steel.
Partagaz’s message, wrapped inside Lagret’s performance.
The moment stretches and expands, surrounding noise fading. The space between her and Lagret suddenly feels... softer.
They’d barely spoken in all their years. She never respected him much.
But now, this act reveals a shared reverence. Not for each other, but for him.
Lips curled, she spits out her final defence.
“Tell Partagaz he’s too late. The rebellion isn’t here anymore. It’s flown away. It’s everywhere now.” Disgust prickles through her as she uses the words of her enemy like a shield.
Lagret turns sharply, stalking back down the ramp toward ISB Headquarters, never looking back. She watches until he disappears from sight.
When the ship shudders into departure, she exhales.
Exhaustion crashes over her, but the bite of shackles against her wrists drags her back into the moment.
Around her, the faces have changed. No longer loathing. One shows grim resolve. Two, sympathy.
One head stays lowered, next to the empty seat opposite Dedra.
A girl, probably still a teenager.
Their eyes finally meet; her cheeks streaked with tears.
It’s raw, but she whispers to Dedra’s deepest horror: “I’m scared, too.”