Equipment: Outfit | Lightsaber
On top of a pile of rubble, Gatz's bleeding form wheezed.
With consciousness came pain. The Force no longer sustained him, and adrenaline no longer dulled his wounds. His pains were everywhere, scattered about his limbs and his torso, a dozen fragments of durasteel imbedded within his skin. Blood dripped from him like a leaking faucet, staining the white duracrete under him in scarlet, and matting his ruined robes. He looked a corpse already, just one that still had a modicum of life left in it.
And whatever spark remained was fading, fast.
Bleeding and left for dead amongst the bones of the Jedi Order. You should have stuck to organized crime.
Broken as he was, Gatz couldn't help but agree with the traitorous whispers in his mind. He tried to move, and instead felt a cry of excruciation rip itself from his throat. He felt as though he'd been stretched out on barbed wire, holes dotting his form, making every little twitch unbearable.
We'll be joining our parents soon, it seems.
Gatz let out a tired sigh, and lowered his head back to the chunk of flooring that had served as his pillow. It didn't sound so bad, when the whispers put it like that: death being a reuniting with his family. Maybe it was okay, then, to let go. When every square inch of his body was wracked with pain, when he was bleeding from more puncture wounds than he could count, maybe death was merciful. Maybe it was intended.
When everyone who had ever loved him was dead and gone, maybe death was where he belonged.
You've earned it. Came the whispers again.
Except...
"Romi Jade," his voice was raw and hoarse as he spoke to himself, "I promised her I'd look after Lossa Aureus and Briana Sal-Soren."
Slowly, painfully, Gatz shifted his arm underneath himself, and pushed himself to his knees. Even that effort alone felt more strenuous than anything he'd ever done before. Like he wasn't pushing himself up, but pushing Coruscant down. One movement, one action, and he was winded and panting, like some withered old thing trying to reclaim what remained of its youth.
They need Romi, her wisdom and her warmth. What have you ever had to offer them?
"I... I don't know." He admitted.
Already the rubble seemed inviting again. Like the world's worst bed, but a bed all the same. It would be so easy, he knew, to lower himself back to the ground and sleep the forever sleep. The Jedi claimed that there was no death, only the Force. Gatz had no training in keeping his individuality after death... and yet, in this moment, that seemed unimportant. Because if he let himself lay back down, the pain would be over. No more missing the ones he'd lost. No more excruciating near-death experiences.
Just nothingness. The end.
Lay back down, his mind continued to erode at his will, a murderer can do nothing for them. The best you'd be is a pretty burden.
Traitorous or not, the whispers sounded right. They felt right. Slowly, Gatz started to lower himself back onto the ground. There was no one around. No one would ever know of his shame: that at the end of his life, at the end of a two year crusade of doing better, he'd given up. Given in, and—
Then he saw him: Raphael Gallustrade , bleeding on the ground next to him, his arm torn asunder. There was some sort of primitive bandaging around it, to staunch the bleeding, but it was largely ineffective. If he didn't get medical treatment soon, he'd bleed out. If Gatz didn't treat himself soon, he'd bleed out. Adeline's victory would complete, and two more Jedi would be dead.
So what? It's over. You both fought, you both lost, now you both get to rest.
"Can't make that decision for him." He groaned.
And Gatz knew what he had to do. He cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks as he felt half a dozen chunks of steel dig further into his legs, but he stood to his feet. He was shaky, his footing uneven, and his body unbalance—but he was up.
Why? What's the point? What can you do for them, for any of them?
"I don't know," Gatz admitted once more, "but I'm going to find out."
He lumbered his way down to Raphael's form, still unconscious, and still bleeding. Gatz didn't know how he was going to get his fellow Jedi out of here. Try his commlink, and call for an emergency evac? Was that even possible now? Down here, away from the carnage of war, Gatz had no idea whether they'd won the invasion or not. Trying to radio for a ride might very well be what drew the Dark Empire to them.
But it was that, or bleed out down here. He'd have to try anyhow. It was the only chance he had of saving Raph's life.
You can't! You're useless! Worthless! Scum that should have been buried long ago!
"Isn't it funny," Gatz rasped, as he reached down to check the man's stump, "that the only person who has ever thought that way, is us?"
It's the truth! It's who we are! A Murderer! A Liar! A man playing a role, pretending he could ever be a Jedi!
"But I am a Jedi."
Gatz bound Raph's arm more tightly, a temporary solution until he dragged him somewhere he could treat the man. He didn't have the supplies to deal with it here, and an unstable Temple being besieged was hardly the right place to work on a man's arm anyhow. They'd have to take the service elevator down, Gatz decided. Maybe there would still be speeders at the base of the Jedi Temple. Maybe Gatz could get Raph to a clinic that way.
"And I am so very tired of doubting myself. I don't know what I can do for Raphael. I don't know what I can do for Briana. I don't know what I can do for Lossa."
Then why—
"Because I have to try anyways. Because I made Master Jade a promise. Because they just lost their guiding light."
And you think you're going to shepherd them?
"No. They can find their own way," Gatz slowly pulled Raphael's good arm over his shoulder, supporting the man's weight despite the way his own body screamed out in protest, "they're stronger than I am. They always have been. But we all stumble from time to time, and when they do, I'll be there to catch them."
But you—
"'But' nothing. My choice is made. Begone, and do not bother me again."
Gatz was injured. He was in an excruciating amount of pain, physical and emotional. He still really didn't know what he could do for Lossa and Briana, or for anyone for that matter. Even Raphael, unconscious and thrown over his shoulder, he was largely unable to help.
He persisted anyways, and with slow, staggered movements, pressed on in order to save a man's life.
