Brad lay there, face-down on the floor, suddenly alone.
If he'd been asked, before today, how he'd feel if Dorset were killed, he'd probably have responded, "Upset."
He'd been fooling himself all these years...
Since day one he'd been walling himself off. Terra Group was a disaster in the making. A collection of amateurs, thrown together by what seperated them from the world, and tossed casually into dangerous situations.
He'd been forced to play the role of the silent, stoic defender. When half the outfit were squabbling with each other, and the other half interfering, he'd been there with a blaster in hand, focused on two things. Their enemies, and their objectives.
When Little Miss Temper Tantrum had burst into his locked quarters (after he'd been tortured, shot, and fighting for his life for a week) and exploded in his face, he'd suppressed his natural response - taking the Red Home into high orbit, and tossing her out an airlock to cool her down, Jedi or no Jedi.
Instead he'd sat there and let her empty words wash over him. They needed the Jedi, no matter how temperamental.
That was how it had always been.
Now the lie was revealed for what it was.
Dorset had been his anchor. When he'd been cut adrift from everything he'd known, and forced to choose between life and death, he had no illusions that he'd chosen life for ideological reasons.
He was human - he was flawed. He could have easily chosen the other path, fought for the Empire, won the victory. Served at the clone of Thrawn's right hand, and blazed a bright, rich path.
Instead, the hard-fought idealism of the Rebellion had found an ...
No.
Don't kid yourself.
You did it all for her.
He fought for breath, and realised the floor he was lying upon was wet, the sticky smell of tears filling his nostrils.
Thinking of her... pained him. Instead, he tried to bring his rational mind into play.
The memory echoed in his mind. "You still love that Dorset woman?"
He heard his own voice respond, "Yes."
"Good," said the first voice. "She's about to die."
Porsek died... but his message still got out, and Dorset died for it.
Once more, he banished her face from his mind, unable to face the lurking emotion it conjured.
He struggled to rise. His arms shook as he tried to lever himself up.
As Dorset had struggled to rise, before the cyborg that had ended her life.
As her blood had stained the ground, among that of her comrades.
As her eyes had called to him, in her final moments, asking why he had betrayed her once more.
His arms failed him, and he fell to the deck again.
What would he do now, now that his anchor was destroyed? He had been cast adrift once before, and it had nearly destroyed him. Now he had nothing. What did the New Republic offer him now? Before it had held hope - faint, unconscious hope, but hope nonetheless. Now the hope was dead, destroyed out of spite by a madman.
Yes, he was doing it all for her. He was man enough to admit it.
Dorset Konnair had overcome insurmountable odds for the sake of freedom, and had not let it get to her head. He remembered their first meeting, smiled, and then the floodgates burst as reality set in. She was dead.
She was fucking dead.
He'd never see her again. He'd never talk to her again. He'd never be there for her again. He'd never tell her how much she meant to him again.
He'd never have her forgiveness.
He was an empty shell, an Imperial cast-off, bringer of death to everything he touched. Sometimes he killed those who deserved it - sometimes innocents suffered. Who could redeem him? Did he truly wish to be redeemed? Should he continue on his course? Did it lead anywhere, other than more destruction?
Without Dorset, without forgiveness, without hope, did he have anything?
He wept bitterly. He hadn't seen her for such a long time... he was a figment of her past, a berth in a cold port.
How pathetic.
He tried to laugh, but it come out as a choking sob. She'd probably forgotten all about the dirtball Imperial who'd betrayed her...
He'd loved her...
For the first time, he wondered if the reverse had ever been true.