Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Agent Kallus was not a force for Good. Nor was the Empire. He - it - was a force for peace.

Peace was the moments between drunken screaming blowups, in his family's shadowed, damp room in Coruscant's undercity.

Peace was the Jedi defeated, ending the pointless destruction of the Clone Wars.

Peace was waking in the Academy barracks, to find that the cadet who asked disturbing questions had been reassigned.

Peace was a cratered planet cleared of insurgents, resources mined for the Empire.

Peace was an absence of violence, an end to fighting.

Good was a myth. Agent Kallus fought for peace.

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Iziz had been smoke and ruins for a decade. Lieutenant Kallus was about to turn around when the grenades -.

He awoke to pain, fire, a purple blur sending energy bolts through stormtrooper helmets. Agonized calls through his comm, stopping, one by one.

Death turned to him, and the lasat's eyes widened, ears folding. "Ash', sana ki!" With a decisive movement, the bo-rifle retracted, stowed away. "Ah, or'maka allan torril. Or'maka."

A blanket of silence descended. Beyond curling smoke, Onderon's sky was blue.

Lieutenant Kallus closed his eyes.

He thought of nothing until stormtroopers - not his - pulled him from the wreckage.

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The insurgents were dancing in the gathering hall when Captain Kallus relayed the order.

The first to die had grey stripes, a blue tunic, flowers around her ears. A song on her lips as she flickered into embers.

After that, screams, panic.

Eventually, a guardsman, another dance.

No one asked Captain Kallus for his opinion, but if they had – if they had, he'd've said that afterwards, there was no more fighting on Lasan.

That was important.

There was no more singing or dancing, either, but that was irrelevant.

(His bo-rifle was important, too.)

(It wasn't supposed to be a genocide.)

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(I remember when things were better.)

The thunk of heads hitting the floor echoed long after the lightsaber extinguished.

The ambush was farcical.

The rebel broadcast made it through, piped even into trooper helmets. Tarkin's irresponsible order to demolish the comms tower only crippled the Imperial garrison.

Taking Jarrus cost too much.

Breaking a Jedi was best left to specialists.

That's why Agent Kallus left the cell when the Inquisitor arrived.

Vader's chill would never quite leave his bones.

(See what the Empire has done.)

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The refugees were obviously starving. At the factory, they would be fed, and provided better housing; these tents had needed only a touch from his bo-rifle to set ablaze.

One prisoner - no, refugee - a gotal, spat on a trooper as she was loaded - no, guided - onto the transport.

“Karking imp bastards! Lothal will be free!”

The gotal bent over with the force of the trooper’s response. Commander Kallus turned back to the pillar of dark smoke rising before him with a satisfied smile.

This would surely draw the rebels out, and then indeed, Lothal would be free. They'd all see.

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Fighting Orrelios was invigorating.

As it turned out, fighting beside Orrelios was exhilarating, even with a fractured tibia.

They spoke of things he'd never told himself, much less planned to share with a rebel lasat, yet the words came easily, obvious. Something in him stilled (only slightly from the cold), allowing him to rest in a way that was ... new.

Later, awakening to the meteorite's glow holding back the darkness, head pillowed on Garazeb's sleeping shoulder, he wondered at the sense of quiet, of certain safety, of ... peace?

Surely not?

Was THIS what he'd always intended to fight for? How – ?

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Republic surveyors transliterated AR-R16-G13's Geonosian name to aurabesh "Bah-Ryn," Basic homophone "barren," though no world with breathable atmosphere could truly lack life.

Seen from Geonosis, the icy moon sparkled with starshine, interpreted when full as a positive battle omen. An accurate translation might therefore be "Glimmer of Hope for Peace."

Kallus lacked both training and anatomy to pronounce its true name.

No sentient had produced those sounds in seven years, nor ever again.

When a drop fell on his datapad, prisming the text, Kallus nearly called maintenance about a coolant leak.

By the time he identified it, Alexsandr was sobbing.

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"The Syndulla kalikori. A masterpiece, no?"

Thrawn's dim, quiet gallery resonated with violence, stolen heritage, billions massacred. Alexsandr's skin crawled.

"Indeed. Quite … rustic."

"Of course you understand, Kallus. Your bo-rifle, such artistry – wielding it must provide invaluable insight."

"I … Yes." Alexsandr hid his discomfort. Perhaps once it had; now, the bo-rifle symbolized a sacred, unworthy trust.

"So too is this kalikori key to defeating Syndulla … and his daughter."

Alexsandr fidgeted (impatiently, not nervously). "Undoubtedly. Admiral, I have other –"

Thrawn nodded. "Go. We'll speak more of this, Agent."

"I look forward to it."

The Grand Admiral's thoughtful gaze followed him out.

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Fire. Smoke. Dead, stubbled grass.

Bridger hunched into himself. "What are they even mining FOR?"

Alex sighed. "Rare metals for the TIE factory."

He'd investigated. The savings were negative. Average TIE use-life was two weeks. It was purely waste for destruction's sake. To his shame, he hadn't wanted to know.

"I KRIFFING HATE THIS!" Bridger leapt off the cliff, used the Force to land, ran off before Alex could react.

Sighing again, he turned south. Grass still waved to the horizon under clear, moonlit skies. Ezra's home was not yet entirely lost.

A loth-wolf howled. Alex tasted ashes and hope.

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Whoops of joy sounded over the comms, and in the map glass, the Death Star blinked out of existence.

They'd ... survived?

Alex could have been on that thing, could have given the order -

All those troopers, who would never have the chance he'd been granted -

The rebellion, his friends, the deep history on this moon that might have been lost -

Alex clapped a hand over his mouth and ran.

Zeb found him soon enough, smoothed sweaty hair away from his face as he puked his guts out in the ‘fresher, the cacophony of celebration echoing hollow against the ancient walls.

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Alex lingered outside as New Republic leaders prepared peace negotiations.

He'd found new meaning in that word, lately.

Peace could mean compromise – vulnerability, trust. It could mean shouldering responsibility, and perhaps, someday, true redemption.

Strange, that peace could mean fighting – beside loved ones, not to hurt, take, punish — but to defend, to build.

Peace did not preclude loss; it was hard, and complicated, and so worth the labor.

Soon, peace might even be found on a much-needed, top-secret holiday.

“You good, Sasha?”

He leaned into Zeb, sighing thanks for the caf as they crossed the threshold, together.

“I will be.”