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The trooper, scarlet painted across his ivory armor, raises the flamethrower once more, death waiting at his fingertips as he prepares to pull the trigger. Zoya forces herself to lift her head off Din's chest, to look fate in the eye, to watch as it ends, because to go out any differently would make this all be for nothing. She sets her jaw, staring at the Imperial, and waits for her soul to be freed.
Almost as if in slow motion, the trooper raises the weapon of death, aiming it at them while Zoya's pulse thunders in her head. She thinks to reach for her blaster, but it's long gone, laying somewhere in the dirt feet from Ayaan's corpse. As time slows, she pictures her brother as he once was: beaming from ear to ear, the suns reflecting in his russet irises as he looked back over his shoulder, sprinting across the empty plains. Happy. Zoya pictures Din, touching her as if she's made of glass, pressing his lips to hers like he'll never breathe again. Cara, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and grinning, the sister she'd never had. Even Greef, pulling her away from the awful thing she'd done, his arms strong and reassuring as he carried her. The child, eyes brown and wide, looking up at the cerulean sky.
Maybe it wasn't a long life I had, she thinks, watching as the trooper takes his final step towards them, ash hanging in the air and spiraling towards the stagnant flames, but at least I really lived.
Swells of flame glisten as they uncurl from the end of the weapon, billowing through the cantina and shredding through the air. Zoya flinches despite herself, turning her head down once more, but the unbearable heat never reaches her.
Fingers trembling, she dares a glance upwards. The fire is held at bay, simmering in the air, roiling in an endless wave, just far enough away that it isn't scorching. Zoya whips around, spotting the child with his hands raised. The creature squeezes his eyes shut, and then with a flick of his wrist, he sends the ball of molten fire spinning back towards the trooper, who is flung back out of the cantina and into the street.
No one speaks for what seems like an hour, staring at the spot where the trooper had been catapulted out of sight. Zoya glances back at the child, who lays on the ground, exhausted. Without thinking, she tries to stand to go to him, but her leg, torn through and still draining blood from the seared, mangled flesh, spasms and gives out. She lands hard, unable to bite back a cry of pain that rips through her teeth, the crackling of the flames muffling the sound, but not enough to prevent Din from hearing.
He reaches for her shakily, but a loud clang makes him pause.
