"I know nothing of a larger rebellion…"

It had taken too long to fight for consciousness and envelop himself in the Force following his last session with the interrogation droid; he found he almost preferred Kallus' brutal bullying over the Inquisitor's refined torture techniques. At least Kallus' were predictable. But the Inquistor was subtle in his ministrations, a sickening ebb and flow to the intensity of his techniques. Even now, the edges of his vision (limited, with the swelling on his right side) were hazy and exhaustion weighed on him like a wet cloak. His muscles twitched against their restraints with miniscule tremors, the flares of bone-deep pain preventing much rest or recovery. Bile rose once again to his throat, but dehydration clawed at him and there was little to expel.

He was breaking, and he knew it.

"But I'd rather die…"

And he would. He would will himself to perish at their hand before they succeeded in extracting anything useful from him. The last session very nearly had succeeded, on both counts.

How long had it been? Days, now.

He was so damn tired.

They'll come.

No. That would be a disaster, suicide to the fledgling rebellion.

Hera would never risk that. Not even for him. Not for him, a wisp of a Jedi with incomplete training and no more hope to offer.

That doesn't matter, now.

Just don't give them away.

Focus.

Just … don't give them … away.

Strength. Let it flow from the Force. Breathe – there is no pain – breathe…