A/N: There are oodles of spoilers in this from the season three finale. Just a warning if you haven't seen it yet.

Anyway, here's a catharsis piece just for Kallus. I love this f*cker. So glad he made it through the finale and is now safe and sound with the crew. Anyway, enjoy! I'd love to hear what you thought.

Chipped and Jagged

Kallus's heart pounded in his chest again as he mentally relived his narrow escape from the Empire, and again he let out a tight breath to calm himself. He crossed his arms more tightly against his chest as if to ward off the memories, but they came in spite of his actions.

Kallus had to admit. Despite his bravado, his training, and all his plans, he had not expected to survive the battle this time.

Thrawn had … outwitted him. He wasn't sure how or when it had happened – likely by some miscalculation on his part during the Bridger-Lyste fiasco, when the Grand Admiral had originally tried to track him down. But when Kallus had watched his callsign symbol bleed red, when he'd seen that Chiss round the corner of Bridger's old home with that smug, superior look on his aloof face … well, Kallus wasn't as much the idealist as the Phoenix Squadron often proved themselves to be. Idealist enough, perhaps, to hope he might right the mistakes of his past. But against Thrawn with nowhere to hide and no other unfortunate soul to plant the blame on?

Kallus might have been a fool, but he wasn't stupid.

He'd been certain of his death the moment he'd been captured, and as he'd been beaten and tortured – partly for information, and partly as vindictive retaliation on the Empire's part – he'd come to terms with it. When he'd taken on the codename Fulcrum, he'd been fully aware what the punishment for treason against the Empire was. It wouldn't be pretty, and would undoubtedly be painful, but he'd accepted the reality of his impending death.

Then three mistakes had durned the certainty of his death into the possibility of life, and Thrawn himself had made the first one.

The Grand Admiral had left both Kallus and the ship for the glory of personally commanding the ground assault, leaving Governor Pryce in command. That was when Kallus thought he might have a chance at either finding a way to help the rebels on Atollon, or figuring a way out of his own situation.

To be sure, watching the battle unfold from his … privileged vantage above had been an uncomfortable experience. As Fulcrum, much of the risk had been his own. Even if Thrawn had outed him as a spy before now, only he would have suffered for it. But with the battle raging below, he knew that he was partially responsible since he'd underestimated the Grand Admiral and had unintentionally led the Empire here. He was responsible for each ship destroyed, fighter downed, and life lost. Each report of devastation and advancement by Imperial ground forces had made his heart beat hollow, and shame build in his soul.

But then Bridger had arrived with Sabine Wren and a clutch of Mandalorians, and in true fashion began turning the tides. That, coupled with the chaotic reports Pryce was receiving from the ground forces, made that hollow feeling replace itself with satirical amusement. It was happening again. They were pulling it off again.

He didn't know if he could believe it or not, but he knew from experience where to place his credits. And based off what he could assume was their plan, if he could work quickly enough he might have an opportunity to not only save himself, but escape the Empire at the same time.

Pressing Pryce had been easy. When stressed, her first thought was always to remove the nearest stressor. He had stressed her blatantly, and she'd reacted just as he'd expected. That had been the second mistake made. The third had been his guards' stupidity in turning their backs on him when they'd entered the lift. When those doors had closed, his escape had been assured and despite everything that had happened, he'd taken what pleasure he could in his liberation.

After that, all that had been left was to make it out and to do what the rebels did best: hope. He'd sent his coordinates from the escape pod he'd commandeered and waited. Then, like its namesake, the Ghost had manifested from amidst the chaos and swept him up into safety like a miracle.

Then they'd left. And despite his initial doubt, he had survived.

Kallus clenched his fingers around his biceps and forced himself to focus on the now, and not another round of memories. It was over and he'd survived. Though he was safe, it was hard to believe it. He was with the rebels now, and not the Empire. Kanan and the others had saved him.

He'd rebelled.

Tentative quiet thrummed around him, and from under Kallus's pale lashes he caught glimpses of the other rebels that had survived Atollon. They were comforting each other, offering assistance and consolation now that the battle was over.

But Kallus was too sharp not to notice the … breadth of space he was being afforded in his corner, nor the sly looks. Though these rebels had been informed of his role in the rebellion and the risks he'd taken to help them, he had caught more than a few hateful glances and suspicious stares. Kanan and his crew might have saved him, perhaps even accepted him, but standing in the middle of a collection of rebels he did not know, dressed as an Imperial after everything they'd just experienced … after everything he'd experienced ….

His confidence wasn't shaken often, but now he felt more vulnerable and alone than he ever had with the Empire.

Kallus endeavored to keep his eyes averted though he knew he needn't have bothered. No one was willing to meet his gaze directly even if he had decided to challenge them, and the only one who had so far had been blind, and that in itself was questionable. His mind struggled to figure out what his next move would be, if there was a next move. He felt as if he were moments away from being thrown in a brig.

Heavy footsteps and the sight of familiar purple skin in his peripheral vision caused Kallus to lift his eyes, and he found himself meeting Garazeb Orrelios's green gaze. He'd expected the hard, gruff look that always sat on the Lasat's weathered face, and he wasn't surprised to see warrior's fatigue cling to the bottom of his eyes. What made Kallus stare, however, was the presence of something he hadn't properly experienced since they'd last seen each other on the icy moon of Bahryn.

Camaraderie.

"Hey," Zeb said before jerking his head to the side in a clear motion to follow. "Come on."

He didn't even spare a thought at trailing Zeb past the rebel survivors, then past the galley where Hera and Sabine sat in close conversation with several other Mandalorians. Though the women of the Ghost crew showed no hate in their eyes as he passed by, Sabine's Mandalorians made no effort to hide theirs.

The weight of their eyes was heavy as Kallus struggled to keep his shaken composure blank and even. Perhaps he'd made a mistake when he'd asked the Ghost crew to take him in.

"I'd ignore them," Zeb muttered quietly once they'd moved past and into a less occupied area of the ship. "I don't know if you've handled many Mandalorians, but they look that way at everyone until they get to know you. Probably shouldn't take it personally."

"Yes. I'm sure," Kallus responded blandly. "What do you want?"

"Believe it or not, to help you." They turned the corner, and as they did Zeb lifted a small bundle he'd been holding in his hand. "Here. We had some spare clothes laying around, and they might be close to your size. Now that you're one of us, it's probably a good idea that you start looking like one of us. You keep wearing that getup, and you're going to have a harder time here than I think you want."

Wordlessly Kallus took the bundle and inspected the clothing. Simple. Usable. Worn and they didn't quite match. There was even a strange, rust colored stain along one of the legs of the pants. His first instinct was to reject them for their lack of order. To crave familiar black. How could he be expected to wear something so … unpresentable?

But if he wanted presentable, if he wanted familiar order, all he'd have to do was continue to wear his uniform. And right now, here on this ship traveling with rebels, it was the last thing he wanted. Kallus accepted the clothes without grievance. At this point he'd wear a sackcloth bag and be grudgingly grateful.

"Fresher's there," Zeb said with a nod, indicating a door. "Get cleaned up. Changed. I'll be back if you need anything."

Though a lifetime of Imperial conditioning made him suspicious, caused him to search the Lasat's face for a lie he half expected to find, after a slightly tense moment he nodded. Turning away, he entered what he hoped actually was a refresher, and not an improvised cell.

It was, thankfully, a refresher, and it was also empty. Though he would never admit it out loud, he was relieved. Relieved it wasn't a cell and his trust hadn't been betrayed. But mostly, he was relieved to be out of everyone's line of sight, holed away for a moment where no one could see him. Where, if he wanted to, he could almost pretend that the day didn't happen. That he hadn't blown cover. That Thrawn hadn't found out. That he hadn't inadvertently lead the Chiss to Atollon.

His face throbbed, and a look in the mirror made him cringe as it forced him to face reality, even here alone. It had all happened.

He'd rebelled. And now the Empire knew it.

Kallus drew closer to the mirror over the sink and stared at himself, repeating the phrase in the quiet of his mind. He'd rebelled. And now the Empire knew it.

The icy edge of fear rose from within his gut, and he'd expected that. It always appeared first thing every time he woke up and remembered what he'd chosen to do. But the familiar line of fear hadn't been the only emotion to rise from his thoughts.

The heady rush of relief flooded his body, and it was terrifying as it was overwhelming.

He'd rebelled. And now the Empire knew it. The thought now struck him like a hammer. There was no more hiding now. No more walking on eggshells and pretending to be what the Empire thought he should be, while he concealed who he needed to be. No risking revealing himself with every word he spoke or any stray expressions. It was over now.

His time as an Imperial … it was over.

Setting the clothes down on a small, empty shelf bolted into the wall, he pulled his eyes away from the mirror and set to work divesting himself of his Imperial uniform. Kallus stripped the armor off with careful meticulousness, and with each piece removed, the reality of what had happened over Atollon … it sank in deeper. With each piece lifted, he felt lighter.

He was away. Away from the Empire. Away from the control and false peace he'd spent so long believing in. Away from the lies and the murder and the suffering impressed upon so many by the dark monster consuming the galaxy.

He was away. And he was free.

A tiny smile edged his lips. Kallus hadn't expected to smile, and the impulse to force it under through sheer force of habit almost banished it before he even realized it was there. Smiling wasn't the Empire's way. It wasn't proper behavior. But he wasn't with the Empire anymore. He could smile if he wanted to, and he found that here, alone and shedding the skin of his former life as he was, he wanted to smile even a little.

It felt strange on his lips, a little unnatural, but he kept it despite how foolish he felt. Just because he could.

In a manner that left him almost stumbling, he raced to strip out of what was left of his Imperial uniform. He kicked it all away to a corner, a collection of darkness sitting on its own away from him; a separate entity he wanted nothing to do with. It looked like sludge to him now. Sludge he'd willingly worn for years.

Stepping into the sonic, he eagerly let himself be cleaned. As the dirt and sweat and blood fell away, he imagined it was shaking off more than just the filth on his skin, but the taint in his soul as well. When he stepped out he didn't feel as if he was necessarily a new man, but he felt further distanced from the Empire and the idea of what he'd been. That was more than enough for now.

He took his time dressing, mostly because his body was starting to shout its aches and pains at him. Bruises mottled his skin, and he knew he was lucky that was the extent of his damage. If Thrawn's beating and torture had been any worse, if Kallus's body wasn't already prepared for such treatment, he'd probably have several broken ribs and more besides. As stoic as the Grand Admiral was, Kallus had sensed a certain … release the Chiss took in the brawl. Like a little of his control and cruelty could slip, revealing a peek at what was beneath the blue monster's mask.

It might have been the most honest moment Kallus had ever experienced with the man.

With a slight grimace, he dragged a thick blue sweater over his head and let it fall with a whisper against his abused flesh. It was soft, softer than he'd experienced in clothing in a long time. It felt … indulgent. Gentle, when his flesh was used to less forgiving fabrics made for durability and strength and little thought for comfort.

It felt wrong. Like a blaster bolt would sink into him any moment, now that he was unprotected by the Empire. It made him feel defenseless.

But standing as he was now in these new, strange clothes that a Lasat of all beings had given him, aboard a ship piloted by a Twi'lek and led by a blind Jedi … he might be vulnerable, but maybe he wasn't as alone as he'd felt earlier.

With practiced efficiency, Kallus ran his hands through his hair to slick it back, and though most of it fell back exactly as it should, a lock of his strawberry-blond was being stubborn. It was the one that had fallen free after Thrawn had beaten him, and now it refused to let itself be tamed no matter how many times he pushed it back.

Kallus stared at it in the mirror and that stray lock of hair as it hung before his eye as if committing its own form of rebellion from the slicked back collective of the rest.

Eyeing it, his brown eyes refocused on the rest his reflection, observing it as a greater whole. For more years of his life than he'd likely ever tell anyone here on this ship, he'd been perfect. Flawless. Proud of the sharp tool he'd become in the name of the Empire.

As Kallus studied the stray bangs hanging over his eye, he saw that perfect blade he's spent so long creating was now chipped. Jagged from misuse and harsh treatment, never to be the same again. Slowly he lowered his hand and took in this new vision of himself. It wasn't pretty. His ordeal reflected back at him in the mirror; black eye and split lip. Scratches across his face. Bruises. But there was something there now, something in his eyes which he knew had been slowly growing since Bahryn. Light. Life.

Dare he say it? Hope.

Unable to stop himself, he smirked at the man he saw because maybe the face he saw now was something of the real him, chipped and jagged. Kallus couldn't help but feel a shadow of shame, all the same. Though he'd openly committed treason against the Empire, it was hard to let go of its indoctrination overnight. He'd been something the Empire had been proud of. And he'd given it up for something … something different. The lingering Imperial in him that questioned his decision every day was ashamed of his choice, of this change.

But he, Kallus, he was proud.

The man he saw now was the man he had chosen to be. Not the man he'd been manipulated and influenced into becoming. Kallus didn't know if this man was still Fulcrum, or a special agent, or simply nothing anymore, but looking at this man he knew it didn't matter. He wasn't Agent. He wasn't a series of numbers and letters indicating his status as property of the Empire.

He was Kallus. And he was a rebel.

Kallus shook his head at himself, even as his smirk held a moment longer. That rebellious stray lock of hair stroked against his cheek with the motion. He'd have to get used to that. He wanted to get used to it.

Pushing away from the sink, he gathered up his old uniform with every intention of sending it out the airlock at his earliest convenience before straightening up. Pulling his shoulders back. Lifting his chin. Taking back what was left of his confidence and pride so he could rebuild it into something better. Something new. Exiting the refresher, he saw that Zeb was waiting with his arms crossed across the way.

"Well?" Kallus asked. "Do I look like a rebel now?"

"You look beat up, and your Imperial bearing is showing through," Zeb replied after a long, hard look, and Kallus took a breath slowly through his nose and reminded his battered ego that this … this would take time. Changing his clothing and the way he looked, it wouldn't stop anyone else from seeing the Imperial he had been. If he wanted them to see that he wasn't that man anymore, he'd have to prove it to them. Maybe constantly, and at every chance he could get despite having already risked everything for them.

But Kallus found he was willing. This new man he was becoming, he was willing.

Kallus rolled his shoulders and forced them to relax, softening his posture into something he hoped looked more natural and forthcoming. Not as if he were about to call down the Imperial fleet.

"I'll … work on that," Kallus finally said, relieved that the Lasat was answering him honestly, even if he was disappointed by the truth. He turned to move past Zeb in search of a quiet corner to shut his eyes. Sleep would help. When he next woke up, he'd work on this new man he was becoming. For now … it was best not to push too hard and expect too much. They'd all had a long day.

"You don't look as … clean, though."

Kallus stopped and caught Zeb's green eyes, confused, and the Lasat looked away as he shrugged his shoulders. Kallus lifted a brow.

"Not as … clean?" The refresher had worked as well as any other did. Did these rebels have hygiene standards that not even the Empire could match? That was hard to believe, given their previous entanglements, but life as a rebel was new to him. How was he to know?

"Not perfect, I mean," Zeb elaborated as he finally looked back at him. "You still move like them, stand like them, but it's not like it used to be. You look rougher now. Like you could be picked out of a lineup of Imperials."

Kallus continued to stare at the Lasat, and Zeb rolled his eyes and gave a great, heavy sigh.

"What I mean is, you're starting to look like us in a way you can't fake or hide anymore. In the eyes. And here," Zeb thumped his chest lightly. "You may not look much like a rebel right now, but you are one where it matters."

Kallus let the Lasat's words sit for a while before a slow smirk pulled at one corner of his lips.

"Thanks for the clarification. If you could call it that."

Zeb's eyes narrowed as he pushed off the wall and began to stalk past him.

"Maybe it would have been better to leave you at Atollon," the Lasat grumbled in retaliation, but Kallus noticed it lacked its usual bite. "Come on. You look like you're about to drop dead on your feet. We've got spare cots. I'm sure you can find some space to catch some rest."

The very thought of sleep made Kallus ache, his body ready for the downtime to recover and his mind more so. But before he'd allow the thought to take root into something that would translate into physical action, he found he now needed to do one thing first.

"Before that," Kallus said. "Where's the nearest airlock?" Zeb's brow furrowed in response and it seemed fair play that he elaborate this time. He lifted his former Imperial uniform. "I don't think anyone will have a problem with me getting rid of these. They don't exactly fit anymore."

Zeb smirked before gesturing with a clawed hand to follow after.

"No. I guess they don't."

This time, he had to admit he was both pleased and relieved to hear the Lasat's agreement. And with a tiny smile he could hide away quickly if Zeb happened to look back, Kallus the rebel followed his unlikely friend.