Anghraine

“How much pain have you been in?” she asked. “On a scale of one to ten.”

Frowning, Cassian said, “I don’t know. Five, perhaps.”

Esten glared at him.

“Eight.”

“Eleven,” said Jyn.

He shot her a look of betrayal. “Thank you for your contribution, Lyr.”

She felt faintly soiled. More than faintly. Did it feel the same to Cassian?

Everything I did, I did for the Rebellion. Not the words of a man who enjoyed the choices he made. Not even the words of a man who believed them right, except as necessary sacrifices for a greater moral end. Perhaps he hated this near as much as Jyn. But Cassian had the cause to live by, even his darkest paths lit by that clear, shining purpose. Jyn—she didn’t quite know what she had, even if she managed to claw their way out of this place. She believed, she hoped, she cared about the fight. She did now. And she wouldn’t give up, ever. She just … she couldn’t see herself existing in Cassian’s stark simplicities, everything bleak or brilliant.

In any case, she felt as if she walked backwards, back to Lianna. None of this for the cause, for some great end, just survival. But not hers alone, she reminded herself. Cassian’s and Bodhi’s. They needed her. That was a cause in itself.