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When Jyn first opens her eyes, she's back on Scarif. Her vision blurs in the light, but she can sense it — the heat and the smoke, the crackle of flame, the sharp pain that she nevertheless feels at a distance, her awareness of it like it belongs to someone else. Her shoulder burns from pulling herself up the data tower, her whole body stiff and achy with a myriad of injuries. There are no arms around her this time, no sense of the peace she'd finally felt, a miserable inevitability. For years now, a part of her has wished that she'd stayed dead on that beach like she was supposed to. Of course if she were to wind up there again, it wouldn't feel the same at all.
She has a moment of thinking that this must be what the man on the phone meant when he promised her that she'd be with them again. If she dies, like everyone she's ever loved has died, they'll supposedly be reunited in the Force, or something. It's a cheap trick, but fair enough. The thought of that, though, plus her vision starting to clear again, makes her realize that she was wrong, at least about the first part. She isn't on Scarif. She's still on the train, only it's not much of a train anymore — there was a crash, she remembers that, and she must have hit her head, lost consciousness for she's not sure how long.
Her chest seizes tight with fear and pain that she can no longer source, and she tries, at least, to breathe despite the smoke and take stock of the situation. The train derailed, and she's still in the wreckage, some of which burns several meters away. Some sort of head injury, not her worst, but inconvenient. Her shoulder —
She attempts to push herself up, but utterly fails, a strangled cry in her throat. Fear turns to panic then, childish and choking, and she holds her breath as she glances toward the source of the pain. A thick, round piece of metal protrudes from her shoulder, originating from whatever she's landed on top of, keeping her pinned in place, a dark stain soaking her shirt. With the arm she can move, she gingerly lifts her hand to her temple, her fingertips coming away bloodstained, too, though not half as badly so. Even if it were worse, she doesn't think it would matter. She can't get herself out of here, and she's not going to hold her breath waiting for someone to come crawling through the wreckage looking for survivors. The soot in the air makes it hard to breathe, never mind to raise her voice enough to cry for help; she manages it once, but despite her best efforts, over the sound of the flame and the general chaos, the sirens she can just barely make out in the distance, she doubts anyone heard.
So that's it, then. She's going to die here like this, either bleeding out from the wound in her shoulder, suffocating from the smoke, or eventually, the fire spreading enough that it will take her, too. If she's lucky, she'll lose consciousness before that last one, but she never has had all that much in the way of luck. There's only one thing she's ever really had, and she reaches for it now, sticky fingers fumbling with the collar of her shirt until she can tug her crystal loose and curl her hand around it. Her tongue is clumsy in her mouth when she speaks, but the words come instinctively anyway, a mumbled wish. "I'm one with the Force," she says, pausing intermittently to take shaky breaths. "And the Force is with me. I'm one with the Force, and the Force is with me." She wants to believe that, at least, and that maybe, in the very end, she won't be alone after all.
She has a moment of thinking that this must be what the man on the phone meant when he promised her that she'd be with them again. If she dies, like everyone she's ever loved has died, they'll supposedly be reunited in the Force, or something. It's a cheap trick, but fair enough. The thought of that, though, plus her vision starting to clear again, makes her realize that she was wrong, at least about the first part. She isn't on Scarif. She's still on the train, only it's not much of a train anymore — there was a crash, she remembers that, and she must have hit her head, lost consciousness for she's not sure how long.
Her chest seizes tight with fear and pain that she can no longer source, and she tries, at least, to breathe despite the smoke and take stock of the situation. The train derailed, and she's still in the wreckage, some of which burns several meters away. Some sort of head injury, not her worst, but inconvenient. Her shoulder —
She attempts to push herself up, but utterly fails, a strangled cry in her throat. Fear turns to panic then, childish and choking, and she holds her breath as she glances toward the source of the pain. A thick, round piece of metal protrudes from her shoulder, originating from whatever she's landed on top of, keeping her pinned in place, a dark stain soaking her shirt. With the arm she can move, she gingerly lifts her hand to her temple, her fingertips coming away bloodstained, too, though not half as badly so. Even if it were worse, she doesn't think it would matter. She can't get herself out of here, and she's not going to hold her breath waiting for someone to come crawling through the wreckage looking for survivors. The soot in the air makes it hard to breathe, never mind to raise her voice enough to cry for help; she manages it once, but despite her best efforts, over the sound of the flame and the general chaos, the sirens she can just barely make out in the distance, she doubts anyone heard.
So that's it, then. She's going to die here like this, either bleeding out from the wound in her shoulder, suffocating from the smoke, or eventually, the fire spreading enough that it will take her, too. If she's lucky, she'll lose consciousness before that last one, but she never has had all that much in the way of luck. There's only one thing she's ever really had, and she reaches for it now, sticky fingers fumbling with the collar of her shirt until she can tug her crystal loose and curl her hand around it. Her tongue is clumsy in her mouth when she speaks, but the words come instinctively anyway, a mumbled wish. "I'm one with the Force," she says, pausing intermittently to take shaky breaths. "And the Force is with me. I'm one with the Force, and the Force is with me." She wants to believe that, at least, and that maybe, in the very end, she won't be alone after all.
