The sharp, metallic scent of blood filled his nose, his throat. It was in his mask, in his mouth, already drying in flecks on his skin where it did not still run.

He did not open his eyes. His heart slowed, breathing slower, turning inward to seek out injuries and repair them with hatred and loathing of imperfection.

He could feel them. But he could not fix them.

A too-deep breath threatened to make him cough, and he clamped down on the spasm, letting out only a quiet, strangled gasp as pain flared in his side. The Force did not heed him. The drugs could not have caused this. He had been slowly returning to his full faculties before the crash.

There were noises beside him. He opened his eyes, though he knew who he would see. The agent. Foolish. Nothing that he had hoped to achieve would succeed here.

He disengaged the crash webbing, just as a medpac landed in his lap.

Hm.

"Death has no hold on me." But life, horrible, disgusting life still did. He had a bruised or broken rib. There were deep bruises buried within muscle, that would leave him weakened if he could not heal them As much as he wanted to ignore the medpac, he needed it.

"Nor does the Dark Council, or the Empire. Which do you serve now, Agent?"