On the outside, Lyla was completely indifferent to the deaths above them, her eyes blinking impassively up at the platform as more Jedi she had barely known were slaughtered.
But inside her, everything was different. The moment they died, she felt a sharp tug in her chest, her usually weak Force senses hit with the strength of a fist to the stomach; her ears were filled with a strange noise, like cracking glass, and she knew that this was only for her to hear, her mind's way of telling her that it couldn't take anymore, that the pressure was too high and she needed to vent some of it right now.

But she held herself together, the strain of doing so driving her brain to a form of physical punishment: For the first time in years, she felt her missing fingers again, but instead of being joyfully reunited with her, they sent angry waves of pain through her arm and up her spine, causing Lyla to craddle her arm and biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood to keep herself from letting any of it out. It didn't go away either - after a few seconds, the intense agony was replaced with a throbbing pain in the limbs that weren't there anymore. She tried to convince herself that it wasn't real, that what wasn't there couldn't hurt, but the girl understood why it was happening, that she needed to play her part before she broke down completely, and break down she would.

Had the Master's idea of a cover allowed it, she would have taken his hand in her need for comfort and even the faintest sense of safety. Instead, her right grasped the Padawan's left painfully tight, her plasteel prosthetics hard against his flesh. Her head was swimming with emotions she was trying hard to suppress and she didn't dare take a glance at him or speak to him; she was like a bactatank filled to the absolute maximum and even the tiniest drop would make her spill over. Her gesture conveyed everything she needed, a single thought so strong, so desperately clear in her mind that it was 'transmitted' through the Force, not only to the young man whom's hand she was holding but beyond that - [b][i]Don't leave me alone. I can't do this alone.[/i][/b]

And then, she started walking, at first pulling the Padawan along but, once he had regained his composure, overcame his hesitation or whatever it was that was holding him back, soon merely leading him and their 'slave'. 

At first, her movements were erratic, her eyes looking for anything she would recognize so she could pinpoint their location, the phantom pain rising and falling in intensity and making her half-artificial hand tighten its grip accordingly, but after a few minutes, enough to make her companions have their first doubts about her leadership, she seemed to find what she was looking for and her steps henceforth had a clear direction.

Lyla led the two surviving Jedi down several elevators and a few service shafts, through maintenance tunnels and underground alleys, her feet only stopping to wait for them, her hand only leaving Rylos' when they had to climb. Surprisingly little had changed below the surface in the past decade and she recognized places, faces, even individual piles of junk. As terrifying as the notion of returning here had been, it was strangely comforting in a twisted way, like an abusive parent.

After only half an hour, they had acquired three sets of less conspicuous clothing (without the consent or knowledge of the owners), a little bit of food and water and, turning around a corner and squeezing through the minimal gap between two broken condensators, a hiding spot that was cold, dark and damp but out of the way and, by the looks of it, abandoned - the ideal place to take a short breather and change their attire.
They were only a few levels below the Anchorpoint and, on foot, perhaps another half an hour to an hour away.

Not waiting to see what her companions would do, Lyla took a few listless bites out of the dried something she had stolen for them, drank a little bit to moisten her parched throat and retreated into a corner of the confined room to change into the black, clingy outfit that had seen better days - not that it made a difference in terms of actual privacy but given the circumstances, modesty was the least of their concerns.