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Chapter Text

"The road to darkness is paved with good intentions"

- Unknown

"Do it," commanded the Chancellor, his arms tied to his durasteel throne. His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, but behind his rugged exterior was a fleeting hope that the Jedi before him would fall into his temptation. Years of careful scheming has led up to this moment. The young Jedi will slay Count Dooku -- his own apprentice -- and begin his journey into the dark side. 

Anakin stared at Palpatine in complete shock. He was no stranger to the Chancellor's confrontational attitude, but to order him to murder a man -- the same man who orchestrated the Clone Wars? His eyes shifted to the Count, whose calm demeanor betrayed him. His face were as pale as snow, eyes jittering in fear. The Jedi hesistated. He turned to Palpatine, his lightsabers still fixed before Dooku's neck. "He must stand trial!" he shouted.

Palpatine furrowed his brows in frustration. "He is too dangerous to be kept alive. The longer he's alive, the higher the chance that he will escape. We cannot waste this golden opportunity on a man like him!" The jedi stood still, his head a blur of thoughts zooming past each other. He looked at Dooku again, and his amputated arms. Despite his inclinations, demanding him to exact justice for all of his crimes, his heart was torn. He cannot give in to his anger -- he musn't. But as he stared out into the abyss of space, he is reminded of the reality of the situation: A battle was raging above his home, and if he failed to capitalise this moment, his entire livelihood would be threatened: The Jedi, his friends, all the people of Coruscant, his wife -- they will be another statistic in a war full of tragedies. He gripped the lightsaber hilts tightly, determined to end the sith's devastating reign once and for all.

The fallen Jedi noticed the menacing aura emanating from Skywalker. He breathed in deeply and uttered his final words: "Skywalker, the Chancellor is not what he claims himself to be." He let loose the breath he held and stared deeply into the Jedi's eyes. Anakin was frozen in his place, confusion written all over his face. In the corner of his eyes, he noticed his former master's face paled. 

"What did you just say?" the Jedi asked.

"Your Chancellor is not what he seems," he repeated himself, confidence slowly surging from within. If these were his final moments, then he will bring down the man who sent him on his exodus from the Jedi. 

"I don't believe you. How can I trust the word of a Sith?" Anakin stated.

An explosion; the sound of electricity cracking in the background. The ship was falling apart.

"Look beyond your biases, past Jedi and Sith, and listen to my words as a fellow man. Your Chancellor had orchestrated the Clone Wars from the very start. He was behind every victory and defeat the Republic received during this wretched conflict."

"His words are poison, my boy! He wants you to be confused, so that he can escape and tear the galaxy apart for his own gain!" Palpatine interjected, screaming from the edge of his seat. He tried to lift his arms from the grav-restraints, but to no avail. Anakin glanced at the Chancellor, before his eyes returned to Dooku.

The Jedi shook his head. "Palpatine did what the Jedi couldn't -- he acted against the Confederacy -- against you -- when nobody wouldn't! Why would he want to start a war?" Anakin questioned, his voice growing angrier by the minute. The lightsabers were still fixed before Dooku's neck.

"A galaxy divided, the Jedi weakened, the senate under his grasp -- who else was to gain from this conflict other than those who stand above all others in their governments?"

He leaned the blades closer to Dooku's neck. "Give me one reason why I should continue listening to you -- a man who slaughtered countless innocents?" Anakin demanded.

Dooku stared at Palpatine again, and a grin crept up to his face. "You're a smart man, Skywalker. Although you may not believe my words, you know that the information I possess is something that must be presented before the Council. I will willingly turn myself in to face judgement before the council--"

"--In exchange, you wish for my mercy?" Anakin interjected, glaring intensely at the Count.

The Count smiled. "Precisely." 

"Anakin, this is our chance to bring peace to our time! We must not walk away alive from this room!" Palpatine shouted, panting heavily as he struggled to free himself from the restraints. His future apprentice glanced over to him, and in a move of defiance, turned off his lightsabers. 

"I'm sorry, your Chancellorship, but Dooku must stand trial before the senate," the ship rocked violently as a barrage of lasers struck the hull of the 'Invisible Hand'. Anakin procured a set of restraints from his pockets and wrapped the Count in a electric leash. The Count leaned to Anakin's shoulder as he struggled to rise from the ground.

"I presume he too will stand trial?" Dooku whispered into Anakin's ear, his eyes fixed on Palpatine as he stood victorious over his former master. Anakin did not reply. Shivers went down his spine as the Jedi gripped his lightsaber tightly, his mechanical arm shaking in the tremendous amount of force the Jedi is exerting into his fist. "Will he?" he muttered, too quietly for the Jedi to listen to him.

The Jedi scoffed. He took his first steps forward towards the Chancellor.

Palpatine sighed. "Very well, I relent. He will stand trial before the senate--" his words were cut short when his heart was pierced by the sudden piercing of two lightsabers into his chest. He stared at Anakin in disbelief, his hand reaching for his cuffs. The Chancellor gasped for air as blood gushed out of his mouth. "My boy..." he whispered before his life was stripped away from him by a swift and brutal decapitation. Palpatine's head rolled down the steps of the stairs, his neck cauterized, preventing blood from leaving his head. 

Dooku watched in horror as the Jedi turned to face him. But his eyes were not fixed on his. Behind him, Obi-Wan stared in disbelief, his body trampled underneath a pile of rubble. Anakin switched off the lightsabers and lifted the debris from Obi-Wan's form, but his master did not move an inch. "Anakin... What have you done?" he questioned, his voice faint, but audible to the young Jedi knight. 

Anakin did not meet his master's piercing gaze. He stared at the lifeless head of Sheev Palpatine, whose eyes had changed colour from auburn to a yellowish-tinge. "I've brought peace to our time, master."

Chapter Text

"So this is how liberty dies... with thunderous applause."

- Padme Amidala during the appointment of Wilhuff Tarkin as the Supreme Commander of the Galactic Republic

The sun had broken in dawn, and the wind was crisp with the air that marked the coming of winter. She set forth at daybreak to attend a meeting organised by her closest allies, and her children rode with her. Padme took a deep breath as she glanced at the mountains before her. Her planet was as beautiful as ever -- birds chirped harmoniously over orange-leaved trees; herds of cattle roam the expanse; and the rush of water in the rivers flowed as peacefully as it had for millions of years. An ideal future for her children to grow up in, if it were not for the scant billboards that dot the landscape every now and then, encouraging the populace to enlist in the Grand Army of the Republic. And on those boards, she could feel Tarkin, smiling arrogantly at her as he proclaimed his victory against the forces of democracy.

It had been six years since that fateful day -- the day when the war ended. Peace had finally returned to the galaxy, but at a great cost. In the six years that followed since the end of the Clone Wars, her children had grown up without their father beside them. She cradled Luke closely, who was sleeping soundly, despite the rough terrain leading to the pagoda. His sister, however, peered through the window, taking in the breath of Naboo's beauty. She pointed eagerly at an ox, who lifted its head to face the carriage. "Look mama, the cow was looking at me!" she beamed.

Padme kissed her on the forehead. "Yes, he was. I think he was also saying something too," she added.

Leia shifted her head slightly. "Really? But I didn't see the ox's mouth moving?" the girl asked.

The former queen shrugged. "I think it was," Padme smiled softly at Leia. Her daughter giggled.

"You're so silly, ma. Ox can't talk!"

"How would you know that?"

"Because they can't!"

"Maybe you should try to think of what he might be saying," she pressed softly on Leia's nose with her index finger. Suddenly, the carriage grinded to a halt. Padme peered through the window, noticing an array of plant life blocking the road. Her driver left his seat and proceeded to open her door. He wore a dark, regal uniform fashioned only for those who serve the Queens of Naboo. His hat hid much of his face, but she was very much familiar with the man who hid behind the rugged exterior of a guard. 

He bowed slightly in respect for the woman. "We are here, my lady," he said calmly.

Padme chuckled quietly and laid her hand on his shoulder. "There is no need for formalities, Typho. You and I know that the time for such things has long since passed," the guard rose from his bow, revealing to her his new silver eyepatch. "Is that a new eyepatch?"

The guard nodded, smiling. "Yes. Senator Organa had personally ordered it as thanks for me watching over you during your pregnancy," he said. "A bit much, if you ask me, but I respect the gesture. It is always an honour to serve you, my lady," he added.

"I see your sternness has not aged one bit,"

"I am nothing without my sternness, my lady," he gestured towards the trees. "Come, I have been told that the rest are waiting for you at the Pagoda," he lifted Luke and Leia from the carriage, the former of which was still sleeping soundly through the ruckus. Leia waved at Padme, grinning widely. "I will take them to your room, my lady,"

Padme nodded respectfully. "Thank you, Gregar. Leia, watch over your brother, okay?"

The young girl saluted at her mother. "Yes, ma'am!" Padme smiled proudly at her. Slowly, she entered the thick canopy, vines brushing against her skin. Located far from the crowded cities of the planet, the Pagoda was an excellent choice for clandestine meetings. Coincidentally, it was also where she and Anakin's marriage was sworn in. She navigated through the dense flora that blocked the path towards the Pagoda before she finally felt the warm touch of the sun once again. The Pagoda was a sight to behold. Beside the platform was the crystal-clear lake of Ur; the Blue Mountains looming over the body of water. A long table had been arranged to be placed in the middle of the platform, safe from the embrace of Naboo's sun. An entourage of senators and influential individuals sat before the table, whispering amongst themselves. A maid gestured her towards an empty chair at the end of the table. She muttered her gratitude to the maid and approached her seat.

At the other end of the table, a man rose from his seat. He wore a long grey-cloak over a set of white robes -- clothes fashioned for the royal consort of the Aldeerani court. His goatee had grown where it perked up after touching the collar of his robe. He raised his chalice slightly into the air. "Everyone, please welcome our friend, senator Padme Amidala," the people that sat before the table clapped graciously.

She smiled warmly and waved. Amongst the crowd, she noticed a few familiar faces, most notably a particular red-headed woman draped in a flowing, white dress. Senator Mon Mothma. She sat on her chair, and turned to face the people beside her. On her left was senator Fang Zar and Garm Bel Iblis -- two of the most outspoken men she had ever met. Fang leaned closer to Padme, extending his hand for a shake. "It is good to see you, Padme," he whispered.

"And to you too, Fang." she glanced over her shoulder to see Garm nodding. She met Fang's eyes and noted the distinct crescents that have formed underneath them. "How're things in your sector?" she asked.

He caressed his long beard, his eyes betraying a depth of concern that Padme noticed immediately. "Another martial law, I'm afraid. They're not too fond of the Republic's increasing control over the planet's resources," he sighed. "There was a terrorist attack on parliament. We don't know who or why, but--"

"I think you know who might've bombed your parliament, Fang," Garm interjected. The men glared at each other, but their feud was interrupted by Bail's resounding cough. 

"Gentlemen, we will have time to discuss later. We must discuss the topic of today's discussion," Bail glanced overt at Padme and smiled softly. "Thanks to the efforts of our friend, Padme Amidala, we have secured five more senators who have agreed to join our coalition," the room erupted in applause. Padme's face flushed in red, and she waved off the attention as politely as possible. "But that is all the good news that we have for today's meeting. As most of you are aware, senator Fang Zar's sector was recently hit by a terrorist attack. A tragedy, especially for all of the lives lost during the bombing. The bureau said before the senate that they have no information on who might have done the bombings, but Mon Mothma has recovered some intelligence that says otherwise," he gestured to his tablet, procuring a white orb of energy before tossing it onto the table. A holographic image of a man was presented before them. He had a dominating aura about him, thanks to no part to the tube that stretched across his body. His eyes spoke of a man who has seen the worst life has to over, accentuated further by the long gash that ran from his eyebrow to the tip of his mouth. 

Garm scoffed at the sight of the man, his arms crossed. "I knew it," he muttered, audibly enough so Padme and Fang could hear him. 

The Alderaani pointed at the hologram. "We believe that Saw Garrera was behind the attack. Since the bombings, our operatives within the Outer Rim Partisans informed us that their numbers have increased tenfold. If he continues to rally more people to his cause..." he paused, and glanced at Mon Mothma.

She rose from her seat. "We may see another civil war," a tension loomed over the table, and whispers erupted among the senators.

"Is there any way to prevent him from getting more power?" Padme asked innocently.

Mon Mothma shook her head. "My intel suggests that some of the senators in the senate were involved in the bombings. Mostly through the sell of weapons, but there was one peculiarity that I couldn't shake off," She pressed her tablet, changing the image of the hologram from Saw Garrera to a computer chip. "We found this among the rubble of the attack. Unfortunately, the chip was beyond damaged, so salvaging any information out of it was nigh impossible. However, it's not the chip that irks me -- it was where it was found," she zoomed out from the chip, revealing to the table a holographic image of a droid of an unknown design. Its architectural language was unlike anything they have ever seen -- sleek curves, two deep sockets where the eyes should have been, and a metallic mouth similar to that of a human.

"A cyborg?" asked Bana, one of the senators sitting before the table.

Again, Mothma shook her head. "A cyborg would still have some biological components underneath all of their transplant. This head was completely machine, covered by a layer of synthetic human skin."

"By the Gods, would that not be an android?" Garm interjected. The whispers grew louder. Padme could hardly believe it herself. Android technology was strictly prohibited by all members of the Republic and Confederacy. Any development of such a technology would have been scrapped the moment both governments heard of its existence. The wounds of an ancient revolution that never healed. He recoiled in complete shock, his mind a blur of emotions.

Mothma nodded. "We do not know how they acquired or who might have developed the droid. The only thing that we could gather was that it assumed the identity of a notable politician in the Sern government," 

Garm slammed his fist against the table, the image before them buzzing in response to the impact. "The details do not matter. We cannot let the ORP continue to exist while they have an android at their disposal!" 

Fang rose from his chair and nodded in solidarity. "Garm is right. This is an existential threat that we simply cannot ignore. We must take action!"

Bail gestured his hand at the two men. "Calm down, gentlemen, we cannot let our emotions get the best of us. We do not have enough info--"

"Information? What more is there to know, Bail!?" Garm interrupted. "There is only one force in the galaxy who we all know would deal with AI technology," a wave of whispers flooded the room.

"What you're suggesting is incredibly dangerous, Garm," Mon Mothma commented.

He nodded furiously. "Who else stands to gain from a civil war within the Republic other than the Confederacy?"

"Jingoism is not going to solve the issue. We must make a measured response."

"There are no measured responses towards androids!" Garm shouted. The room erupted into a hectic debate. Padme eyed the senators before her -- unified under a common goal, yet divided as ever. It was a dance without rhythm, devoid of purpose or meaning. She closed her eyes and remembered her moments in the Senate when the war had just started. There were no agreements to be found, no triumphs over evil, simply the ruckus of grown children who spoke without compassion. 

Padme rose from her seat. "People, listen to my words!" her words echoed throughout the pagoda. In an instant, the debate had fallen silent. Garm glanced over at Padme and nodded respectfully. "How many of our worlds have burned because of war? Most of you who stand here today represent systems suffered greatly. Even now, millions remain stranded, desperate for any sort of aid. Hasn't there been enough bloodshed between us and the Confederacy?" she paused and took a deep breath. "Garerra wants us to act harshly. He wants to prove his point -- that the Republic and the Confederacy do not share a single inkling of care towards their citizens. He will smile, while we fight each other like rabbid dogs. Bail is right: We do not have enough information to properly engage the situation. We need to be patient and avoid the trap that Garerra has planted for us." 

"And how do you suggest that?" Garm interjected. Padme remained silent, carefully choosing her next words.

"We will find a way. A safer way," she replied. Garm scoffed mockingly.

Padme lifted her hand in protest, but her words were cut short when quiet hum of the holo-table disappeared. Bail clasped his hand loudly and smiled politely. "I'm afraid our discussion has to be cut short for now. It is time for our scheduled break. You may find foods on the table to the right and spirits inside the resort. We will reconvene in an hour's time,"

The Nabooian sighed deeply -- mostly in relief -- as the senators before the table rose from the seats. 

***

The Blue Mountains had always been a spectacle to behold. When the sun reaches its peaks, the mountains casted a monolithic silhouette that loomed over the forest in front of the lake. The warm touch of the sun embraced her porcelain skin. In her hand, a chalice, filled with the finest wine in the galaxy -- Aldeerani white. She reminisced her time spent in the pagoda. It was in this same spot where Anakin had slipped the ring he had forged onto her finger. Those days, as beautiful as they are, were long gone. She frowned.

Her musings were interrupted by the sudden remark from a familiar, warm voice. "I know how much this place must mean to you," Bail approached the Nabooian until he stood beside her. The man was no taller than she was, yet he emitted an aura that could win the hearts of millions.

Padme smirked sadly. "You have no idea. It doesn't feel nice to be reminded that the man you love isn't here to watch our children grow together," she leaned against Bail's shoulder. "That session was..."

"Rough?" Organa chuckled. "You have no idea,"

"Was Garm always this... frontal?"

"You have to excuse his behaviour. He's a true Corellian -- heart, mind, and spirit. They don't float around and talk. They act," he shook his head. "If only things were that simple," he mused.

Bail leaned against the railing of the platform. He procured a canteen from his pocket and took a deep drink. "Did you hear? Tarkin's planning on sending an expedition into the unknown regions. He's sending an entire army into the depths of space,"

"Tarkin's a fool. Billions remain homeless while he spends his money on his delusional dreams," Padme commented harshly. Ever since he rose to the position of Moff, she could not stand to sit in the same room with him. He was a snake in all but shape. 

"That's true."

The Nabooian sighed. "Have I told you how it felt when it came time for me to abdicate the throne?"

Bail mused for a moment. "No, I don't think you have. Enlighten me,"

Padme took a slight sip from her chalice. "It felt... exhilarating. A bit odd, especially since I spent Lords know how much credits for the election campaign, but when I heard Jamilia's speech, I was..." she paused. "You should've seen the crowd's reaction, Bail. How they cheered her name. I may have lost, but that moment... it reminded me what I was fighting for," she chuckled dryly. "Time is truly something." 

"And that is why we play this game. We owe it to our people, to the galaxy," Bail looked up at the vines above them. They were in full bloom, with a scant few flowers sprouting from its tendrils. 

Padme frowned. "Garerra's got us in his hands, doesn't he?"

Bail nodded slowly. "The rim's at a breaking point. It would be easier to act if we knew what kind of person he is,"

"And what is he to you?" Padme raised her eyebrows. Bail pondered for a moment, tapping the case of his flask lightly.

"He's an idealist. A silver-tongued one, at that. An unpredictable combination," he glanced at Padme, smiling. "Just like you."

"Charming words, Bail,"

His face darkened as he gazed out into the distance. "But most notably, he is ruthless. He will not stop until he has achieved his goal," he took a sip from his flask. "I hope his vision will not come to pass,"

Padme nodded in agreement. The Republic may boast the beauty and prosperity of the inner rim worlds, but everyone knew that the real riches of the Republic lay on the periphery of its borders. An endless goldmine, flowing continuously to meet the demand of the inners. No one would have realised the immense value of the outer rim until the outbreak of the war. Rationing became the norm, even on bountiful worlds like Naboo, simply due to the loss of a dozen agri-worlds in the Ocetron sector. An independent rim will spell doom to the rotting Republic. She gazed at the lake with concern.

"It will not unless we act decisively," the two friends glanced behind them to greet the sudden voice. Garm nodded solemnly at the pair. "I hope I am not intruding anything." 

Bail shook his head. "Not in all. I was about to see to the kitchen staff, check if everything is in order," the older senator bowed slightly as Bail entered the resort. 

Garm leaned against the railing, standing next to Padme. For a brief moment, she saw his eyes burned with passive rage. "You say that there is an option?"

Padme winced. "I said that we should seek an alternative solution that won't spill anymore blood,"

The older senator nodded. In her time in the senate, she did not had the chance to interact with the senators from the Corellian system. There were two other senators before Garm, but they fell out of favour with the Corellian public when it was uncovered that they were involved in a large corporate conspiracy, selling weapons illegally to Separatist-friendly terrorists. She knew naught of his proclivities nor the type of man he was, and the thought irked her. 

He trailed his fingers through his goatee. "I think we landed off on a rough spot. I too want to dissolve this kerfuffle peacefully, but Garerra -- the bastard," he scoffed. "We aren't like you, we Corellians. On our world, nature has all been replaced with metal. Too many mouths to feed in such a little space. Any change to the order and," he paused. "I'm sure you know how it goes. There will be riots, at first, but then the whole system will just collapse."

"I understand what you're trying to say, Garm. Truly. But we mustn't let our emotions dictate us," she replied.

Garm glared at her. "This is not about 'emotions'. Every day we choose to spend our time galivanting on greater goods, Garerra's forces grow stronger. He already has an android in his possession. Do you have any idea the enormous threat he poses on all of us?"

Padme winced her eyes at Garm. She rubbed her temples in quiet frustration. "Greater goods are necessary if we wish to avoid further bloodshed. What you proposed earlier in the meeting is tantamount to suicide. Hasn't enough blood been spilled already?"

He crossed his arms and chuckled grimly. "It will never be enough. Not until every man, woman, child, and droid in this galaxy suddenly drop dead,"

"I guess that is something we will never agree on."

In the distance, a pair of fish leaped into the air, their fins stretched as wide as an eagle’s wings. Their scales were as Alsakan silver, yet as they found themselves entangled in an elaborate dance above their humble abodes, the sun reflected against their skin, producing colours as vibrant as spring.

Garm pointed at the pair as they made their descent into the lake. “There’s a saying in Corellia: The young eagle will starve if it does not strike out on its own,” he procured a large cigar, courtesy of the famed plantations of Kharak. “This situation reminded me of that proverb,”

Padme’s curiosity piqued. “How so?”

Garm lit his cigar. “Our Republic will die if we choose to stay in this nest. If we do not act soon, I’m afraid the dream we all have will wither into obscurity,”

”Rashness is a man’s true enemy,”

”Yet it has saved many lives,”

”It is a double-edged sword that does not guarantee an acceptable outcome,” Padme continued. “In our rashness to quell the Confederacy, millions died. A Chancellor fashioned himself as an emperor. And it all stems from the fear of loss of control. Those who act rashly do not care for the lives of others; they care only for themselves, of the control that they possess. A shift in that paradigm frightens them, and millions pay the price,” she stared at Garm sternly. “You strike me as a man who’s rational. Do you fear of losing control?”

Garm remained silent.

”Everyone does. True leaders are born not from their intellect or charisma, but through their actions. After all, what is a leader, if not someone who has proven themselves capable to guide their people to a brighter future?” she planted the chalice on the stone railing.

Garm chuckled dryly. “Truly the adamant idealist, Padme Amidala,” he commented. “But as you said, a leader is born through their actions. If a leader chooses to respond decisively against a threat he knows is worth acting rashly against, is he still a good leader or is he a coward for doing so?”

”The ideal leader would not have acted rashly in this situation. If a bomb was planted in a bank, they will need to assess the situation before committing an appropriate response,”

Garm’s eyebrow rose slightly. “Ultimately, it is about proportionality.”

“Hm, actually, yes,” she added quickly. 

The Corellian clasped his hands. “Fear the leader who promises a grand future without explaining how,” he stated. “With all this talk of leadership, let me ask you a question: How will you answer this crisis, Amidala?”

She rubbed her chin. “Republic intelligence is out of our option. We can’t risk Tarkin finding out about this,”

Garm shrugged. “It will eventually, unless you act now,”

”The Jedi?”

He laughed loudly. “You’re willing to gamble on the kindness of some space monks?”

”I am married to one,” she retorted.

”He’s a one in a million. You know it more than anyone that the Jedi only care for themselves. They could have stopped the Chancellor at any given moment, leak the information they had about the GAR’s origins, but what did they do? They chose to sit idly by while the galaxy burned around them,” he shook his head furiously. “No matter your relations with the Order, they are beyond us now. They didn’t even offer relief when the war finally ended,”

Padme pondered on his words for a moment. During the outer rim sieges, the Corellian system was deprived of their vital resources. Food riots broke out, corruption ran rampant. It was a microcosm of the galaxy during the twilight hours of the Clone Wars — a world without order. Yet, despite his clear biases, she knew she had a point. The Jedi are beyond them now, scattered into their ancestral homes to seek penance from their sins. An exile. She doubt her old friend, Obi-wan, would assist her, unless…

She snapped her fingers. “I know what to do,”

”Enlighten me,” Garm said as he threw his cigar into the lake.”

Padme frowned. “Don’t litter,” she muttered. “I think I’ve got our solution to the crisis,” she produced a holotab from her bag. She inputed the word ‘Maverick’ into the search query. “I’ve heard rumours that he left the Order after their exile. I’m not too sure about his exact details, but I recall that Anakin spoke highly of him,”

Gram’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And who is our man of the hour?” a projection of a man suddenly materialised before him. His skin were copper, muscles toned, with unending streaks of yellow that stretched from one hand to the other.

”Quinlan Vos,” Padme answered.

”And you’re certain he’ll help?”

”Again, I’m not too sure. Anakin told me he disappeared right after the Order entered into their exile, but he supposedly leave trails behind for anyone who seeks to find him,”

Garm rubbed his temples. “We don’t have enough time for a wild goose hunt, Padme,” 

“I’m aware, which is why I suggest that she—“ the projection of Vos was replaced with that of a Tortuga. “—be sent to find him.”

Garm rubbed his beard. “I’ve heard plenty of things about her. You’re certain she’s fit for the job?”

She giggled dryly. “If anything, I think she is the only one fit for the job,”

Garm sighed in defeat. “You bested me, Amidala, but don’t think our disagreements have ended,” he walked away from the Nabooian before stopping by the door that led into the resort. “I’ll be behind your back during the discussions. Don’t screw it up,”

”Then you don’t know me. I won’t,” she said proudly. Garm snickered in response and entered into the resort. 

Padme stared at the holotab projection. Beside the hologram was a pulsing red button with no words written on it, yet Padme need not to know what its purpose was for. She knew what it meant. She pressed the button softly, and it changed its colour instantly from a violent red to soothing green.

The message travelled across the vastness of space, passing through each broadcast node that connected Naboo to the distant world of Coruscant. It is a simple message, yet for the recipient, it is a message that is worth an incalculable amount.

It reads as follows: “Contact me ASAP. Help me, Ashoka Tano. You are my only hope.”

Chapter Text

“The Jedi are a cancer responsible for the declining health of our Republic. It is with a light heart to announce their departure from the Republic into the farthest regions of known space. May they only find darkness in those worlds.”

— Wilhuf Tarkin, during the second Grand Army of the Republic press conference, c. 1 ACW (after Clone War)

In the darkest expanse of known space, a body floated.

Its skin was frosted over, owing to the sub-zero temperatures of space. Whatever eyes it once possessed had all but bursted, leaving behind an empty — but bloodied — socket. It was a quick, yet painful death. 

Such is the life of a Spacer.

Behind the corpse lay a derelict ship. Its hull was darted with patches of grey. Some deflected, while most penetrated deep into the ship’s system. The ship stretched for as far as the eye could see, yet its width was hardly larger than a hoverfreigther that soared through the Coruscanti skies.

Attached to the dead ship was a small vessel — thirty metres long and fifteen metres on its side. It had the characteristic metalwork of a Corellian manufactorum. The ship was painted in vantablack, which prevented any refractions from the sun against its hull. Streaks of orange ran through the ship’s exterior. Against the darkness of space, it was an orange streak that zoomed across the stars.

A Togruta sawed through the derelict ship’s hall. She was cladded in a dull suit, comfortable enough for her to wear; but the tears on the suit told another story. She tapped her arm lightly, and a blue light pulsed around her form. She pressed the comms button attached on the base of her index finger.

Her comms were static before a feminine voice broke through the buzz. “Status report, Fulcrum.”

”The ship’s hull is still holding strong. I might need to my tool if we want to get the goods inside,” the Togruta reported firmly.

Silence. “Very well. Just this once,” the voice replied before shutting its comms once again.

The Togruta procured from her satchel a metal rod. Adorned with the ceremonial markings of her culture, it was an elegant tool — and a weapon, when handled correctly. She pressed the button on the metal, and a white rod of light flashed before her.

She ran through the hull with her lightsaber, cutting the durasteel hull with extreme efficiency. Once she had cut a square large enough to fit multiple storage boxes, she kicked the metal into the ship. 

Slowly, she dove into the hole. The interiors were engulfed in darkness; the only source of light being the red lights that were engaged when the ship entered into emergency mode. She tapped the floor with her boots, and she found her feet planted firmly onto the ground. “I’m in,” she said quietly.

”Affirmative, Fulcrum. We have your signature on our computers. Retrieve the package and await further instructions,” the voice ordered. The Togruta nodded.

She ran her fingers across the railings of the ship. As she continued her journey deeper into the ship’s interior, she found herself wondering on the story behind the ship’s destruction. Down the hall she was in was a streak of blood, left there by a human hand. She inspected the markings closely. When she pressed the blood, it jumped slightly to her touch. “Fresh blood,” she whispered to herself. Fulcrum looked around her and saw nothing but scorch marks and metal.

She turned left from the hall, where she found herself in a small room with a dining table in the middle. Unlike the claustrophobic feeling of the hallway, she felt nothing but quiet comfort in this room. Floating nearby was a broken image of what seems to be the crew of the ship. She grabbed it and swatted the cracked glass that floated around the portrait.

’A Kuat Driveyard ship steered by the badass crew of the “At Dawn’s Break”’

There were fifty crew members that maintained the vessel. Fulcrum pushed the image forward, propelling it into a fixed trajectory towards the kitchen counters. She flashed her light at the stove. Another body. It had two elongated appendages that protruded from its head. Her skin was dark blue, and she wore a navy uniform weaved out of canvas. Between her breast, a large gaping hole. The shot cauterised the wound instantly, but the T’wilek had her mouth wide open, her eyes fixed in fear. Even in death, she screamed.

Fulcrum gently grabbed the Twilek’s wristpad. She pressed a button on its right, resulting in a holographic interface appearing before her. She mused quietly as she observed the layout of the ship. There were three routes from the kitchen: In the middle, a hallway that connected the kitchen to the crews’ quarters, as well as the cargo bay; to its right, the ship’s weapons bay; and to its left, a narrow corridor that led to the captain’s quarters and helm. 

She crossed the left hallway. The Togruta bowed deeply. “I’m sorry, but I need to borrow this,” she exited the kitchen, leaving the Twilek to slumber forever alone in darkness.

The corridor was similar to the one she was in when she first entered the ship. Its walls were painted in blue, with white accents scattered about. Maintenance on the paint clearly had not been a priority as some of the walls had their coat chipped. The emergency lights shone passively against her suit. Had the ship’s interior been pressurised, she could hear its siren blaring into her ear. Not that she need it the ship to be in working condition to imagine those noise in her head. She knew those discordant notes more than anyone else onboard her ship.

She stopped before a door. The sign beside it said: “Helm”. She muttered a celebratory ‘yes’ before pressing the button to open the door.

No response.

Fulcrum sighed. She extended her arm at the door. Deep within her being, a stream of cosmic energy flowed through her veins, reaching the tip of the fingers. Slowly, she forcefully opened the door.

The state of the helm was worst than what she had imagined. Limbs floated about the room, scarred with scorch marks on every inch of wall, floor, and window. There were five bodies from what she could see — two of them wore the same canvas uniform as the Twilek she had found in the kitchen. The remaining corpses wore black, leather jackets, with red accents on their shoulders. On their necks were tattoos of chains. Its lock was shaped in the form of a ring, and within the ring was a thin, red cross.

“ORP… damn it,” she cursed under her breath. She inspected the damage left behind by the battle. Most of the computers had their internals smashed, though some managed to survive unscathed. She walked towards one of the terminals. She connected the terminal to a makeshift power source from her backpack. A string of ones and zeroes flashed before her as the terminal booted up. 

She hastily browsed through the ship’s logs. Schematics, documents, maps — any information that could point towards the location of the package. 

‘data_package: invalid’

‘cargohold_weight: 130 tonnes of various counter-band substances. Last updated: [300 hours]

cargohold_weight [2]: 0/20 [redacted] goods. Last updated: [300 hours]’

She sighed deeply. “Kel, the package’s gone. Damn ORP was the one that hijacked the ship,” she reported.

”Copy, Fulcrum. If ORP’s behind this, then we need to hasten the salvage operation. Report back immediately,” Kel ordered through the comms. 

Fulcrum nodded. She observed the helm one last time. In the corner of her eyes, she noticed that one of the ORP hijackers had their fists clenched around a chain. She raised her eyebrow. The Togruta walked over to the body and inspected the corpse closely. There was something off about this particular corpse. It had its left arm removed completely, yet there was no charred flesh. Only metal. Normally, sights like this would not bother the Togruta, but behind those lifeless eyes were something else. There was no life. In the seconds after death, a normal person’s iris will completely submerge the pupil in darkness. However, the body before her experienced no such phenomenon. Instead, it stared at her with its cold mechanical eyes.

She gently opened its fist. Its skin had melted away, revealing a metallic surface underneath. On its palm was a chip that glowed an ominous blue. She grabbed the chip cautiously.

The ship stirred as a dozen Spacers activated their grav-boots, ready to do the gruelling task of transferring the cargo of At Dawn’s Break onto their ship. She slid the chip into her suit’s pocket. As she made her way towards the exit, she muttered a silent prayer for the lives that were lost during the terrible skirmish. She turned her back from the corpses, and let the darkness of space consume her.

***

The Ebon Hawk was not a pleasant sight to behold. Its sterile, fluorescent lights shone against the Togruta's copper skin. Strewn all over the walls were nets, containing photos, blasters, food, and promiscuous magazines. She glanced at the photos attached to the walls, and noted the tender smiles held by the ship's crew. All except hers. She stood behind them in most of the photos, hood drawn, her face obscured by the shadow. Hidden in plain sight.

The door that connected to the ship's helm slid open, and Fulcrum entered the room slowly. The command room was abuzz with activity. Droids waddled about as they performed their menial tasks, while three of the ship's crew monitored the ship's systems. Standing in the centre of the room, before a small holotable, was a Zabrak woman. She had the characteristic horns possessed by the species, but her horns were shorter. Her skin was like the shade of olives, which accentuated her sharp cheekbones. Like all Zabraks, she proudly wore her clan's tattoos upon her flesh -- painted in red, stretching from her forehead to her fingertips. 

Fulcrum coughed behind her. The Zabrak turned to face the Togruta, throwing her cape over her shoulder. "It seems that luck is on our side. This haul's the biggest one yet," she said proudly. The two crewmembers drummed their chests in pride. 

"Our luck at the expense of others," Fulcrum commented.

The Zabrak shook her head and planted her hands on Fulcrum's shoulder. "Such is the nature of things. The strong thrive, while the weak suffer," she shrugged. "And us? We get paid," she grinned at Fulcrum. The latter made no attempt to hide her dissatisfaction. "Let's debrief in my office, shall we?" she gestured to the second door within the helm.

Fulcrum followed behind the Zabrak as they entered the room. Unlike the many halls and rooms of the Ebon Hawk, the captain's lounge was bathed in a soft, orange light. An artificial fireplace cracked in the distance, basking the room in its warmth. The Zabrak sat before her desk. She procured a glass of Corellian whiskey and poured its content into two shot glasses. She handed one of the glass to her partner.

The Togrutagrabbed the glass from the desk. "Thanks," she said softly. Fulcrum downed her shot and sighed. "This is good," she commented.

The Zabrak smiled. "Finest poison in the galaxy, I'd say. Now, Fulcrum--"

"Ashoka will do. No one is hearing us, Savraa" the Togruta retorted.

Savraa sighed deeply. "What your name was before does not matter anymore. On all accounts, Ashoka is dead. The crew don't know you as her -- they know Fulcrum, the shut-in," she said as she downed her whiskey.

"You're on a sour note," Ashoka noted.

Savraa shrugged with exaggeration. "Perhaps it's because we didn't get the package?" she rubbed her temples in frustration. "You're not the blame, of course. Damn ORP must've been after the same thing as we were," she said, her voice laced with venom. "The contractor isn't going to like the news," she muttered.

The two sat opposite to each other. Savraa had her back turned away from the fireplace, casting a shadow that shrouded her face. Yet, her yellow eyes glowed amidst the darkness. "We're going to lose a lot of money over this," she broke the silence. "I'm sure you have an idea on how much it costs to maintain a ship,"

"Enlighten me," Ashoka said nonchalantly.

"Fifteen thousand credits. Six and a half for the crew, and the rest for the ship and my pockets,"

"It must be very difficult for you," the Togruta sneered. Savraa laughed, her deep voice echoing throughout the room. "But something wasn't right. For me, at least,"

Savraa shrugged. "What's there to find? Just another hunk of metal eaten by the ORP,"

"It isn't that," Ashoka stared deeply into the fire. "I take it that you've seen death before?"

"You aren't a Spacer if you haven't seen a death or two," she replied. The life of a Spacer was a harsh one, but the potential reward far outweighed any danger.

The Togruta shrugged. "There was a fight on the helm. Two ORP raiders against three. But there was something off about one of the bodies," she laid her hand on the pocket where the chip she had recovered was tucked in. "It's as if it was never alive,"

Savraa raised her eyebrow, her face hard as stone. "I find that hard to believe, Vulcrum. How else would the body be there anyway?"

"That's not what I'm trying to say," she sighed. "Death comes to people in many forms, and the clearest indicator on how the person must've felt before they passed on can be read on their faces. It depends on the person, certainly, but I noted that the body I stumbled upon had no such expression. There were no muscle movements on his face. It was a blank canvas. Didn't help that the body was made almost entirely out of metal," she pressed on her holowrist, procuring the ship's manifests prior to its destruction at the hands of the ORP.

Savraa noted one of the lines listed in the manifest. "No records of this 'redacted' good... That is quite the interesting find," she poured another shot of whiskey into her glass. "Whatever the ORP took, it must've been extremely valuable,"

Ashoka rubbed her chin. "Do you think it has anything to do with the mission the client gave to us?"

The Zabrak shook her head. "Not as far as I can recall, no. But this is certainly something worth noting," she glanced at Ashoka before she downed her whiskey. "You said something about this man that was made out of metal? Did you find anything else in that room?" Ashoka's hand slowly reached into her pocket before stopping abruptly. She observed Savraa's face closely. Her face was completely obscured in darkness, except for the two glowing yellows eyes that pierced into her very being. She had seen this face on many a people. It was a face that led to her exodus from the Order.

She rubbed her nape. "No. The manifest was the only thing I could recover from the bridge," she lied. Out in the void of space, the rarest commodity one could attain was trust. Though Spacers practice trust in many forms, it is seldom found in the realm of one's personal life. Their work didn't permit them. Every crew member had to be a finely tuned cog, performing exactly as it was told to do lest they risk the entire operation. It didn't help either that any bond made between your fellow crew members were guaranteed to persist. Most die before they even get the chance to learn the name of each others' homeworlds.

It was the perfect job for someone to disappear from the face of the galaxy.

Savraa nodded slowly. "That's a shame," she ran her finger on the rim of her glass. "On a more serious note, though, I want to hear what you think the ship might've been carrying that the ORP deemed was so necessary to retrieve,"

Ashoka shrugged. "It could be anything really. The ORP aren't really known for their reputation as clean traders, but whatever they found onboard far outvalued the other contrabands that the ship was carrying," she hummed. Though she was detached from galactic society, she was no stranger to the infamy of the ORP. In the years that followed the end of the Clone Wars, a string of rebellion had struck both the Confederacy and the Republic. Exhausted by the exploitation of the inners, they released their frustration upon the fringes of the galaxy, engaging in piracy, smuggling, and corruption -- all in the hopes of creating an independent state in the Outer Rim, powerful enough to rival the two reigning superpowers of the galaxy. Still, the lack of attention received by the contraband substances onboard was odd. The ORP were notorious for stripping unguarded ships down to its skeleton, yet the 'At Dawn's Break' was in perfect condition, safe for a few battle scars.

"I'll have the droids get to work on what little data we can salvage from the bridge. You're dismissed," Ashoka turned for the door. But as the door slid open, she felt the Zabrak's hand touched her shoulder. She leaned into her ear. "If you're hiding something, then it's best you tell me very soon," Ashoka felt the hair on arms pricked up when the Zabrak returned to her desk, completely content with the state of her life. She turned her chair to face the fireplace, hiding whatever emotion she held on her face.

***

Ashoka found herself alone in the ship's computer room. The Ebon Hawk was not a large ship, but it had a sizeable section dedicated to finely-tuned electronics. Their inclusion was deemed necessary by Savraa due to the massive explosion in demand for Confederacy goods -- in particular, droid technology. Their operations in this room have made millions for the crew, but maintenance and debt ensured that the crew only gained a small portion of the fruits of their labour. Despite this shortcoming, many of the ship's crew insisted on staying. It baffled her to this day. 

She inserted the chip she had found into the computer. Suddenly, hundreds of lines of code materialised before her. "Interesting," she ran an analysis on the chip. A decade of constant combat and flight had taught her much about the various programming architectures used by the galaxy, overworld and underworld alike. But the program before her was unlike anything she had ever seen. The language was completely alien to her, and its inconsistent use of mathematical equations unknown to her proved impossible for her to crack. Despite the shortcomings, she noted the vast gaps in-between some of code lines, though the gaps themselves weren't completely devoid -- there were lines, but they were incomplete. Whoever made the program wanted its secrets to remain locked for eternity. But amidst the countless strings of incomprehensible code, a name was repeated.

Blackbox.

Her eyebrows piqued in curiosity. "That's a weird name," she stopped her musing. In the corner of her eye, she spotted a faint object moving about, almost mechanically. She glanced behind her back to find CB-4 -- the ship's personal droid. Their design was unlike any other droid on the market: Round in shape, painted white with flowing streaks of red on their hull. Above the sphere was cylinder that housed the droid's processors and its large round eyes. The droid rolled over to her, bumping their head against her leg. She smiled. "What do you think it means, buddy?"

The droid responded with a series of beeps. 

"Yes, I know it's a code name. Tell me something I don't know," again, the droid chirped. She crossed her arms, nodding. The Togruta stared at the computer screen for a moment, contemplating she should let CB review the code. She shrugged. "I suppose it's worth a shot. Come over here, let's jack you up," CB's head rolled forward slightly as they slid towards the terminal. They inserted their mechanical arm into the terminal, rotating its mechanisms. The droid's eyes turned white as they meticulously scanned each line of code. Ashoka smiled at the droid. In the months onboard the Ebon Hawk, CB has always been there for her. They didn't avoid her like the other crew members. At times, she can't help but find it ironic that droid was more human than their human masters. 

After a moment, the droid ejected its arm from the terminal and chirped at the Togruta. She sighed. "I figured as much. Thanks for the help, though," they waved their arm in excitement before rolling away across the hallway. She peered at the screen again. Some of the lines were altered slightly, though they were still incomprehensible when interpreted as a function. However, among the codes that had been altered by CB was a line that struck her curiosity: Made in Odessen. The world was located on the edges of known space, far removed from any major hyperlanes. Despite its isolated position, the planet held major significance in Jedi canon as a haven for Jedi during the wars against the Eternal Empire. At least, that's what the records in the Archives said about Wild Space. She thanked the Force and CB for exposing the creator's ignorance before her. She inserted the chip into her pocket and walked towards her quarters.

The ship was fairly large for its class. It was a Gozanti-class cruiser, though many of its features were stripped in favour of efficiency and reliability. Her quarters was positioned next to the kitchen room, where the ship's fifteen crew members gathered to celebrate, discuss, and -- on occasion -- interact intimately. She has lost track on the amount of times when she could hear the sounds of flesh pounding against one another in the middle of her nightly meditation. She stared at the elevator doors as the lift made its descent to the bottom deck. The air felt stuffy, and she could sense the smell of cooked meat from the elevator. When the doors opened, she was greeted by the panicked faces of two of her crewmates, running about as the meat on the stove caught on fire. She gasped and ran towards the fire extinguisher. She let loose the extinguisher's load on the stove, quenching the flames. She turned to find the two of them sighing in relief. 

Kal punched Tola's shoulder harshly. "Why didn't you think of using the extinguisher?"

The man chuckled. "The thought didn't occurred to me just now," he rubbed the nape of his neck in embarrassment. Born on the lower levels of Taris, Kal was short and stocky. His skin were as pale as snow, and he wore a pair of red-tinted sunglasses wherever light was present. 

"Are you two alright?" Ashoka inquired.

Tola sighed. "Thankfully, though none of this would've started if it weren't for this jackass over here," she crossed her arms. The woman was unusually taller than any other humans Ashoka knew. Her skin was that of olives, growing lazily beside a tranquil oasis, but her thin form told stories of a life fitting for a spacer. Artificial gravity was not a luxury many Spacers could afford in the outer-rim; it was a complicated technology that only the wealthy could afford. On many uncharted colonies, especially on asteroids and barren moons, colonists would have to use grav-boots to attach themselves onto the ground. But though they could operate normally on foot, the lack of gravity affected their bodies greatly. For second-generation Spacers like Tola, walking on a planet was an incredible feat reserved for the most resilient Spacers. 

Kal pouted. "It's not my fault that you can't cook Fahsa," he pointed at the charred remains of their dish. "Look at how you massacred my boy!"

Tola opened her mouth to retort, only to be interrupted when Ashoka gently planted her hand on her shoulder. "How about I make an easy dinner for the three of us?"

The Spacer raised her eyebrow. "You'd do that?" she asked, confusion written all over her face.

Ashoka nodded. "The mission left a bad taste in my mouth, or rather no taste. Quite frankly, I'm starving," she glanced over at Kal. "Help me clean up the stove, will you?"

Kal sighed in frustration. "Why am I always on stove-cleaning duty," he muttered.

The Togruta cooked a dish she had learned from an old friend in the Order, Baris. A Mirialan dish, the recipe was simple. She cooked a bowl of Chandrilian rice into a rice-cooker. Then, she chopped four gloves of garlic and seasoned the blocks of Ayam (the Mirialan word for chicken) with cabe, paprika, and salt. She threw the ingredients inside a wok, and the oil sizzled viciously. She put all the rice inside the wok, seasoning the rice with sweet and salty soy-sauce. After ten minutes of intense labour on the stove, she prepared the dish to the two crew members of her ship.

Their mouths salivated at the sight of the dish. They tore into the rice as soon as Ashoka planted the dish on the table. She chuckled at the quirks of her crewmates. "That hungry, huh?"

Kal swallowed a spoonful of rice. "Ravenous, Vulcrum. This is one mean dish. Where'd you say it came from again?"

"Mirial," she answered as she took a bite of her rice.

The Spacer nodded"Heard of that place, but I've never been there. Kind of odd that someone like you know how to make something like this," another bite.

Ashoka ran her hand on her headtail. "You pick up a thing or two when you've been roaming about the galaxy for as long as I have," she said cryptically.

Kal downed his mug of beer. "That's very true! Galaxy's a big place, and space's the best place you can ever be in if you wanna learn new dishes quick!" he scoffed. "Maybe you should learn a thing or two from her, Tols,"

He grunted in pain as Tola lightly punched his shoulder. "Still, I am a bit curious as to why you'd want to make food for us. You're not the kind to do kind things out of the blue, you know?"

The Togruta shrugged. "Mission went south. ORP was involved,"

Tola's eyes widened. "Excuse me, but the ORP was there?"

"They were dead when I boarded the ship, but seeing their bodies float next to the crew's... it was a sour note to end the mission," she crossed her arms. Despite her best attempts, she cannot help but be reminded of the man that held the chip. How lifeless his eyes were, even before his untimely demise. 

"So what? Those thugs were long gone by the time you boarded that ship," he leaned forward. "We're always at death's doorstep whenever we go out there. It's survival of the fittest, and they just so happened to draw the short end of the stick," he drank his beer.

"The cynicism of a Spacer," Ashoka commented. The ship rocked violently as energy pulsated throughout the room. Within an instant, the energy dissipated and the ship returned to normal. "I'm interested in how you came about with that view on life," she asked the Tarisian.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You don't live this long if you don't know a thing or two about living underground. City worlds are hell, especially for those who live below,"

Tola leaned her chin against her fist. "I can't imagine how it must've felt like to live in that sort of environment. The Gs must've been overwhelming," she noted.

Kal shook his head. "It wasn't the Gs that was unbearable -- you got grav-engineering to thank for that. No, it was the heat and the humidity of it all. Whoever said that city-worlds have planetwide air conditioning's a dumbass. The air gets so damp the further down you go. Eventually, you can hardly breathe unless you wear specialised gear," he smiled. "It was hard, but there were good memories,"

"I thought that wasn't an issue anymore on Taris?" Ashoka inquired. 

"We're a tough crowd. If we can survive an orbital bombardment, I'm sure we can survive anything,"

Tola scoffed. "Don't say that with certainty, Kal. You might jinx yourself,"

"If I die, so be it. I didn't become a Spacer cus' I wanted to, y'know?"

Ashoka took a sip from her mug. "I wouldn't recommend throwing your life so easily. The Force flows in mysterious ways,"

The Spacer giggled. "You believe in the force? Isn't that just some fantasy?"

Ashoka narrowed her eyes slightly. The Jedi were legendary for their adherence to the Force, but their teachings hardly ever extend beyond their order. A few have had the chance to meet a Jedi in-person, especially in a region as untamed as the Outer Rim. She shook her head. "I believe in it wholeheartedly. After all, it was a Jedi that saved my life," she lied, though she was not wrong. Without the intervention of her former Master, she would not have been able to walk freely from court. She would have spent the rest of her days in prison. 

"So you like them, then? Even after all they've done -- or rather, what they didn't do -- during the Clone Wars?" the Togruta noticed a hint of venom in Tola's voice. But how can she blame her? The Order was supposed to serve the people, not as generals, fighting alongside a slave army. Dogma blinded them to the pain of the common people. When the worlds of the Outer Rim pleaded for aid, they were met with silence, the Order overwhelmed with their newfound responsibilities delegated upon them by Sidious.

Ashoka took another sip. "No. I don't think I can ever forgive for what they did, but their actions are not reflective of that of the Force," she explained. "In the end, they're just people,"

"Life is but a comet we ride. We can change how it looks, but only gravity can alter the body from its course," Tola added. "Is that what you're implying?"

The Togruta nodded.

Tola rose her mug into the air and drank in silence. 

Kal stretched his arms and rose from his seat. The plate was completely empty, and so was their drinks. He procured a cigarette from his pocket and lit the joint. He released the smoke into the air. "Say, any of you know where we might be headed?"

Tola checked the pad on her wrist. It projected a miniaturised version of the galaxy. She zoomed into the local region map, where it showed the ship's trajectory -- updated real-time via the ship's onboard communications systems. "It seems we're headed to Kessel. Boss probably wants to sell the contraband goods we scavenged from the Dawn," the Spacer hypothesised. 

Ashoka raised her eyebrow. "What did we scavenge from the Dawn anyway?"

"A shit load of spice, computer splicers, and a few type-I buzzer droids," Kal interjected. He grinned at the pair's shocked faces. "Yeah, we struck gold. The buzzers are made out of doonium, so you know the Boss had money-eyes the moment she saw the droid," the Togruta nodded. She had seen her fair share of buzzer droids during the Clone Wars. They were used to sabotage vital Republic resources, jeapordising the integrity of entire operations within moments. Though outdated, the type-I buzz droid was still a formidable foe at the hands of a competent tactician -- a supply that the Separatists severely lacked.

The former Jedi waved at her colleagues. "It was nice spending time with you, but I have to go now,"

As she retreated into her chambers, she could hear the faint shouts of an argument, reignited. She smiled solemnly.

Her room was remarkably dull. The walls remained sterile, devoid of any decorations or posters. In the corner of the room, below her workstation, was a box, carefully isolated as to avoid any wanton attention. She fell onto her bed and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity. The grey-tinted walls stared back at her. She frowned. Despite her best attempts at rationalising her predicament, she can never forgive what the Order had done to her -- or rather, what the Order had fallen itself into. A thousand years of peace made the Order weak as they found themselves more involved in the political machine of the Republic rather than fulfilling their duties as the stewards of the galaxy. She vividly remembered the glares she received by the members of the Council. They were not the warm, compassionate faces she had come to expect from the Council; they were cold, uncaring for the world around them. 

Everyday, she found herself thinking on the words Barriss professed on her trial, and she cannot help but agree with them.

She looked at her brazen hands. It has been a decade since that fateful day, and she has been running ever since. Away from her past -- away from her fears, hopes, and dreams. She let out an exasperated sigh. The Togruta felt the tug of sleep pull her into its embrace until she heard the rhythmic 'beeps' of a communicator nearby. She rose from her bed sharply and glanced at the supposed location of the communicator. It was inside the box.

'Speak of the devil,' she thought to herself. Ashoka walked towards the box and scanned its contents. Inside the box was a communicator, a set of ceremonial Togruta-padawan clothes, and a pair of lightsabers -- one of which was shorter than the other. A blast from the past. She grabbed the communicator from the box and planted it onto the table. As her finger leaned closer to press the button, she felt her body hesitate for a moment. She knew that a day would come when she will be needed again, but she did not expect it to come this early. She pressed the interface in order to identify the caller.

It was Padme.

Whatever hesitation that was left in her body disappeared the moment she saw her name written in the projection. She pressed the button and a holographic recording of the message began to play before her.

The former Nabooan queen was draped in a traditional, senatorial gown. Her hair was tied into two buns that was neatly decorated with colourful braids, not too dissimilar to her own. She bowed slightly at the camera. "Good evening, Ashoka. It's been a while. I apologise for the sudden message, but I assure you it is urgent," she crossed her arms as a serious expression fell on her face. "A week ago, one of our worlds was bombed by the ORP. Luckily, the damage wasn't too severe, but tens of men and women lost their lives, and countless more are injured. Unfortunately, this was not the first time the ORP had made an attack on us, but it is the first time that we saw this," a new interface was opened before her. It was a picture of a man's head, whose skin had been peeled partially, revealing a metallic surface underneath.

Just like the ORP bandit that was onboard the Dawn.

"This is unlike anything we have ever encountered. The head was completely devoid of any biological components, with the exception of the skin, meaning that this could very well be an android," Padme paused. "I know this sounds insane, but you need to believe me. We recovered a chip from the skull, but it was damaged beyond repair. However, we have reason to believe that a former member of the Order may have information about these androids and who might be producing them," the projection of the skull was changed to that of a Kiffar. A man that she was all too familiar with. "Before his imprisonment, Anakin told me that Quinlan Vos approached him on how to find him. Unfortunately, owing to his tendency to operate... under the shadows, we have very little information on where he is currently. But we do have intel that one of his former hideouts was located in Kessel, in a bar known as the Laderach. I doubt you'd find him there, but you might be able to find a clue on where he could potentially be,"

She smiled sadly. "Once you've obtained the information from Kessel, rendezvous to this location. I'll meet you there. There isn't much time left, Ashoka. The fate of the Republic hangs in the balance, and your mission will determine whether it will continue to stand. You are our only hope," and with that, the message ended.

Ashoka's head felt her head spun at the abruptness of the message. No matter where she went, how far she may run, her past will always catch up to her. She rubbed her temples. The mission will not be easy. She had heard many things about the enigma of the Jedi Order. Once an acolyte of Dooku, he was redeemed and returned to the Light, but his time as Dooku's apprentice made him wary of the failings of the Order. When the Order announced their departure for their ancestral world of Tython, Vos was the first to leave the Order. She was among the first whom he contacted about his resignation, but his words were vague and distant, as if he was intentionally omitting critical information. 

"I wonder if the night skies will be any different in Wild Space. Wouldn't it be nice to see an empty sky," he confessed to her as they strolled the Coruscanti underworld. He slipped a disk inside his pocket.

She felt her heart pound in excitement. Her first mission since the glory days of the Order. She hated to admit it, but she missed the brief moments before battle. A calm before the storm. The Togruta stared at the communicator for a moment. For the past decade, she had been running from a past that she could not avoid. She was a ghost, a spectre that tries so desperately to shed itself from its trauma. But the Force works in mysterious ways, and perhaps this was its calling for her to return into the foray -- to reject her exile and become something more, for the sake of the galaxy and her friends.

For her to start living again.

Ashoka grabbed her lightsaber from the box. The hilt was covered in dust, yet its silver-coating still shone brilliantly. With the press of a button, the blade was ignited, producing a vibrant, blue rod of plasma that painted the room in its hue. She held the blade before her, her eyes burning with resolve.

She grinned. "Out of the frying pan, and into the fire."