Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

S’kar leaned back in his plush office chair. Let the soft padding envelop him. Felt the cool rush of air flow in his nostrils. Allowed the Galaxy to slip away into nothing, just for a few moments. 

By the Force, I love this chair.  

Sure, S’kar might’ve been the big cheese of smuggling in the 1442, but he still ran on thinner-than-thin margins. Almost as rail thin as he was, infact. Was especially strange for a Devaronian considering he had the two long horns springing out the top of his head and the sharpened teeth of his species, but he lacked the bulk many of his kind were known for. Regardless of his appearance, he ran a tight ship even with how the offworld smugglers were always raising prices, while customs officials wanted bigger bribes for doing exactly nothin. Then there were bail and even more bribes to keep his boys outta the slammer when they would done get pinched. Then, finally, he could only afford to raise prices so much before locals couldn’t afford his product anyhow. The result, the amount of cred getting uploaded to his personal account was about breakin even at this point. Blitz, he had to spend his own cred keeping the lights on here at the fitness center. Not much of a big-time boss if your legit credit laundering front goes to the dumps. He was tempted to try to make more creds off the center, ya know, up the subscription costs or sumthin, but ya can’t put a price on good will. He was just glad his own account built up a healthy buffer...how long that’d last though was gettin concernin. 

Despite all that, his one indulgence was those first fifteen minutes when he got back to his personal office, technicallity, it was the fitness center’s director’s office (which he technicallity was), but he wenta’head and made it his own home away from home. And his crown jewel was the chair that was perfectly supporting his aching back with its masterworkful craftsmanship at that very moment. Soft supple leather, real down filling, high-tech micro lattice structure for optimal smart shifting based on whoever’s kesiter was sittin in it, and even a heating function. Perfection. He had gotten first dibs on anything Arten impounded from the crooks he brought in and there was no way he was letting a steal like this slip away into an incinerator or some corporate middle manager's digs. He had wanted the matching desk too, but for some reason the Jedi insisted on taking that for himself, in spite’of the stains. 

Jedi Knight Rchar Arten...he and S’kar had been on quite ride. He could still remember the first time he laid his eyes on the human. S’kar couldn’t’ve been, what...eight? Nine? And there he was with Ryser, hawking some drecky virtual assistant software or whatever. Next thing the crowd suddenly thins out and there he was. Big brown cloak over some tan robes with that oversized belt. Clean face and clean hands. Hood up over his head, prolly couldn’t see a thing. Of course, even as a humble duct-rat, S’kar should have recognsied a Jedi. Nobody goes walking around in cloak and robes these days, more like armored coats and dura-weave threads, but that little nibble in the back of his young mind just screamed out how this human had to be some dumb upworlder just beggin to be separated from his credits. Ryser wadn’t quite so convinced, but the young Devaronian ignored his chummer's words and went for it anyway. Let the stranger walk on, barely acknowledgin’em pass by. Started moving in behind him. Step by step by step until he was right on his ass. Then, quick as slip, nicked something off his belt. S’kar hadn’t had time to look and carefully consider what he was stealin, but figured anything and upworlder had must’ve been worth the effort. S’kar ran off, not caring if the stranger caught’onta him. Duct-rat like him could give anybody the slip, especially a topsider.  

Up this stairwell, down this alley, even moved through a vent to’be safe. S’kar smiled back in the present, remembering how outta breath he was from the runnin and the excitement. The metal cylinder in his hand seemed fancy enough to hawk for a couple meals. It had a few kobs and a button, somekind of grip or another and was open on one end. S’kar rubbed a hand over his bald head as he recalled bringin the open end right up to his eye wonderin if he could see if there was anyting inside thinking it was some kind of portable securi-safe filled with loot. One wrong twitch and he’d have been K’O’ed permanently right there. Then, right at that moment, the thing flies right outta his hands like a carnebat right inta the hands of the human he just nicked it off. S’kar saw the stranger there, half bent over exhausted, breathin heavy with one hand resting on the alley wall to prop’im up. He had no idea how the skrag could’ve followed him, not to mention kept up with him considerin all the shortcuts he’d taken, but the duct-rat still thought he could at least getaway back the way he came...until he saw that yellow blade of pure plasma light up. 

A Jedi, sure, even as a duct-rat living a few thousand levels below Coruscant’s surface he’d heard of the mystic Jedi Order. Beings who trained to use the Force, supposedly a magic energy which gave’em powers. The idea of actually seein one in the flesh was crazy, and he’d tried knick his lightsaber, the holy weapon of their Order, right off’im. S’kar’d been ready to make his peace with whatever god would listen, until the Jedi just gave him a nasty look before turning to leave. That migh’ve been his first encounter with Arten, but far from the last. For a few years things had been good. He’d come around to him and the other duct-rats, ask a few questions about biz goin down in the strict, pay’em in food or even loose change if they’d be lucky. S’kar remembered how he’d perk up and smile when he saw the cloaked figure come stalkin down the street. Of course, that smile got replaced with a frown and cursin once S’kar got older and graduated from pocketpicken and stealing to more adult biz like smuggling and dealin. Spent plenty of nights locked up cold in the slammer thanks to the Jedi. Thinkin back on it in hindsight, couldn’t blame him. In fact, S’kar was a bit thankful Arten didn’t do worse. Then he wasn’t so thankful when he remembered how he did do worse eventually, rubbing the back of his hand instinctively, and almost did something waaay worse after that. 

That was a long time ago, though. Three years, which wasn’t long at all for people makin their way in the underlevels. S’kar smiled, to his own surprise, proud of how far he’d made it in that time. Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the day’s single rest thinking of times past. See, he had a policy. When he gets back to his office, no interruptions, no complaints, no news for fifteen minutes (he was down from thirty). He had even managed to get back to his doss for a coupla hours of sleep after hitting up that shipment of deathsticks with Arten. The two jedi had told him it was to make it look like it was his own moves and not the authorties, and he didn’t mind the good optics. Since then, S’kar hadn’t heard any biz about it so far walking through the center towards his office, and as they say, “no news is good news.” Still, he figured one’of his boys would have an update once he opened his doors, and for once he was looking forward to the news. Hopefully they bagged that pirate queen lady and he was back to having uninterrupted control of the sector. Not to mention he wanted to know that the jedi and even the commandos made it out all right. Never worked that close with’em before. Chattin it up and shootin the breeze with a few clone soldiers while they were all waiting around, wouldn't've imagined they’d have the bark to go along with their serious bite. Maybe he’d invite’em over for a drink sometime if they had a tick. 

In the name of  Gondira’s holy balls, shootin the vent with Republic soldiers. Not just that, but Clone Commandos who specialized in huntin down criminals. S’kar couldn’t have imagined it outside a cheap credit serial. One day Arten has him literally pinned to a table askin some hard questions. Then a few days later S’kar hears the damnest thing, The Jedi’s got some girl following him around. Turns out she’s his student Jedi or whatever. Then months later after that, outta the grey, Calia’s there in the flesh asking to set up a private meet with him right where her boss practically tortured info outta him. She plays the Good Jedi and makes this huge deal where they would pay him monthly just to keep his ear to the ground while bailin’im outta any trouble. Then Arten, the Big Bad Jedi, storms in, is about to put S’kar’s eye out until the girl stops him. To this day, the petty crime boss wasn’t sure they both weren’t in on it and were pulling one over on’im. Don’t think so, they seemed pretty raw there, but can’t ever be sure without askin, and he wasn’t plannin on asking anytime soon. Then he thinks he’s on easy skylane just trading biz updates for cred, but in a flash, he goes from infiltrating a smuggler fortress for’em, setting up his own business with their approval, and ratting out his competition to’em until he ran he sector. He might’ve been their puppet, but he was a comfortable puppet with a reasonably successful business. If Calia really had been that diabolical from the start to plan out setting S’kar up until he’s a power in his own right, right there all comfy’cozy in her pocket, he wasn’t sure if S'kar should respect or fear her...she was hot either way, he added. He was only four years older than her but was pretty sure he wasn’t her type. 

And despite all that, and here he was still doin favors for them, for free! He was supposed to be the local head honcho. Well, thinking about it, maybe was good to toss’em a favor now and then still considerin how hard the Republic had been crackin down on his breed of enterprise all over. They were techincal-like officers in the Republic military, gave’em some serious clout with both the clone and local police. 

Anyway...One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Alright, time to turn and face the Galaxy. 

He opened his eyes. The flashing light on his desktop comm unit was flashing between green and red. Red for a message, green for a call on hold. It was going to be a long night. He tapped the pickup and a miniature depiction of one’of his surface movers appeared from the shoulders up. Was Jacques, oneof the few humans in his operation, and as such the perfect choice for linking up with shipments as they touched down on the surface. He was reliable, mostly, S’kar suspected he had a habit of skimming offa the top. Down here though, would be weird if he didn’t. 

That didn’t explain the beads of sweat running down his bald forehead; was bad enough S’kar could see it even through the grain and static of the holo-display. ‘Boss, I dunno what’s happen, but it’s big.’ S’kar rolled his eyes. His crew always assumed that any biz they were involved in must’ve been the biggest news that he’d have to drop everything and run’to their rescue. ‘Look Jacques, I got bigger biz goin down. So if you–’ 

‘Boss, there in’t bigger biz right now! You don’t get it. I’m passing through on the surface, and think I’d swing by the Jedi Temple. You know, just enjoy the sights.’ S’kar highly doubted that, but continued listening anyway. ‘And’I see the damnest thing. There’s toy soldiers, tons of’em, might be a whole Legion’s worth, staging outside the fraggin Temple!’ S’kar’s eyebrow raised. Impossible, clones making a move against Jedi? Was just schelpin impossible. They were on the same side. Hell, he’d watched a Jedi giving orders to clones just a few hours ago. Why in the Force’s name would they be movin on their own, now? S’kar was prepared to tell Jacques as much before just ordering him to keep an eye on things when he remembered his other messages. He never did check how many there were. ‘Jacques, hold on a tick. I’ll call ya right back.’ The human nodded as the display fizzled out.  

Dozens. Virtually everybody he had on retainer was hitting him up. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve taken those fifteen minutes of peace. And it was all the same... 

‘They’re coming–’ 

‘Looking for–’ 

‘Searching–’ 

‘Asking about any Jedi–’ 

‘Breakin down doors–’ 

‘Clones shooting!–’ 

‘Herding aliens someplace–’ 

‘Not taking “no” for an–’ 

‘Shooting anyone who–’ 

‘They were looking for you, Boss!’ 

By the Force . S’kar didn’t have the faintest idea why it was happening, but S’kar had seen enough urgent hit jobs to figure what was happening. Republic wanted the Jedi dead, and they were trying to blitz’em before anybody could catch onto the fact. Of course, underlevels were constantly on the lookout for Republic sweeps and raids and figured everything out in a blink. Jedi, surfacers, most of the law-abiding folks just tryin to see tomorrow, they’d be in for one helluva surprise, though. Looking for me, huh? Classic hit squad move. Ya can’t find your target? Well, just hit up any and everybody who’s ever looked at’em sideways until somebody cracks.  An naturally, S’kar had just finished working a job with some clones. They’d be hitting up his door here anytime now, and he doubted they’d believe him when he told’em he had no idea where they’d ended up. Supposed, the only thing saving his and the Jedi’s skin was how the toy soldiers didn’t bother learnin the local hangouts. 

Well, this is it then. Without Arten looking the otherway my short career in smugglin is up. More importantly, he’d have to get the word out to him and Calia. They’d need his and a lot of other people’s help if they wanted to survive. The Jedi might’ve lived down here, but they weren’t real underworlders. Hmmph, well, guess they are now. He went back to his comm and called Jacques back. ‘Forget about the Temple, not our concern. I want you to hit up everybody,’ S’kar held up a hand to silence the complaints he could already see formin on the fragger’s face, ‘And I mean everybody. Anyone who is who, and I want’em looking for the two Jedi who live here in the 1442. And not a single peep outta an unsecured commline, ya hear? In-person meets as much as ya’ll can manage’. S’kar knew the Republic had been monitorin civie communications for a while now, and luckily that left him and his people used to sharin the good word without singing notes out over the channels. Even so, the more secure connection he was using now was a liability anyway. 

‘Ayy, alright, Boss? But the boys are gonna be wonderin why we’re putting our skin out for’em.’ 

‘Cuz they’re underworlders, and unlike on the surface, we take of our own.’ He shut off the communication before Jacques had a chance to get in another word. S’kar had a couple’of more calls to make. All he had to do was put the word out subtlely to a chosen few beings, and he could trust somebody’d get to’em and warn the Jedi they needed to keep their heads down. Would even try his backdoor line into their office, but was probably pointless. If the Jedi were at any of their usual haunts, they were already good as dead.  

He and everyone else in the district owed’em that much. For years, Arten had been out there in the skylanes keepin the worst bits of daily life this far below the surface at bay. He kept the swoop gangs to heel, the being smugglers broken, and the chem dealers out. Then Calia comes in and gets people talking and communicating, S’kar included. She shows people how if they work together here and there, they can make things better for everybody. Then learner-Jedi spends all her time keeping the ship spaceworthy and the vacuum out. In just a few years, in the middle of a war, the 1442 went from being just another broken district on a long-abandoned level of Coruscant to being a place with a steady supply of clean food and water, three schools, clean-ish streets, a good flow'of credits and even having the local crime rate, ahem, under control. The Jedi might not’ve been underworlders themselves holed up in their little fortress there, but they did good by all of them. And if S’kar had his way, the underlevels would do good by the pair of Jedi now that they was in a bind. He just hoped that whatever caused the Republic’s opinion to turn on the Jedi Order didn’t translate to regular folk too quick. Things might have been better here than most elsewhere under the surface, but was only a matter of time before things broke down without the pair working to help, and beings got desperate again. And when beings get desperate, even people you trusted and loved a little while ago would start to look like a fresh cut of creds.  

The small-time boss made his holo-calls, then leaned back in his favorite chair, and just took a tic to absorb the reality of what must’ve been going down. I need a drink. He turned and pulled a bottle and glass outta the bottom drawer of his desk. He looked at the homemade, handwritten label, “Fellucian Brandy.” His favorite. Was a gift from Arten. He poured himself a single swallow and let it slither down his throat. He burned and shivered just right as it hit his gullet. He knew he had to get moving and stood up. Was surprised the clones hadn’t already let themselves in wondering where they could find their former commanders. S’kar wondered if they’d bother with a speel about patriotism and the good of the Republic before squealin or would just torture the truth outta him. He still had one more thing to take care of before he set out to disappear himself. If Republic really was coming down on Jedi, they’d be livin on borrowed time so long as they stayed on Coruscant. Sooner or later, some toy soldier would get lucky or an enterprising individual would see an opportunity in turning them in. Way he saw it, only chance they had was getting offworld. Bein on the next starship after them might’ve been his own best chance at seeing his next birthday. Thankfully, while his personal account at the bank might’ve stopped growing, he was smart enough to leave aside a comfy little retirement plan– 

S’kar froze, and laughed hysterically. Tears welled up in his eyes. He just kept laughing and laughing. This whole life he’s built was thanks to Calia offerin him that deal years ago down in the Pitt. And he remembered what the final cherry on top’of that soy sundae had been. When he inevitably got into trouble, they’d arrange for him to get smuggled offworld and set him up somewhere comfortable. Now here he was, putting everything he had built to the wind in one final gamble at maybe savin their skin. The Devaronian wondered if the Force had set them on a collision course on purpose or if that gal could really think a thousand steps ahead. He stood, grabbed the bottle by the neck, and marched towards his door, takin another big, healthy swig as he went.  

Force flay me! That stuff hits just right!  

S’kar heard a familiar sound, deafening just a few meters from his door. Phew! PhewPhewPhew! Followed by a moan. Phew! The moaning stopped. Sounded like Teras. Too bad, he really was just a trainer. Had nothing to do wit the smugglin.  

There was a pounding at his door. 

He turned back to his desk, one hand running along the cracked synthetic wood. It wasn’t much but it was his. He turned back and sat down in his favorite chair. Let its soft folds envelop his tired aching body. Filled his lungs with the crispest, most refreshing breath of air he’d ever known. 

The pounding continued. There was a voice now. Yelling. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five...  

Got the word out, at least. Did somethin good for somebody for once in my life...You know what? I’ve done good. I’ve helped feed people. Found medicine when no one else could. Helped bring down some serious underworld players. Gorm, for one. Even gave people a place to move and exercise without worryin they’d get jumped. It’d been hard, but during my twenty-three years of life, I’d at least done some good.  

The pounding stopped. He heard the sound of boots scuffin his floors. He’d just had that buffed the other day. Then the thump, as something he assumed was a magnetic breaching charge, got slapped unto his door.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.  

S’kar Ka Art’chet finished off the bottle of Felucian Brandy. 

Chapter Text

Nido stood lookout on the corner. As a Rodian, he had the best vision, almost as good in pitch black as under a bright streetlight. So, naturally, he was always the go-to pick when it came to who’d stand watch for the rest of the Gutterunners. He didn’t have much faith in their current scheme, however. Mica had enthusiastically promised that he had “cracked the code” on how the old abandoned automated-credit machines worked and could get them to spill out all the free creds they needed. Of course, Tombo was enthusiastic about easy quick credits, and as usual, Mara had gone along with it despite her doubts, and Lerrna was practically attached to Mara’s hip so she was there too. The entire gang was there together.

Nido himself had his own reservations, he figured there were two possibilities. Either the machines had been cleaned out centuries ago after level 1442 had been built over and ousted from the surface back when it had still been the surface. If it was so easy a twelve-year-old could do it, it would have been done. That, or the ACMs were such fortresses they’d be impossible to slice into. On top of the likely chance of failure, all this was probably a waste of effort since any credits still in a machine this ancient would be equally ancient. It’d be akin to trying to pay for a shiny new speeder with coins you nicked out of a museum. Not that Nido had ever visited a museum or seen a shiny new speeder, but he didn’t have any ideas of his own about how they’d pay for lunch so he kept his mouth closed and watched the alley.

Mica had been so happy after building the slicing tool himself, and he remembered the other boy constantly going through the trash for months looking for parts. Nido looked over his shoulder, seeing Mica fiddling with the crude analog controls (he still couldn’t find an undamaged touchscreen), while Tombo, fulfilling his role as “leader”, stood over his shoulder with his crude idea of advice. Basically, just saying, “Do this” or “Do that,” despite how he didn’t have the slightest idea bout how the slicing tool worked. Meanwhile, Mara just looked on. She looked tired. Lerrna was clinging to her side, and Nido knew she was thinking how the time they wasted here in this dark low-traffic alley could be spent scamming for handouts or picking pockets. Tombo would argue, saying, “We should be moving into big-time stealing!” Nido had seen the same argument enough times he could foresee it all clear as clean water. So far, big-time stealing hadn’t gotten the Runners much food, Nido thought to himself, turning back around towards the passageway. They were tucked between a few hand-built shacks up against the side of the same original Coruscant tower the ACM was built inta. He could see a few bums, eh, homeless, milling about. Calia always told Nido not to talk down to other beings, regardless of their circumstances.

He sighed. There was no point in keeping watch. No one cared that they were messing with such an antique, and there was no need to watch for someone looking to snatch up their credits because there was no way they were actually gonna make any credits. Nido was about to say as much, frustrated with his hungry belly and tired of always being stuck on lookout. Why couldn’t Tombo stand on watch sometimes!

Nido turned, ‘Hey, why don’t-’

‘Aahhh!’ a desperate, ear-piercing scream filled the quiet alley.

Nido turned again, skin tightening. He wasn’t keeping watch. His antenna turned and flicked in every direction, trying to pinpoint the source of the scream, followed by grunts and the sound of something solid slamming into a body. With momentary relief, he realized the cry had come from the main throughway, just off the alley. He and his family were safe for the moment. That relief was short-lived as he heard more cries and barked orders, along with the sound of pounding feet as he imagined beings running in terror and the hard, rugged boots of those running after them. An Underworld PD raid? But they never bother.

“Guys...” Nido called back, trying to keep his voice as low as possible while still being hearable over them tinkering with the ACM. He realised they might not have noticed the sounds with their cruder hearing. Suddenly, there was a crash. More footsteps. He reached for the small pocketknife he kept in his ratty, frayed jacket. Bursting into the alley was a human woman, mid-twenties, maybe younger. They might be able to handle her if they work together, but hopefully they wouldn’t need to. The panic he saw in her eyes as she sprinted towards them convinced Nido they should be more worried about what she was running from than her. He was unsure if he should step out and meet her or if it was a better idea to hang back in the alley, but before making a decision, her eyes landed on him. There was more clattering and shout from where she had escaped from. With the choice made for him, he waved towards her, calling her to hide out in the small nook the ACM rested in. Her head cocked towards his hand, turned to look over her shoulder momentarily before another burst of speed from her long legs carried her to huddle into the already cramped space. The other Runners all reacted, Mara tense pulling a fist back behind her head ready to strike, Tombo started forward but still shoved Mica behind him first as Lerrna ducked back around Mara’s legs. Before everything broke out, Nido moved one suction-up-ended finger up to his snout and whispered, ‘Shhh.’ There were more sounds of movement. Nido imagined eyes peering into the darkness of the old, long abandoned alleyway, looking for the running being, but then they moved on realizing they likely weren’t worth the effort.

There was a tension in the air. The other Runners were just now noticing the passing commotion, their ears less sensitive than Nido’s, besides Lerrna, maybe, considering she’s Cathar and the other Gutterrunners were humans. She likely heard everything but was always the type to keep things to herself. The adult was panting, sweat running down the sides of her head and neck, her musty scent injecting into the already rank underlevel air. Finally, the sounds passed, and an eerie silence took hold of them all. Quiet was always relative in a world filled to bursting with beings; there was always someone or something making noise. So when things really got super quiet, like it was in that moment, you got scared. The only sound was everyone’s breathing, slow but steady. Ready.

Slowly the tension drained away as sound returned. Debris being picked up. Groans of pain. Sobbing. They weren’t comforting noises, but better than the empty, dreadful silence. As life returned, the stranger let the tension deflate from her, shoulders slumping low as she leaned back against the ferrocrete wall with a deep exhalation. As the adult’s guard dropped, the runners relaxed too. Finally, the stranger seemed to collect her senses and observed the motley crew of children, eh– young adults. A few tense moments passed. Tombo managed to break the still-life scene, asking, ‘Who are you? And what’s going on?’ He was trying to make his voice sound confident, but he still almost squeaked out the last few words.

‘Y’all are the Gutterats, right?’

‘Guttertunners!’

‘Whatever. You’ve run a few jobs for S’kar, right?’

‘You work for S’kar!’ Tombo couldn’t contain his excitement about having a serious chance of working for the local mover.

‘Look! This is serious.’

Mara interrupted now, asking S’kar’s messenger, ‘What’s going on out there?

‘Can’t say I know,’ the woman responded as she instinctually poked her head around the corner checking again for any sign she was still being followed. Her hands were shaking, Nido didn’t know if it was excitement or fear. ‘Things seemed normal, then suddenly the toy soldiers started tearing everything apart. They were asking about, more like demanding everybody tell’em about where the local Jedi are.’ Nido was shocked; he knew the two Jedi. The Jedi would go to them and other kids on the level asking them if they had news or asking them to just keep their eyes out for any handy info. They’d even pay them for it in real credits. And Jedi Knight Richar Arten would always answer questions and tell fun stories to the Gutterunners and other kids on the level while trying to keep a straight face about his adventures, despite always trying to act tough on the outside. His Padawan Calia Rayyah was really cool too, but in a nice way. She’d always pay them generously when she’d call on Nido and the others for help. Even more than that, she really listened, like, most adults wouldn’t even ask about what kids like them had to say at all. And then there was this surface person wouldn’t just ask about what they had going on, but she’d always remember and ask about it again later, or even bring them something related to what they’d said, or do research for them about whatever they were excited about. Nido couldn’t imagine what they could have done to get in trouble with the toy soldiers, the local nickname for the Republic’s clone soldiers. Nido wasn’t sure about the specifics, but he thought the Jedi were actually the clones’ boss.

‘And worse yet,’ the human continued, ‘my boss says I need to find them before the clones do. Kriff! I don’t know how he expects me to turn’em up when every clone on the level is out here turning the place over.’

Seeing an opportunity to insert himself into his crime boss role model’s business, Tombo blurted out, ‘We can help out! We have contact with the Jedi all the time, right guys?’ The other Gutterrunners, Nido included, were less enthusiastic about potentially getting on the clones’ bad side, but still nodded along all the same. ‘We even have thier commlink line!’

‘Really? You kids? You have their comms?’ Nido could feel the disrespect, but had been taught to take it in stride. Calia had once explained to him that the reason she went to them for help was because very few beings bothered to notice them. Someone underestimating you can actually be really useful. ‘Grancha! Hopefully, you can help me out.’ More like throwing your work onto us. We could use having the local boss owe us a favor, though. ‘All you need ta do is get word out to both Jedi how Republic is pissed at’em and the rest of the Jedi. Boss said he can try to get’em off-world, they just need to get to him at the fitness center.’

Republic turning on the entire Jedi Order…It couldn’t be. Wait, off-world...Deep down, Nido knew he had not been born on Coruscant, that there was an entire Galaxy of planets of every type imaginable with people living on them. But this planet was everything he had ever known, and now, maybe, someone he personally knew would be getting out there into the stars. ‘We can do that! No prob!’ Tombo might have been confident, but suddenly more aware than ever of how worn down and broken everything around him was, Nido did not share that enthusiasm.

‘Alright, get going,’ the adult said as she started making her way out of the ACM’s alcove. She stopped and turned back, her eyes locking on Nido himself, sending a shiver down his back before looking over at Lerrna, too. ‘Hey, uh, be careful. I saw the clones were getting rougher on the aliens. Even saw them haul a few off.’ Nido’s skin ran cold. He never liked being called an alien, it always made him feel different, an outsider, but he knew most people on Coruscant were human, and that was how most of them considered all the other species living on the planet. Why were the clones singling out other species? Singling him out. Without any further words or warning, she left.

Chapter Text

Alone now, the runners huddled together to plan. They had naturally tried to comm line, but there was no answer. It seemed they’d have to find the Jedi the old-fashioned way; splitting up and searching. Mara, Lerrna, and Nido would go to their office, while Mica and Tombo would go to the Sarlaac Pit. Like so many times before, they broke up their huddle, smiled, waved goodbye, and split up. Nido walked in front; he always knew his way around better than Mara who had to lead Lerrna along by the hand. She was always anxious, but seemingly the human’s warning had shook her down to her core, vertical, feline pupils reduced to tiny slits that constantly darted at every sound. Nido stepped out from the alleyway into a narrow footpath between looming decrepit buildings, looking up and down his twin antenna twitching. Something wasn’t right. He could feel everyone was scared and excited, agitated. As he walked, turning left, going towards the schoolhouse with the girls trailing a step or two behind him, he continued to hear whispers. Are they saying something about me? There did seem to be less...aliens around suddenly. Less people altogether, in fact. The normally packed street had left the trio room enough to actually swing their arms as they walked unto the main street, but almost everyone who had remained was human. Besides Nido and Lerrna. Keep focused, one foot in front of the other. The three Gutterrunners kept moving, sticking to the open streets for now to move faster, but Nido was starting to consider that moving into the vents might be the better choice. After turning a corner, he froze. Two humans, clad in shining white armor from head to toe, red accents the color of fresh blood had a tiny chadra-fan pinned up against a wall barking orders and questions. The tiny bat-like sentient, no larger than a human child couldn’t say or do anything, his high-pitched squeaking answers completely overpowered by the clones’ continued demands. Nido was paralyzed watching as, with a final blow from an armored gauntlet, blood spattered across the filthy ferrocrete wall, the being, he hoped, only losing consciousness. Mara tugged on his arm and he turned back the way they had come just as he saw the clone’s boot rising into the air over the inert chadra-fan’s head. Yes, it was time to use the vents, Nido thought as he heard the crunch that sent claws of fear streaking across his face, stealing all the warmth and color from his cheeks.

Nido didn’t say anything as Mara led him and Lerrna on. A few streets over, they found a vent up into the air circulation system which webbed through all the underlevels like a never-ending hive for millions, if not billions, of kilometers across the entire planet-city. They’d done it a million times as Mara boosted Nido up to the opening, who removed the safety latch with a scavenged multi-tool. It was a birthday gift from Mica. The grating clattering down unto the cold street clanged violently; Nido turned his head expecting the emotionless faces of troopers to come storming down after them, but, thank the Force, there was nothing. Together, Lerrna first, they clambered up into the ventilation shaft, squeezing and grunting to fit through the entrance which seemed to shrink more and more every year.

Sometimes, it was faster, being able to skirt across or under a busy skyway or transport lane and other times slower as they were stuck crawling on their hands and feet. Regardless, Nido wouldn’t have traded the safety of the ducts that gave the group of orphans their name. Things really were different now. He had no idea why or how, but they were different. He could hear it all through the thin durasteel of the vents or looking on in horror out the occasional wired grating. Clones who before had been content to sit back and watch like stone sentinels were now barking orders, prodding people to move along violently, while arresting others. Blaster bolts fired into the air to scare people…and sometimes not to scare them. At times, he could see they were desperately searching for someone or something, while other times it seemed they were trying to corral and control people, pushing them who knows where while content to leave others alone but terrified. Nido for sure was terrified and he knew Mara and Lerrna behind him were too. He was tempted to turn back, to retreat through the warrens together back to their den in the water recycling plant where no one would come looking for them. Then he remembered their mission. They had to find the Jedi. Regardless of whatever was going on, he knew he had to warn them. If the clones and even the underworld police were searching for the pair so violently…he didn’t care to imagine what they had in store for the two kind humans. It wasn’t just honest concern, some dark part of Nido had to admit. More than anyone, the Jedi could probably keep Nido and the other Gutterrunners safe, and if the Jedi really were going to get off-world...maybe they could take the Runners with them.

It was difficult to keep track of time in the underlevels, even worse in the vents, but they were used to moving through them and knew their way around and made good time. Mara moved past Lerrna and Nido, and with a few solid and decisive kicks, the grating came clattering to the floor below. One by one, they dropped to the floor, the two older kids carefully lowering Lerrna down. They weren’t far now, only a few blocks away and they’d be at the Jedi’s office. Calia had told Nido their office had been built out of an old smuggler’s hideout, and he assumed that if there was anywhere on level 1442 that could keep them all safe and away from all the clones it would be there. They hurried on together, just short of breaking into a run. Nido felt his heartbeat in his antenna with each step. He was scared, so scared, but he knew the Jedi could protect him. He knew once he saw Calia he’d be safe. They rounded one final corner, and with a sigh of relief carrying away the tangle of fear and doubt handing over his thoughts Nido saw the squat, square building the Jedi worked out of. There it was written on the window in the door, “Office of Padawan Calia Rayyah and Jedi Knight Richar Arten,” and just below that, “Need assistance? All solicitors welcome”. Yes, assistance was needed, was just a matter of who needed it more.

Then, Nido’s heart sank once he noticed. It was desolately quiet. If one of the Jedi were in, the light in the office would have been illuminated. Instead, it was dim and grey, empty. Nido turned and looked at Mara. Her brow was furrowed, thinking. She looked back at him, then down at Lerrna, then back up at the office. Nido knew that face, she was weighing the options. She stepped forward out of the side street, looked up, then down. It was quiet enough and even with his superior hearing and vision it seemed safe enough. Mara met his gaze and said, ‘Let’s check quick. I know they keep that droid around. It might know where they are, and if not we can leave a message with it at least.’

It made sense. Still, Nido couldn’t shake the feeling that deep down something was wrong. Lerrna felt it too, her eyes were wide, looking in every direction faster than ever, fur scintillating across her face in waves of fear and anxiety. Even with Mara’s more subtle tells, her dilated pupils and pimpled skin were basically screaming out there was some danger. Nido took a deep breath and whispered, ‘Okay, but let’s go fast.’

‘Right.’ That was all she had to say.

They padded out into the open street between the ancient Coruscanti structures and the Jedi’s relatively new building. At first, they tried to move quietly, but then all at once Mara started to run across, Lerrna hugging as close to the older girl’s body as possible with Nido right behind them.

It’s fine, it’s nothing. There’s no one here but them. Calia and Arten are probably right inside. Just sleeping after a long night investigating some crime or something. That’s right! She had asked them to look out for death sticks. Of course, that must have been what the clones were looking for. Relief once more washed away all of Nido’s fears as he laughed under his breath hysterically. The troopers probably just started investigating on their own. They were famous for not being careful and getting rough sometimes. That was probably why the Jedi were investigating so hard. Right? Right! And the trouble they were in was because the clones were just mad at them for not finding the sticks in time.

Nearly having convinced himself, Nido stepped up to the door past Mara and Lerrna who eyed him carefully. He stood up on his tiptoes, craning his neck to try and see into the window. It was just how it looked from the other side of the street, quiet and empty, just like everything around the Gutterrunnes in that instant. He looked back at Mara. Her face frowned, her hand holding Lerrna close to her chest. She nodded. Nido’s suction cup ended finger hovered over the door ringer. Every instinct told him something wasn’t right, but if the Jedi were home, then they’d be safest inside with them. He pressed the button, the sharp trill rang and echoed out. Nido’s mouth slammed shut, every muscle in his body coiled tight ready to run.

Nothing.

Then, a light, a gentle warm light lit up that shone out banishing away the dark shadows all around them. Nido knew there definitely weren’t any tears on his cheeks. He was far too tough for that, he thought, as he heard the sound of heavy boots moving inside. Arten must have been home. That made sense; the blind Jedi didn’t need light to see, so it made so much sense he’d keep it turned off...why did he turn it on, then? And– and was that the sound of a second set of boots? Calia never wore something that would make a noise like that. Nido froze, his thoughts trying to rationalize what was happening as his senses screamed like a desperate feral animal at his instincts to ignore his rational mind and run. The steps grew closer and, finally, he knew something was deeply wrong. Feeling the trap already closing in around him and his friends, in a single desperate screech shouted, ‘Run!’ Just as the young Rodian boy turned the door opened with the lifeless stoic face of a clone’s helmet, who without a moment's hesitation brought up his rifle to fire. The boy was only saved because the clone expected an adult to be answering the door. The fiery blue bolt of superheated plasma seared a painful furrow into one of his antenna as his legs finally obeyed him and started running.

He heard shouting, confusion. Nido saw Lerrna sprinting off in one direction opposite from where they had come. More clones emerged from the doorway and other seemingly empty buildings around the Jedi’s office. They started chasing after the Cathar girl. Others stopped observing the two other Gutterrunners. Nido had to pull on Mara’s arm, pleading that if she went after Lerrna she’d just run right into the clone soldier’s hands. So they ran together, sprinting as hard as their short legs would carry them, constantly hearing the slamming of heavy armored boots behind them. Nido didn’t know how they stayed ahead of the clones for as long as they did; either it was because they knew the alleyways and streets better or the clones were just letting them run. It didn’t matter. Exhausted, his breath ragged and hurried, Nido still managed a sigh of relief. The vent! A giddy, frantic laugh escaping his snout, he sprinted up, practically slamming his body against the wall and cupped his hands for Mara without any words, who stepped on them as he boosted her up. Nido looked back, he could hear the thumping of more heavy footfalls getting closer. He looked up and took Mara’s hand as she pulled him up behind her into the vent. Nido’s stomach heaved, they made it and he felt the sharp, searing pain of his injured antenna for the first time. He could see Mara smile and they both laughed in relief momentarily as she turned to leave. He started to cra–

The world shifted violently under him as space itself seemed to evaporate and unfold. Instinct triggered. He reached out and caught the edge of the vent’s opening with the suction cups on the tips of his fingers on his right hand. In that same moment, he heard Mara shriek and scramble forward grabbing his other hand and trying to pull him back in.

No, no, no, no nonononnononononono

Nido felt a fist of iron wrap around his neck from behind, squeezing the life out of him as it tried to pull him down into the void as black twinkling stars filled his vision. All he was aware of was Mara’s face, silently screaming and pleading, horror-stricken across her usually bright features, and the cups of his fingertips giving way and coming loose. A second rough hand wrapped around his chest pulling him back. Mara’s eyes were frantic.

Left, then right. Searching for an option, anything. Please, no. Please don’t go, please please please don’t leave me. Please, please, pleaassseee.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Mara let go and turned to scramble down the vent towards safety, alone. The expression of fear, panic, and betrayal she saw on Nido Keertald’s face as the clone troopers dragged him down on the hard, oily ground below would stay with her for the rest of her life.

Chapter Text

Mel washed the opaque glass. The rag was probably already dirtier than the cup was when he started, but it wasn’t about cleaning. It had been a long, long day, and he was just glad it was over. Mel set the liquor glass down on the cleaner rack. Dina would give it a more serious cleaning once he left for the night- eh, morning by this point, more likely. It was always hard to keep track of time down on the underlevels, even after living here for so long. 

Mel ran a rough hand over his head ridge pushing away the last bits of nerves and exhaustion along with it. The Jedi. He remembered with a sigh the first night, this lanky teenaged human stumbling in, his weapon belt too big and too loose he had to keep pulling it back up, and despite the bandages wrapped around his eyes, seemingly blind and helpless, immediately began asking questions that one does not simply ask in the underlevels. But when the blasters had been pulled, he had more than proven his Order’s reputation. Then, over the weeks, the months, and finally years, Arten would begin breaking or at least taming all the worst corners of the 1442.  Then even more years later, that same Jedi leaves a confused and scared teenage girl with Mel outside the bar. In such a relatively short time, that confused child had grown into the de-facto leader of the level, organizing and directing everyone’s efforts together in a way Mel would have never imagined possible. He was glad that they were all right. He was proud of both of them

‘Tuk! We should close up shop!’ Mel called towards the backrooms in Sullustese, sliding the rag into his back pocket, ‘They’re safe enough at the clinic. Nothing more can be done now.’ The moments ticked by. Strange, even in his advanced age Tuk still had impeccable hearing. There was no way he hadn’t heard Mel bellowing for him just then. Probably just obsessing even more over the device he had found. The Merguntan knew Tuk would be beating himself up over it for weeks. He’d be saying, ‘How could I have missed something so important! I should know better! We pulled the same trick back on Masat VI.’ The listening device hidden inside the blaster they had taken off the smuggler queen’s spies had let her learn about all the Jedi’s plans to try and apprehend her. And she had used that knowledge to lure them into a trap, an ambush. While Tuk’s discovery and warning had ultimately been too late, thankfully, they had survived due to their ingenuity and a squad of clones arriving to pull their skin out of the reactor. The warning at least gave them time to warn Mel’s oldest of twenty-three children, Teyatanexitia, at the health clinic to be ready. And she was needed. Mel recognized the signs when he had gone to help bring Arten from the landing pad to the clinic. Death stick usage. He had never imagined someone weaponizing the highly addictive drug, but it had seemingly proven very effective against the Jedi. Still, he and Calia were alright and surely would see this temporary defeat as just more evidence of how important it was to stop this smuggler. 

Stepping out from behind the counter, wiping his hands off on the tattered and stained smock he’d been wearing nearly every night for countless years, Mel raised his hand up to his mouth, ready to call out to Tuk again when he heard the whirring of the ancient door in its tracks. Hmm, that door is probably older than I am. I should really get it replaced already. Standing there in the entrance were two young human boys. Mel wasn’t good at gauging the ages of humans, but he guessed they must have been less than fifteen years old. Before saying anything, he noticed the distressed expression on their faces and offered, ‘Easy boys, sanctuary you’re having here.’ He always struggled with the grammar of Basic, so counterintuitive. They looked at each other briefly before hurrying inside, the taller boy with the glasses and freckles closing the door behind them. ‘Come, come,’ Mel gestured towards one of the freshly cleaned tables, offering them a seat. They meandered over, breathing heavily out of breath as if they had run here. Likely, they’d stolen from someone they should not have and figured they would be safe at the Pit. Thanks to being frequented by Master Arten, the Sarlaac had gained a reputation in the quadrant for being a safe, neutral ground. Normally, this applied to deals or disputes, but the bartender was not surprised to see two young humans had figured this could also apply to them. No matter, he’d talk to whomever they had stolen from and work things out. 

‘You boys are tired, seeming. Desire a drink?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer, and stepped away back towards his precious bar.  

‘Need to calm my nerves,’ a voice cracked, ‘hooch.’ More than a bit perplexed by the boy’s boldness, Mel ignored his request, scooping up two glasses, plopping two ice cubes into each for good measure using the ice tong, undersized in the Merguntan’s bulky hands. He knew tired and sweaty humans always appreciated a bit of ice, though Mel could never imagine wanting to be colder in the frigid environments of Coruscant. Pulling up a third chair after dropping the waters down in front of the boys, in the same voice he’d use to question two of his own misbehaving children, ‘Now what trouble are in you to be coming here in such a hurry.’ They seemed to be scarcely listening, gulping down the fresh drinks greedily. The larger boy, the same who had closed the door and asked for alcohol, finished his water first, slamming the glass down on the table with a clink and a content breath.  

‘Good stuff. Good stuff!’ the boy announced to his younger companion, who was just finishing his own drink. Thirsty, aren’t they? ‘Got any more?’ the smaller boy asked. Mel wondered if the boys had even realized the water was not alcoholic or if he was just unused to relatively clean water.

‘First, be telling me of this trouble you are from running. Then you can having as much as you like.’ 

‘Oh, we’re not the ones in trouble. It’s the Jedi.’ 

Skeptically Mel asked, ‘The Jedi are the ones in trouble?’ The realization hit Mel, ‘Oh no they are fine already. Arten is at the clinic safely, and Calia is there with him. They are fine already.’ The humans were now the ones looking confused. 

‘Why there?’ the bigger boy asked. ‘Sooner or later, the clones are going to go check there for them.’ 

‘Why wouldn’t the Jedi just tell the clones where they are if the clones be needing them?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ the younger being asked, his voice almost accusatory. ‘Haven’t you heard? The clones are tearing up the entire level looking for the Jedi!’ 

‘Mistaken you must be. A few clones had not too long ago dropped the Jedi off here. I helped myself take off injured Master Arten from their ship.’ 

‘Injured!’ the younger boy cried. The first added, ‘So the clones got him already?! Are they okay?!’ 

‘Boys, misunderstanding there is. The Jedi and clones work together. Master Arten was injured but is recovering at clinic, as said I before. Fine, they are. The clones work with the Jedi. Besides, if there was danger, the Jedi are capable enough– 

Another raspy voice suddenly cut through the confused conversation. ‘The clones are looking for the Jedi? Right now?’ Tuk, his older Sullsutan bachuk had suddenly stepped out from the backroom, seemingly having heard the entire exchange. 

The first boy sat up, surprised at the older Sullustan’s sudden appearance, but answered, ‘That’s what we heard. Seems so too. Clones are going around asking anybody they can get their hands on about where they are at. Heard they were being rough about it too.’ The second boy chimed in, ‘We had to take the long way here just to make sure we avoid’em.’ 

Mel had been looking over his shoulder at his old friend, confused and concerned about the urgency on his face. ‘Mel! You said you dropped Arten at the clinic after carrying him off a clone ship?’  

Tuk was nearly in a panic, but Mel responded, ‘Yes, something to do with the pirates. You suspect more deception?’ 

Ignoring him, Tuk moved closer to the table the trio was sitting at. He looked up into Mel’s eyes, ‘Did the clones go with you to the clinic! Do they know where the clinic is!’ 

Mel was scared now. Tuk had not gotten this worked up even after finding the pirate’s listening bug. ‘Not sure. The clones who had brought the Jedi not go did with me to the clinic. It’s why needed I was. To help bring Arten to the ambulance as their craft too big was.’ 

‘But do any of the clones know where the clinic is!’ 

Mel searched through his memory urgently. ‘Not sure am I. Teya has mentioned that the clones don’t seem to travel to her part of the quadrant often.’  

‘Boys,’ Tuk urgently looked at the two humans, asking, ‘Why are you trying to find the Jedi?’ 

‘One’of S’kar’s people asked us to warn’em something had gone down, and now the clones’er pissed at the Jedi. She said ta send them over to the fitness center and he’d try to get them off-world.’

Off-world? The Jedi could get off-world whenever they wanted if they decided. They weren’t stuck down here like all the other beings who called the 1442 their home were. Tuk muttered something under his breath Mel failed to catch. The crook-backed Sullustan looked up at his friend, his bachuk, his blood brother. ‘Tuk’tur?’ Mel asked, concern and nerves biting at the back of his mind. Tuk and he had seen many conflicts in their lives before settling together on Coruscant, and more conflict still after that. He had imagined Tuk and Mel had faced the worst the Galaxy could ever offer: pirates, slavers, monsters and beasts of all kinds. Even the more esoteric monsters of addiction and poverty. For him to be so afraid… Mel couldn’t comprehend what was happening. 

Flexing his hands, open and closed, open and closed, Tuk took a breath and said, ‘My fears about the end of the war, the instability that follows.’ He shook his head as if trying to clear a cloud which settled around him. ‘It, it is far worse than I imagined. On the holo-net there was a broadcast by the Supreme Chancellor.’ Mel didn’t care to follow politics. He knew no matter what happened, they’d likely see little change this far below the surface, but he at least recognized the name of the single most powerful being in the Galaxy, leader of the Galactic Republic. Mel also recognized that making a public a huge public announcement meant it was important, gravely important. ‘He announced that the Jedi, the Jedi Order itself, tried to assassinate him and take control of the government. They’re traitors,’ Tuk looked Mel in the eyes with a fear he failed to recognize despite all their adventures together, ‘Every, Last. One. And, worst of all, to ensure future, hmph,’ the elderly being snorted derisively, ‘to ensure the future stability of the Republic, it would be reorganized into a Galactic Empire!’ nearly spitting out the spiteful words. 

Mel tried to rationalize what he had heard. He looked to the human boys; the seriousness, and maybe even the comprehension of what was happening had been lost on them. He couldn’t accept it. The Republic had existed exactly as it had for thousands of years, and the Jedi had been its safeguard that entire time. He couldn’t accept it. There was no way the Republic would transform, turning and declaring its ancient protectors its enemy in a single day. Could it? He couldn’t accept it, not yet. ‘Now, let us not be being hasty, my friend,’ Mel began, ‘There’s no way to know for sure what is happening this far below the surface. That broadcast could be premature or even completely false. And even should it being true, then who is to say our Jedi are in danger? The Republic is not without its due process. Surely, if they are searching for Calia and Arten, it is just to rule them out as not involving in this plot.’ Tuk took a few steps closer, determination burning in his wise old eyes. ‘Mel, my friend, they are in danger! Mortal danger! We need to find them and get them off-planet now! Before it is too late!’ 

Emotions reeling against the reality slapping him in the face, Mel responded, slipping into Sullustese without even realizing, ‘You weren’t there! You didn’t see the condition they are in! Arten was unconscious, dosed with death sticks! And Calia, Calia was nearly overwhelmed with fear and exhaustion. We should not be moving them away from the clinic, where they are both getting medical care right this instant, based on rumors when those pirates are still out there, likely looking to finish what they started! We already failed them; let’s not get them killed, too!’ 

‘Get this through your dense skull.’ Tuk growled nearly under his breath in Sullutese as well. ‘They are in more danger right now than either of them– any of us could hope to comprehend! Did you not hear what the boys here said!’ Tuk threw an accusatory finger at the two young human boys, frightened, watching these two strange beings, one of them so burly and powerful, yelling at the top of their lungs at each other in an equally strange language. ‘The clones are not looking to arrest them. They are not going around kindly asking after the Jedi. They are looking to kill them !’ Those words, heavier than lead, hung there in the air. Quietly, Tuk continued, ‘And this? This is all just the start. We need to first take care of the Jedi, now, before it’s too late. It will only get worse for them. Worse for all of us. We need to care for them as they have cared for us. If we don’t now, while we are still at our strongest and this new empire is still unstable, we will not have another chance.’ 

Mel felt his skin slick with rage; his species secreting a sticky mucus when their anger is aroused to better grapple and strangle threats more efficiently. He breathed deep, wiping his wide brow with the dirt rag as he turned from his bachuk, who he’d never, ever think of hurting no matter how aroused hi temper had grown. Breath in. One. Two. Three. Four. Breath out. Mel didn’t know history or politics like Tuk did. The conscious thinking part of his mind knew he should trust and take his word on faith, but his emotions still could not so easily disregard the beliefs he held about the galaxy’s and its people’s intrinsic goodness. Reality, however, was not one to be denied. Like the Force, or maybe guided by the Force, reality often had an impeccable sense of timing.

Chapter Text

The door to the Sarlaac Pit, once again ground and grated as it swung aide, a terrible screech–harbinger of things to come pelted out from the metal. Mel turned, his hand reflexively moving to his hip searching for a blaster that had long been hung on a wall, or more accurately sold off for credits. The grim scowl of a clone’s emotionless plastoid helmet was, thankfully, absent. Instead there was a terrified human girl; long grimy hair a tangled mess, clear furrows in dirt and grim coating her face cleared away by the streams of tears that still flowing down from her eyes, wide and furtive searching furtively in every direction for danger.

Mel had seen beings with eyes like this before. Beings who had just seen death.
  

‘Mara!’ both human boys nearly yelled in unison as they scrambled towards the girl who must have been their companion. They didn’t get the reaction they expected. The girl, Mara, stumbled back yelling, nearly snarling at them to back off as she stumbled backwards back into the short alleyway leading up to the bar’s entrance. Even with their backs to him, Mel could just imagine the anxiety and betrayal they must have worn on their faces. He turned and glanced towards Tuk, they shared a look of acknowledgement, no gloating about being correct or groveling for forgiveness; they were beyond that. Just simple acknowledgement that everything was as it was.

Mel stood up, slowly and deliberately. ‘Boys, be giving her space some,’ he spoke firmly. They backed away just as Mel gently pushed past them. Kneeling down in the threshold, doing his best to bring himself down to Mara’s level, which wasn’t easy with his size. She looked him up and down, her eyes scanning and darting every which way searching for any signs of aggression in the large being. Mel was well-practiced, however. He has known quite a few young woman come to him scared and confused with tears streaking down their cheeks– daughters mainly. Yet, thinking back, he realized she wasn’t the first human girl he’d comforted, in this very spot in fact.

‘Hello.’ Mel let the greeting hang there in the air, smiling his big toothy grin, famous among all the beings of the district.

‘H-hi,’ Mara stammered, her chest rising and falling rapidly with hurried breaths.

‘My name is Mel. What’s yours?’ He had already figured her name, but formal introductions never hurt.

‘Mara, I’m Mara.’

‘Mel, you said?’ he asked jokingly.‘That’s my name, too!’ Excitement ringing in his deep voice.

‘No! I said my name’s Mara,’ she corrected him, half confused and half smiling. Mel knew she was a bit old for this kind of teasing, though he always had trouble with reading human’s ages, but, he also knew a taste of silliness could bring you back to the moment when you’re standing on the edge of breaking down completely.

‘Oh, Mara? Of course, of course. Would you like to come inside? That platform is quite dirty,’ she looked to her left and right, observing the soot-covered ferrocrete flooring for the first time as the present slowly reasserted itself over the neurochemical cocktail of survival instincts overwhelming her senses. ‘Actually,’ Mel trailed off as he stood back up to his full height, ‘I think we have some food here…’ allowing honestly to trail off.

He gently coaxed her inside and helped all three humans get comfortable at a table, their feet barely able to reach the Sarlaac Pit’s recently waxed and cleaned floor. Mel sat with them, doing his best to take their minds off of what was happening now on Coruscant, mostly talking about himself and his family as Tuk went in back to prepare the food Mel had promised. Tuk returned after only a couple minutes. It was simple enough; a few ration packs, vanilla flavor. Mel would try to get them something more substantial, something hot, but first they had others to care for.
‘Mara,’ Mel’s voice growing grimmer, but still softened with kindness, ‘can you be telling us what has happened.’ The older boy, who had introduced himself as Tombo before could no longer contain himself, and interjected, ‘Where’s Nido! And Lerrna! What happened!’ The other boy, Mica, looked down at his feet. The girl turned to her companion, anger in her eyes. ‘They took them, you blarg rat! I mean- I don’t, Lerrna just disappeared, but, but, then when we were, they just¬– we were just trying! And I, and I saw that–’

‘Mara,’ Mel intervened, his bass voice bringing the tension in the room down, as Tuk stood aside, listening intently. ‘Taking a deep breath, okay? Inhale, count to four, exhale. Try it, like this.’ Mel demonstrated, exaggerating his actions, his barrel chest swelling with air as he breathed in before deflating on the count of four. He continued, demonstrating for Mara, who began to follow along. The old trick did its work, and she had once again calmed somewhat. ‘Now, I know hard it is, but please be saying, it could be important.’

Mara did her best, and despite her scattered and terror-filled memories, it painted a clear enough holo. The clones were desperately searching for the Jedi, and they were willing to go any distance and hurt any being if they thought it might point them in the right direction. And as the children tried to find the Jedi at their home, the younger Lerrna went missing and Mara watched as a clone pulled the another boy Nido right from a duct as they tried to escape. Mel could only imagine the pain, guilt, and dread that was running through the veins of the child. Mel couldn’t help but offer a shoulder, holding unto her tiny body as she was wracked with large heaving sobs of pain and anxiety. The other two boys looked alarmed. It seemed they made their way to the Pitt without encountering the worst the clones had to offer, but with the reality of what was still taking place dawning, Mel could read the unease written on their face as easily as aurebesh.

    Mel looked up, and saw Tuk– determined. Only through their expressions they carried an entire conversation as only bachuk’s could. The Jedi and anyone who was a known friend of them needed to be warned, and they were possibly the only ones who knew they were currently recuperating at Taya’s clinic. The first thought was to send a comm, but their communications had already been compromised once that night, so sending a message was far too dangerous. Making matters even worse, normally Mel or Tuk would go themselves to warn them in person, leaving the frightened children here at the relative safety of the Pitt. Yet, from mara’s story and the fact she and the two boys made it through the streets showed that the clones were targeting non-humans. With Tuk’s age he’d have no chance of escaping if they choose to delay him, and Mel being so large and such a rare species, he’d be stopped immediately. Tuk had argued they needed to send the humans out again, but Mel couldn’t stand by directing literal children back into danger.

In only a few moments, eyes and wills testing themselves against each other, Mel relented, on one condition.

Mel stood up to his full height, looking down on the children, trying to speak gently but still imparting the weight of what he was about to ask. ‘Mara, Tombo, Mica, we have–we have to asking something of much importance to you.’ Mel more than anything wished the more practical Tuk’tur could make this terrible request, but he was the one who had begun to earn their trust. ‘We need someones who are human to warn the Jedi and other of the clones.’ Even with his somewhat limited ability to read human faces Tuk could see the momentary confusion before the realization hit. To them, people were just people, and only now the differences of species in the eyes of the galaxy had been made real. ‘You don’t have to,’ Mel quickly added, feeling ashamed to say these words at all. ‘You are the only ones who can go. Tuk and myself will be too easily seen by the clones. Only you can help them, you are our only hope.’ It was a bit poetic, but Mel hoped such words would speak to young hearts.

One thing Mel understood after raising twenty-three children, it was how to speak to them, and he saw the bravery growing behind their eyes from the smallest whispery tinders that only needed a spark. if there was another thing he knew it was never to put children–especially children who had just suffered pain and trauma right back into the jaws of mortal danger, but there was no choice. Despite the need he felt a shearing stab of pain deep in his chest knowing it was his love and life as a parent that helped him know exactly how to motivate each of them.

‘Mara,’ Mel began, ‘do you know where the clinic is? That is where the Jedi are now. They are needing you most. You must be telling them not to care for others now. Just find a safe place to be waiting. We will try to learn what is happening for them to help. Warn them to go to no place they have been to with the clones before.’ Mel reckoned if the clones are searching so diligently for them it must mean they don’t know they are there or where at least don’t know where the clinic is. Which he prayed meant it would be safest for the girl who seemed the most distraught by the clones’ actions. Not to mention she would be left with his oldest daughter Teya. He knew she’d know better how to care for a young human girl than he did.

‘Micah, can you be going to the schoolhouse? Do you know the teacher there?’

The boy nodded meekly, ‘Yeah, even went to class a coupla times.’

‘That’s good of you. Tell her to “get to the safe place”. She will know what it is meaning.’ Chantara the 1442’s local school teacher was probably in more danger now than even the Jedi. Between her Neimoidian heritage already making her a target for xenophobic species’ ire, and, despite it being a secret, every being on the level knew she and Arten where cradling a young romance. The clones were no doubt seeking her out. The only good news was that Arten had informed Mel about Tuk about Chantara’s plans if she was ever in danger and would be prepared. Small blessings of the Force come in strange ways.

‘Now, Tombo, for you I have the most dangerous task.’ Mel could read how with just a bit of ego stoking, he could light the smoldering fire deep in the boy’s heart to prove himself. ‘You know the 1442 well, yes? Spread the word of what the clone's aggression to everyone you can. Tell them, especially if they are not humans, to stay indoors as much as they can. Or if they do not have homes to go deeper into abandoned parts of the sector.’

Mel looked back to Tuk, who only responded with a stern, knowing nod. It was all either of them could dare to ask. And now addressing the trio of duct rats, ‘Stay off the streets as much as being possible. Then once you have your tasks completed, get to safety too. You can return here,’ Mel made a mental check to include findig a long-term space for them, though he also knew the homeless children of the underlevels often preferred their independence. ‘Don’t take any chances, and if you need to, do not be afraid to abandon your tasks.’ He quickly added, ‘You can do more good for all if you yourselves are first safe.’ Without that caveat they, especially the oldest, might take wild risks to prove themselves. He hoped his words of warning and caution would avoid that fate.

With that Tuk went to the backroom and returned with a handful of ration packs, chocolate flavor, and gave them with a deliberate hand to each of the children. He returned to his preparations as Mel gently ushered the humans out. With barely a glance the boys were off, nearly running as they peeled out the short alley that connected the Pit to the main thoroughfare of the sector’s entertainment district.  

Meanwhile, Mara took a few steps and stopped. She turned back to him. The aging Merguntan expected a pleading face, one that would break down in tears begging not to go. Just as Sava would do on the first day of school each year. And just like then, he knew his tender resistances would break down, he’d wrap the child up in his large muscled arms, hold them, tell them everything would be alright. And his offer to go instead would be met with grateful pleading thanks instead of in contrast to the storm of giggling laughter from his third son. Tuk would be furious when he did not return, but he’d understand. Mel knew the streets and back alley’s well, he was confident he could find the clinic while avoiding he worst of the clone soldiers. He had expected, almost planned that this is what would happen.

He could not have been prepared for the haunted eyes which eviscerated into the darkest, deepest reaches of his memories following a long life. He’d seen those eyes on refugees fleeing destruction and genocide on far-flung planets. He’d seen those eyes on slaves before they took the final plunge into the mines they knew they’d never leave again. He’d seen those eyes on a poor old soul he’d cradled in this very spot as their blood seeped out between his fingers after a drunken bar fight. He never imagined that a child, here on Coruscant, the shining jewel of the Galaxy could be marked with those eyes. And before he could summon the words of comfort or admission that he would go in her stead, they died in his throat as she turned and loped off on awkward teenaged legs.

Melalihuitl roused himself, finally, and returned inside. There was a lot to do.

Chapter Text

Calia opened her eyes and felt wracked with pain. With a quiet grunt she pulled her arms up over her head to stretch out her aching back, as a foreign lance of pain shot through her thigh bringing her hands to cradle the flaming hot limb with both hands. As her senses quickly returned, she recognized the plain but clean walls of one of the clinic’s recovery rooms. The Jedi Padawan must have fallen asleep in the aging synth-wood visitor’s chair, hence the stiffness in her back and neck, she figured as she furthered stretched to try and work and massage out the knots which had formed in her muscles. The pain in her leg was different, massaging the bandaged limb she could feel the shallow lance the wound had carved in her leg.

Then, the memories of the previous evening hit Calia like a runaway speeder. Memories of the daring plan built on weeks of work to intercept a shipment of death sticks, a tip that the pirate turned smuggler Astera was vulnerable, the terrible dawning that the pirate queen had lured the Jedi into her own ambush, as she watched in horror as Master Arten succumb to a dosage of weaponized deathsticks as he pushed her from harm’s way, how she had, somehow, held back a barrage of ship-grade fire just long enough to get him to safety before being wounded herself, holding out until the clone commandos of Sigma squad could extract them to safety.

All this came flooding back to her. In a slight panic and a start, she searched the room and deflated with relief as she saw Master Arten snoring peacefully in the bed to her side. His equipment: cloak, robes, armored vest, survival belt, blaster, knife, and lightsaber were all neatly stacked on the small table on the opposite side of the hospital bed. He looked his usual self, unshaven stubble and messy hair, perhaps a bit cleaner than normally, in fact. The only part of the current holo which would have been out of place was the IV snaking its way out from under the crisp white bedding up to a bag of clear sterile fluid and the bandages he normally kept wrapped around his eyes here conspicuously absent.

Hearing the usual rhythmic pattern of his snoring informed Calia that he was at least well as could be for the moment. She rubbed her uncomfortably warm eyes to try and clear some of the grogginess away. The few hours of sleep she had accidentally gotten were just enough to feel even more tired than if she had merely stayed awake. Remembering Taya, the clinic’s resident doctor, Mel’s daughter, and a good friend of Calia’s had informed her that with some rest and a few detoxifying drugs she’d administered Master Arten should be fine in a short while. She went to check the commlink at her belt, satisfied with their collective efforts that they had taken the precaution of stocking the clinic with the proper medications to treat deathstick use as soon as they had learned of the new wave of smuggling. Still as she flipped the small cylindrical device on, Calia couldn’t help but shudder as she considered how the pirates had not only understood  that deathstick use completely blocked a living being off from the Force, but had devised a method to weaponize that fact into a highly effective tool for attacking Jedi who relied on their connection to the mystical Galaxy-spanning source of energy. It was disturbing to think how something as much as a tiny dosage of a drug could overpower something so infinitely powerful as the Force, yet Calia realized it was not the Force that was overpowered but the mortal being who channeled it. They would both have to be much, much more careful as they redoubled their efforts to bring the flow of the deadly and highly addictive drugs to an end.

Still, all that could wait as she recognized an incoming message being relayed on loop over the secret, high-priority channel that only the Jedi Order had access to. Another wave of panic came crashing down on the young woman. The emergency beacon was a final safeguard, an emergency lifeline reaching out to any and all Jedi throughout the Galaxy in times of greatest emergency. Calia nearly bolted upright out of her seat as she let the message play. It was simple; all Jedi were to report back to the Temple on Coruscant’s surface immediately without any explanation given as to why. Calia had been running through the logistics of how she’d reach the surface, confident that Master Arten would be safe enough alone at the clinic with Taya, before she remembered an important detail. On one occasion, one very important occasion, Master Arten had received a similar message, which had revealed itself to be a false alarm. A spoofed signal meant to draw him away from his investigations and report to Master Cin Drallig after ignoring their more conventional communication channels for too long. Thinking now, master and apprentice had been out of communication with the rest of the Order for…for quite some time. Calia did not put it past the aged human Jedi Master to try the same trick twice, especially considering the stern warning about their behavior he had given Calia the last time she had seen him. Retaking her seat next to her prostrate master, Calia calmed herself imagining that even if the emergency beacon was genuine, the Order would weather whatever threat it was facing fine without the aid of two obscure Jedi countless kilometers below the surface. It could at least wait until Master Arten had recovered consciousness from Astera’s attack.

Astera...never before had she and her master been so resoundly and absolutely defeated. He had always taught her never to “play your opponent’s game”, to always be active and never reactive. Calia had believed they had been. Gathering information from their usual contacts, staking out the death den, intercepting the shipment which they had thought would lead them to the pirate. All along, they had been playing her demented game before even knowing the pieces were on the board. From that first moment she had walked straight into their office and warned the Jedi of her own plans they had been her pawns to be used and discarded.

Caution, bravado, ego? Calia was unsure of the cause waiting as long as she did to lure them into her trap. It didn’t matter, the gravball was back in their court, so to speak. They had survived and escaped. Whether it was Sigma Squad’s unexpectant intervention or the Jedis’ dogged determination, Astera’s plans had been disrupted. Now she’d have to react to them.

Calia looked over at Master Arten’s unconscious form. He was snoring away, quite loudly, fresh bandages waiting on the side table next to Calia to cover his eyes. He always preferred to tie them himself. Hit by the deathstick dart, without a moment’s hesitation his first reaction was to get his Padawan, her, to safety throwing Calia aside before falling unconscious. Then it had been her time to protect him. First by stalling for time as long as possible, then, a surprise to even her, somehow using the Force to, to just stop everything. She remembered the way the shot of the autocannon, munitions meant for starship combat, had just been halted, shimmering and shifting in the air as if it was a caged beast fighting for freedom. Calia had no idea what had happened, that she was even capable of such a powerful application of the Force’s will. It was frightening yet, invigorating. She remembered calling on her emotions: the anger and helplessness of being exposed like a raw nerve, the desire and relentless will to protect her master, the fear and pure animal desperation to stay alive! Just the recollection of the power this cocktail of emotions had unlocked in her sent shivers down her back. The last time she had felt anything so satisfying had been when she had stomped into a senatorial sub-committee in broad daylight to arrest the corrupt senator and her toxic, abusive boss at the time, Derica Geldsammel.

She knew these kinds of feelings, so personal and powerfully felt, were antithetical to the Jedi code, and using them, twisting the Force itself in service of such selfish emotions and desires was the opposite of everything she had been taught. Yet, it had brought her to where she was. That anger, and dare she admit it, hate, had animated her to bring Derica to justice. It had unlocked her latent potential to wield the Force. And it was at that very moment that gave her the will to continue bringing the fight against Astera and everything she represented.

The shifting gears of the door sliding aside knocked Calia from her meditations. In the doorway was Taya, Mel’s oldest daughter and a near perfect replication of her father to untrained eyes. Merguntans, like many species that were distant from humans suffered from stereotypes about “all looking the same”. However, the different angle of her brow ridge, the altered curve of her jaw, the shape of her striking green eyes, all signs obvious to Merguntans but subtle signs to other species that distinguished the young woman from her father. Calia herself had found herself seeing the spitting image of Mel in the medical practitioner when she had first met her, but after long hours cooperating on how to meet the various medical needs of the beings of the district had made all the subtle differences in morphology clear. In fact, Taya more resembled her mother. Wearing her usual turqoise medical scrubs, she approached Calia asking, ‘You’re awake, how are you feeling? I should look at your leg.’
Taya stepped around the medical bed towards Calia who instead interupted her, ‘I’m fine.’ Realizing she had been rude, knowing Taya’s concern came from a place of concern and care as a friend and being dedicated to medicine, she rectified her statement, ‘Thank you. Please, Master Arten’s condition is more severe.’

‘I understand your concern Calia, but he’s in better shape than you. Just a few scratches and bruises.’ She went to the small electronic display mounted to the same hook as the intravenous fluid bag, eyes quickly scanning the readout. ‘Yup, besides the death stick usage, he’s fine. Almost as if he had someone looking out for him,’ Taya offered with a sly chuckle as she glanced over at Calia. ‘I understand your concern, but the actual dosage of the drug was small, it would have had to be to be loaded into a dart. I don’t think he’d suffer any long-term side effects or damage, so long as he doesn’t keep using, but knowing him I don’t think that’d be an issue.’ With Calia’s own concerns for her master addressed, Taya moved back around towards Calia’s side of the room. Pulling up a second visitor’s chair, she sat in front of her second patient asking, ‘Now, how are you feeling?’

‘I am fine,’ Calia recounted almost instantly, instinctively rubbing the still sore flesh of her thigh.

 ‘Calia, I applied those sutures myself. I know your leg is fine. How are you?’

‘I am,’ searching herself, Calia continued, ‘I am shaken, but persevering. What happened almost feels unreal still. I know logically I should be more concerned for my own state; what I saw, what happened to me, but it feels distant still.’

‘So what are you concerned about?’

‘Master Arten. I know he is determined, but this, this is different. You told me he is fine, but I am more concerned for his spirit. He has already been scarred by death sticks once.’ Calia sighed, her hand slowly rubbing the back of her other hand as it cradled her thoughts, trying to contain the strain she felt were probing and testing the edges of the cage of control and discipline in her mind. ‘And the way that pirate looked at him. And the way he looked—felt back!’ Calia sighed falling back in her seat, quickly repairing the breach in her mental defenses with careful breaths; trying her best to put the thoughts of her mind and concerns of her body aside to draw strength from her spirit.
‘This is why you need to take care of yourself first.’

‘Oh joy, more lectures.’

‘You might get lectured less if you actually took people’s advice. I swear you always know exactly what everyone needs except for yourself.’

‘Is that so misguided of me? The Jedi Order teaches us to be selfless.’

‘Yes, actually.’

Calia could not help but feel her eyebrow arch in incredulity.

‘Yes, yes, Jedi, oneness with the galaxy, give of yourself, all of it is one and the same, sure. The Force might be infinite, but you’re not.’ Now it was Taya’s time to sigh in exhaustion, but with renewed vigor she leaned forward looking Calia in the eyes as she went on, ‘Don’t you think I don’t lie awake at night knowing there might be people coming here to the clinic and losing all hope when they see the lights are out? You know what would be even worse? If I don’t listen to my body, don’t take time to rest, don’t give my mind the space it needs, or I’m the one who ends up in that bed, and that’s a lot less people who get care.’ Taya laughed to herself, slapping her own knee in a familiar gesture. ‘And you know what? I know, you know this, because you’re the one who told me! I swear, we’ve had this exact conversation in each other’s shoes when we first met.’

Calia slammed her eyes shut, shame reigniting the tension from the past. Yes, she did recall the conversation. Meeting Taya, seeing her doing her best to run the small clinic nearly by herself, and Calia advising her she needed to focus as much on her own wellbeing before she could care for others. Calia really did have a blindspot to her own flaws and failings.

Seemingly noticing the shift in the Padawan’s attitude, Taya’s voices shifted, becoming more gentle. She took the other young woman’s hand in her own, much larger completely enveloping the delicate human hand, ‘You give yourself to others, people you love and complete strangers all the same. Just make sure you hold on to yourself, too.’ Taya looked away, ‘I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.’

‘No, you are right, seemingly I did really need a lecture. It is how I have always learned—lectures and pain.’ Calia patted her wounded thigh to accentuate her words, perhaps more than she had intended as a sharp lance of learning moved up her body and tried her best to maintain a neutral expression.

Thankfully it seemed Taya was content with Calia accepting her advice and did not feel the need to press her advantage further. Instead she asked, ‘What’s next then?’

‘We rest and recover. What else? I don’t think we should return to the office now. The pirates know we are vulnerable and it is likely they will try to attack us again before we are able to combat them again. Our advantage at least is that they don’t know the area as we do. There are Master Arten’s other safe houses. In fact, Taya, would it be safe to move him now?’

‘So long as you promise it’s only so he can get more rest somewhere safe.’
‘Yes, and I think you should maybe consider coming with us. It’s likely they know about the clinic and it’s connection to us and will come searching eventually. They could even be on their way now. Calia was glad Taya’s words had ministered to her mind the same way she had ministered to her body, as her thoughts and survival instincts were revealing the very real danger her master and her were still very much in.

‘Right,’ Taya responded curtly, her own professionalism and experience working as an underlevel medical care provider activating, a profession nearly as dangerous as Jedi. Calia stood, carefully testing how her wounded leg bore her weight, and walked to the other side of the room, pulling her robe off the hook next to the door and slipping one arm and the other into it. As she was pulling the collar up to her neck, feeling the comforting weight and warmth of the familiar garment settling over her Calia’s eyes caught movement. She saw that as Taya’s reached towards Master Arten’s recumbent form, in an instant his hand shot forward, gripping her wrist as he sprung up in the bed, his other in a fist ready to strike at an unknown target!

Chapter Text

Calia’s own Force-infused reflexes activated as she started, ready to move and intercept her own Master if necessary. Thankfully, it was not. The momentary slip of survival instinct was more than countered by his own well-trained and Force-disciplined reflexes as he quickly relaxed. He sat there silently, she knew he was taking Taya and his surroundings in through the Force. He sighed, letting himself fall back into the bed, breathing heavily. ‘How long?’ he asked.  

‘It has only been a couple of hours, Master.’   

‘You shouldn’t have brought me here. It’s the first place they’ll look for us.’  

‘We did not have a choice. We were about to move you to a safe house, not the office, I mean.’  

‘Right.’  

Calia watched as he sat up, wincing with gritted teeth. She replayed the memory of how he had been thrown around during the ambush and imagined there had to be sporting a new set of fresh bruises. She made a mental note to pick up a few mild painkillers for him before they left.  

‘Good, we need to get moving.’ Was all he said.  

Calia ignored him, confident their plans could at least wait for a few minutes, stepping past Taya to throw her arms around her master. In a rare, unapologetic show of emotion, embraced him. ‘Thank you, Master. I’m glad you’re okay.’ He tensed up, she was unsure if it was lingering fight or flight, or just unfamiliarity, but then relaxed. She felt arms around her.  

‘Thanks. You did good, too.’  

Calia just let herself be lost in the moment. It had been a long, terrifying day, but it was over. She and her friend had made it, would recover, and would keep working to make life in the underlevels more bearable for all the beings around them. Together, they would do all these things for others, but this moment was for the two Jedi, theirs to selfishly enjoy the relief of surviving and to feel the pride of protecting and caring for each other in a way only two Jedi could.  

‘I know this kind of display is rare for you two, but I thought we had to get moving.’  

‘You’re right,’ Master Arten responded, ‘I’m fine, get me a caf and another hit of whatever is in the IV and I’ll be fine to get back to work.’ The IV was just saline solution.  

Calia and Taya looked at each other for a few moments, knowing. ‘No, Master, we’ll get to a safe house and monitor your condition for at least one day. Once Taya has given you her approval, then we can get back to work.’ She paused and then added, ‘You can do more good for everyone if you take care of yourself first.’  

Thump, thump, thump, thump!  

There was pounding—to Calia, it sounded as if it was coming from the front of the building. She put the pieces together that someone was furiously knocking on the clinic’s reinforced durasteel door. Astera or her people? No, they would not bother knocking. The entrance was not far too from the intensive care unit they now occupied. Calia allowed her senses to drift out of her along the currents of the Force. Disembodied, her perception moved towards the front of the clinic, where she felt someone who was the last person she would have expected, Mara of the Gutterunners.  

Was one of them hurt?  

Calia’s consciousness returned, and a knowing nod between master and apprentice confirmed their agreement that the girl was no threat. Astera had so far proven a cunning opponent, but it was astronomically unlikely they could have turned one of the level’s orphaned children against them. Calia stood, for once, Master Arten did not insist on taking the lead as she moved through the door, down the short hallway, past the reception area to the entrance. She was confident there was likely no danger, but if the previous day had taught her anything, it was that an overabundance of caution was rarely unjustified. She moved to one side of the portal, hand on the hilt of her lightsaber. Assuming a ready stance, she hit the mechanism. It slid open, the visage of an exhausted, teary-eyed adolescent apparated into view. Calia ushered her inside, scanning the quiet street, empty save for the buzzing of synthetic lighting, before hitting the door controls again and sealing it with the sound of maglocks closing with a thunk.  

Thoughts of danger receding, Calia turned, beginning to drop down to one knee to bring her to the younger girl’s level before catching herself as Mara was nearly as tall as her now. Even with only a momentary glance, Calia could see she was terrified, hands nervously contorting and twisting her tangled and knotted head of hair as shaky eyes scanned side to side. Calia had no idea why she would be so afraid, whether it was unrelated or some offshoot of the troubles she and her Master had experienced. It did not matter; she drew the girl into an embrace, hand gently resting on the back of her greasy curls. ‘It is all right. You are safe now.’  

‘No. No one is safe. Nowhere is safe.’ She did not need the Force to feel the panic rising up in Mara. ‘I need to—’ the words were cut off, strangled by a wracking sob that arched her back and sent her into a fit of coughing. ‘I need to tell you. Need to tell you and Arten. To tell you. No. No, no, no!’ She stamped her foot down as she buried her face into Calia’s robes with a deep cry of sheer, primal anguish that would resonate with Calia for the rest of her life. ‘They took him! They took Nido!’ She felt tears in her own eyes. Did something happen to Mara, to Nido or one of the other runners because I was careless, because—  

A firm hand was on her shoulder. She looked up, and there was Master Arten. He may have still been shaky on his feet, but he was steady. ‘Take a deep breath. Inhale, count to four, exhale.’ She was unsure who the command was for, but they both breathed in. Master Arten guided Mara towards the vacant, rarely used chair behind the reception area. Calia did not need to be asked as she went to the back to retrieve an electrolyte drink. Master Arten was there, sitting on top of the desk next to her. Not saying anything, just, present. Calia gave the drink to Mara. She accepted it with a tired thanks, rubbing her eyes with the back of a grimy, soot-covered arm. Calia wished she had a spare cleansing wipe. A few tense moments passed. A mercy. Seemingly having overheard or maybe just felt it, Master Arten asked, ‘Mara, what did you need to tell us?’  

Seemingly embarrassed to have acted as she had, Mara answered, ‘First one of S’kar’s people told us, all of us...’ she trailed off, eyes growing heavy as fresh wounds in her memory reopened. ‘She told us we had to find you. Warn you the clones are after you.’ Why? Why would the clones be after us? Master Arten exhaled. ‘We thought we’d split up’ Mara continued. ‘Everywhere we went, the clones were trashin everything, roughing people up, shouting, even heard’em shooting. Mostly going after beings who weren’t human.’  

Why would the clones be pursuing us? They had just helped us! Why would they be willing to hurt people, tear down everything we had built together, just to find Master Arten and me? It did not even make sense. If they did want to find us so badly...we trust them. Would they not just ask us to meet them or ask us where we are located? Stop. Think. What is their game? If they are aggressively trying to find us, they must assume we will or have already reason to distrust them. Why?  

Mara gathered herself up in skinny, too-long arms, ‘Me, N-Nido, and Lerrna went ta your office, but they were there.’ Her voice quickly broke as a wild panic took hold in her wide bloodshot eyes, ‘The clones were waiting! They took him! He was lifting me into a vent, and they took him!!!’ She looked up. Eyes pleading, ‘I swear I didn’t mean to leave him! I’m sorry! I’m really so sorry. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t want to leave him! I had to! He was helping me get away, and they took him—’  

Calia listened, her own breath strangled by a tight knot in her throat. She wanted, needed to know what happened, was happening, but was terrified, more terrified than she had ever been to learn the truth. To make what she suspected real.  

‘Inhale. Count to four. Exhale.’ Whether it was some trick of the Force or the way his calm, steady determination, his firm presence seemed to reinforce reality, make the present more real than painful memories of the past or an anxious, unsure future.  

Recollecting herself again, Mara went on, ‘B-Before, before we said we would meet at the Pit, so that’s where I went after.’ She paused again; memories absorbed by her subconscious mind, but she was in too much of a panic before to process in the moment. ‘The two old beings said they knew you.’ Her voice cracked, ‘The big one, he told me to tell you to get somewhere safe, somewhere the clones don’t know nothing about.’ She was cradling her hands, shifting one over the other, ‘And something about not worrying about them for once. That he would help to take care of you.’  

What? What could have caused this? It has to be something bigger than us. It had to be, there were better, easier ways for the clones to get to us than this. They had to have a reason to assume we wouldn’t trust us. The war? Had something—  

‘Mara.’ The words directed at the adolescent pulled Calia back from the wider picture to the present. ‘Where did you last see the big being, Mel?’  

‘He went back inside the bar.’ She paused for a moment, searching her memory. ‘I think him and the little one were planning somethin, or getting somethin ready, maybe for you.’ Calia was unsure what Master Arten was attempting to learn more about. They were the targets. If whatever events had transpired that they would be so aggressively pursuing the jedi, why would the Republic forces be concerned with something as trivial as a bar owner, even one who— No, it could not be.  

Calia’s eyes landed on Arten, without turning to her, the expression on his face acknowledged that her conclusion was the same he had reached. Exactly as Astera had begun her efforts to undermine and eventually confront and eliminate the two Jedi by targeting those less capable of defending themselves, the clones were now doing the same, with far less subtlety. She wanted to reject the idea that the same people who only a few hours before had risked their lives in pursuit of a shared mission with the Jedi.  

‘They...they wouldn’t.’  

If bandaged eyes could stare, his were now. They’d both seen how ruthlessly efficient the clones could be. They were good people, truly, as real as anyone who had been born and raised like any other. Yet, they were fanatical, literally conditioned even before their birth to be loyal soldiers of the Republic, and good soldiers follow orders.  

Calia felt herself choke back sobs. Every being who they harm. It is all my fault. The very same network of beings all collaborating together for the common good for their community. The network she had built. The product of these last three years. Her shining hope for, maybe, one day improving the lives of the trillions of beings who called Coruscant their home. Now? The soldiers who swore to protect those lives were literally tearing that network apart, brutalizing the people who had taken a chance on the hope for changing things for the better, just to find her. It was all her fault.   

‘We never brought the clones to the Pit, however.’ She was desperate. Hoping to find some flaw in his logic, desperate for absolution.  

‘Sigma was there when Mel and Taya took me to the clinic. Merguntans are rare on Coruscant. It’s just a matter of time until they learn there’s a bar owned by a Merguntan, and where it is. Especially with how hard they’re puttin the squeeze on...’ he trailed of, realizing this was not the time for such descriptions.  

No. It would be different for him. He was kind and understanding and sweet. They would have to treat him differently. They'd be gentle with him, would not hurt him he'd be fine would be okay hed be okay okay okay. No, he was large, strong, and so alien—to them, which made him dangerous. A sympathizer. All her fault. Her fault. Fault. Fault. Fault, fault, fault, fault, faultfaultfaultfault–  

‘Calia.’ His calm, steady voice again breaking through the choking veil of panic. ‘We need to go. Now.’ He spoke firmly, his cloak snapping in the stale air as he rose. ‘Taya,’ he said without facing her as he strode towards the clinic's front door, ‘Get only the absolute essentials and get to the secondary clinic.’ It seemed Master Arten’s paranoia had paid off. If there was even the smallest danger or risk, plans, backups, redundancies, and contingencies were all created, implemented, and even rehearsed. In this case, a smaller health clinic was kept secure in a location that as few beings as possible knew the location of.   

Taya nodded, despite the clear anxiety and growing sheen of anxious mucus on her neck and cheeks. Calia could only imagine how she must have felt, and it was all — No, focus . Taya was strong, and had her father’s compassion, further supported by her own empathy as she gently led Mara by the arm to the backrooms. ‘I could use another set of hands.’ She proposed without really asking. Mara nodded, more collected, either distracted or relieved to have completed her task, Calia supposed.  

‘Master, we don’t have the speeder,’ she said, nerves and frustration further fraying her already tender resolve.  

As he stepped forward, all he said was, ‘We’ll make due,’ his resolve steady and determined, adamant, giving her renewed hope. Whatever had happened, would happen, they had each other, at least.  

Chapter Text

Calia breathed heavily. One foot in front of the other as fast as they could carry her. They had been calling on the Force to move faster, enhancing their speed and endurance, but even throwing caution to the dead, stagnant wind of the underlevels they still only move so fast on foot. It was not far.

They both knew the streets and did not need to say anything. They could still make it in time. One more turn, and she was under a shifting dance of lights, squinting as her boot stepped down with the crunch of stale discarded food thrown aside on the usually busy concourse of the entertainment district. It was quiet, unusual for late at night like this, but with everything that had been occurring, it was not surprising.

Not much farther. They would make it. She would make it in time.

Heart hammering away in her chest, she saw the lip of the alley where the blue and neon holo-sign depicting a mass of tentacles reaching up to pull the words The Pit into to a waiting beaked maw above and an arrow guiding her towards leading to those familiar heavy doors of the bar. She heard voices—energized, but not shouting. Master Arten tensed, paused, but the Padawan sprinted past him. She did not have time to think, did not want to think, pulling on her deepest reserves of energy to propel herself as fast as possible the last few short meters.

It was all seemed so familiar. The dull, heavy glow of the lamps illuminating the brittle ferrocrete walls of the narrow passage. The same glow of a second similar holo-sign, this one larger, but the limbs now successfully having reached the letters and flailing up wildly as they strangled the aurebesh letters. The same familiar, welcoming face. 
Calia’s heart swelled, a held breath deflating from her core, tension fleeing from tired shoulders and legs, sensation and feelings suppressed by urgency flooding back at once as tears of relief flooded down her cheeks. It was Mel, speaking in his usual deep  but smooth, almost lyrical voice. A paternal voice that had been the first she had heard that offered her comfort and kindness on the underlevels. His attention shifted, turning his whole head in the Jedi’s direction, his lips curling in a strained, forced smile. The smile a parent gives their child before giving them terrible news. He wasn’t standing in his doorway, heavy arms crossed like on that night. It had been several years since he’d felt the need to act as the Pit’s bouncer. With Merguntans having short legs and large bodies she did not realize immediately he was on his knees, skin moist and slick with anxious mucus that reflected the harsh blues and electric shades of pink and violet from his holo sign.

They were drenched in the obfuscating light as well. The pure white of their armor absorbing the cyan, almost blending against the ferrocrete. The blood red highlights along the helmets, breastplates and pauldrons, blunted to a dull lifeless gray against the warmer hues. There were two of them, blaster carbines gripped tight in tense shaky hands. She imagined they were afraid.

They didn’t know Mel like she did.

They probably didn’t mean harm, ordered to watch the hulking being who likely weighed more than both of the human clones combined. Of course they would be tense and afraid. In the close quarters of the alley, armed only with blasters against a strange being composed or rippling flesh that strained against slick blue skin like tight bands or durasteel cables, if they failed to act quickly the alien would have easily killed them both.

They didn’t know him. Know how gentle he was.

They did not know that he was not trying to convince them to lower their guard, trick them into a moment of complacency. He talked with everyone—it was his way. No matter who arrived at those doors, he’d greet them with a gentle word and a smile. Asking where they had been that night, if they had eaten. Not an impersonal attempt at gathering tactical intelligence, but  honest connection. An idea foreign to beings born and raised in a lab as literal tools of war.

They didn’t know.

The bartender might have been friends with the Jedi, but he was no traitor. He knew nothing about any attempt to overthrow the Republic. He loved the Republic, born in the far fringes of the Outer-Rim, living a hard life, moving from job to job, adventure to misadventure, all for the opportunity to scrape out a life far below the warm, welcoming light of the Republic’s shining jewel’s sun.

They didn’t.

What else could the clones think, already fearful of the alien’s size and strength and unnerved by his kind words despite the hostility they met them with, when the Jedi rounded the corner charging towards them at inhuman, unnaturally fast speeds. The traitors had come to rescue their accomplices.

Calia just wanted to reach Mel, her hand outstretched to him as she ran.

They did. 
 

 
Mel saw Richar and Calia. He felt a faint smile on his face, despite the blaster painfully pressed into the back of his head, the gravel of chipped ferrocrete digging into his knees. He could always feel the tension before a fight, and wanted to wave it off, saying “Wait—”

A trigger, pulled.

A flash, blue—lighter, purer, brighter than the fading holo-sign.

Maybe if she got to him fast enough he’d be okay. He’d be okay. He’dbeokay.

She just wanted the clones to leave him alone.

She just wanted to hear Mel's voice.

She just wanted to hear him say he would be okay.

She just wanted to be with her Dad.

She never heard the sound of her own scream.

Chapter Text

CT-75-3548, Krayt, did not know, and he never would, why, when the other member of his squad, CT-75-3273, Snow, pulled his trigger, firing directly into the back of the captive’s head, the scream from the hostile sounded unnaturally loud, the echoing tones boring like a lance of pure agony even through the audio dampeners of his helmet. It forcef the soldiers to their knees, dropping their weapons with a metallic clatter as they tried desperately to cover their ears. Blood streamed freely from their eyes, dripping in heavy drops as the veins throughout their body ruptured from the pressure. Then a pair of sickening crunching pops as their ears ruptured, deafening them both, but the wailing continued to lash at them. Both clones—really boys, only ten years old, their genes twisted to fully mature in only ten years—felt a grotesque panic as they realized the sound was not really a sound. It was in their heads.  

They never knew.  

Never understood how, or why, they died. 

He knew exactly what was going to happen, step-by-step, move-by-move, the instant he’d turned the corner—almost.   

Jedi Knight Richar Arten, some knight he was. Or, maybe he was just ike the knights of ancient history. He’d gone riding in, a glorious charge to win the day. He's forgotten where he was. He’d forgotten everything there was to know about running and living in the underlevels. Never rush in halfcocked. After the night he’d had, spose just wanted one thing to go right. Could’ve stopped near the Pit, felt things out through the Force, understood who was there and what he and Calia had to deal with. Made a plan: use his blaster, cause a distraction, go in the back door, split up. Anything—but, no. The Jedi Knight’s feelings had gotten the best of him, again.  

That was his whole life. Blundering around—blind? Yes, blind was the word. He’d been a kid, literally blessed with a connection to something greater than he could ever hope to imagine. That wasn’t enough for him. No, he had to leave the nice, clean, safe temple of up the surface to go slumming to experience, more of the Force . He had experienced it all right, experienced its ugly, sick, broken underbelly as two death sticks addicts inadvertently blinded him for life. All these memories came back, the flash of the blaster bolt murdering his friend, eerily similar to the stunner which had scarred him then.  

He’d marked another tally to the the collection painfully etched into an aching spirit, all because he didn’t think things through. Cuts and blows from things no one should see, or even worse, do, leaving the pit in his soul where he was supposed to find hope, his own heart a leaden mass that was more scars than flesh. And even worse, this time it wasn’t just him who’d been scarred.  

Standing there, frozen, his mistakes unfolding before him slow enough to take every minute detail, but fast enough he’d no hope of changing the outcome. Calia had been even more desperate. Arten had done his best to shield her from the worst the Galaxy had to serve up to a young woman who still had that spark, the belief that life could be better. Arten knew the clones would already be tense. Big guy like Mel, especially an unfamiliar alien, and just the two of’em, they wouldn’t be taking any chances. That had been before their targets arrived, speeding along the barren ground at insanel fast speeds. Not faster than a trigger. Need to put down the potential threat to have any hope of surviving the active threat. It was how they were trained. Was what he’d have done in their boots. Calia, and most of the Galaxy at large didn’t know what the clones were capable of, but Arten despite his sympathies for the tragedy of their birth knew what act would bee to much for a life fully dedicated to a single cause to stomach.  

And the truth was that nothing was too much. The flash, so blue it felt white, pure.What he didn’t know was what she was capable of.  

Was just lucky she had run ahead, that he had hesitated for that sliver of time. He felt it before he heard it. In the Force, it rushed to meet him, a crackling, pulsing surge. Pallid, sickly amber, streaks pulsing crimson like rabid heartbeat, assaulted hi mind, his very center in the Force. That was when he heard it. The banshee’s wail that drove him to his knees, hands reflexively cupping his ears. He knew she’d never mean to hurt him, but Calia’s cry was her heart shattering pain and anguish manifested in the Force, and pain did not discriminate. It lashes, bites, and cuts at wherever it can reach. Including her Master, sundered capillaries in his eyes coercing bloody tears of pain and rage to smother any tears of mourning he might have shed, staining the bandages firmly binding his scars with deep ruddy streaks. It had been some time, years since that fateful night that had sent him hurtling towards his destiny deep below the core at the center of the Galaxy. That midnight hour where he’d been disfigured to ride the fine line between life’n death with a coupla death sticks. That might as well have been a gentle tickle compared to the pain he felt now. Fitting, that the Jedi would be baptized once again, anointed in pain as his destiny skidded off course down a road even further downwards.  

The crashing wave of agony finally receded, ebbing away with lingering pin picks of pain in the deepest reaches of his mind that Arten knew would never fully leave him. He had collapsed, the stony ferrocrete’s lifeless surface, a cool gentle kiss on the clammy skin of his cheek. No time to suffer, to feel. Need to keep moving before the heartache can catchup . With a guttural groan, afraid to call the Force to reinforce his body, terrified he’d invite back the xanthous beast Calia had somehow summoned. So with only pure grit and barred teeth he roused himself to one knee, then launched himself to shaky feet, beads of sweat dripping from his brow.   

Reaching out through the Force, the next scene of this tragedy was about what he’d expected. Arten would need to refund his ticket. The two clones were dead. Gone. There wasn’t even the tiniest flickers of the Force’s spark left in them. Unnatural for people who just a few seconds had felt, and thought, and bled. Mel— Calia had broken down, collapsing back down unto her heels, but managed to stay upright, feeling her eyes wide open, taking in the horrendous portrait, but not perceiving any of it. Shaking off the lingering pain, the Jedi marched forward, one heavy footfall then the next as he stalked past his Padawan. He’d wanted to help, to say, do something. He couldn’t bring himself to. There was nothing he could say, he didn’t understand it himself. What power her suffering had called to from the deepest, darkest pits of Corsucant where the endless suffering of innumerable beings had left the Force to fester and weep. It did explain how she had somehow pulled him out of that ambush. Even more, though, he didn’t know how he’d help through what she’d had lost and felt.  

She’d experienced death, the loss of those who didn’t deserve their fate, and sometimes the ones who did. They’d left their marks on his Padawan, but he knew this time would be different. Before had been cuts, scrapes along a fresh heart. It’d hurt, but the scars healed well. This was a vicious, brutal tear. She’d never be quite the same, but Arten knew he’d need to help put her back together, just as she had done for him.  

That was later. He had felt inside the Pit that for rest of the clones, six of them spread out through the small establishment had their bells rung, too. He felt them slowly gathering themselves, discipline and war-hardened nerves pulling them back to the present. Arten had also felt Tuk in there, luckily sequestered back in his hidden store room. Doubly lucky, if the clones had a chance to rough up the aging Sullustan, his body already wracked by decades of drink, he probably wouldn’t’ve survived Calia. They’d— he’d already lost Mel, but there was still chance to get Tuk out, and the Jedi needed to exploit the opening his Padawan had made to do it.  

It was probably for the better that he’d do this alone, she’d done—killed enough, but, there was one thing he could do. One act of love and mercy for his...he wasn’t sure what they were now. The suspicion they wouldn’t be Jedi for much longer creeping in. He stopped and turned, one hand tugging with a learned, well-practiced flourish, bandages flowing limply in the stagnant air. The last thing Calia needed was to be left alone staring at Mel’s body. In only a few seconds the bandages were now snugly secured around her eyes, his milky, clouded eyes, warm and determined as he pushed forward once again. She didn’t need to see more, more broken dreams, and more death.  

“Wait outside.”  

Chapter Text

Vaguely, Calia had some sense of what had happened. Her only truly clear memory was that moment the clone had fired. Indeed, that moment was burned deep into her psyche forever.  However, it was distant, unreal. From there, her mind was unclear, muddled. Flashes in her memory–the clones falling, the sharp pain in her throat and knees, darkness, Master Arten’s voice.  

As her thoughts began to coalescence, first came sensation. Her knees ached from where she was kneeling, and she allowed herself to clumsily fall backwards into a sitting position. She felt the rough, grainy ferrocrete under her hand, the familiar yet distant sound of a lightsaber, shouts, and blaster fire, the smell of burnt ozone and blood, the sharp salty taste of her own sweat. Her vision remained in darkness, but it was but the frightening lack of light, but the cool embrace of shadowed nothingness.  

Second came conceptualization. Calia slowly assembled the jumbled thoughts and feelings. Parsed them against her scattered but slowly reassembling memories. She was sitting outside the Sarlaac Pit. Her body was exhausted. Mind, too.  

Finally came realization. For the first time, despite a lifetime of preparation and all her harrowing experiences during the previous three years, for the first time she had killed. Surely as if she had been the one who pulled the trigger herself, because of her, Mel was gone forever. Calia expected tears, instead she still felt numb, detached, as if her emotions were very fast away. In a bitter twist of cruel irony, she finally understood the Jedi philosophy of detachment. She had listened to ask the lessons of remaining a part from others, looking for connection not through individual beings and instead by weaving oneself into the Force itself. That was just rote memorization. Now she understood it, felt it, lived it. Calia had felt so much, learned, enjoyed, laughed with Mel, and now he was gone and the place in her heart he had filled with so much love was now empty, ready to be filled with another emotion. Which? There was no way to know, but that was for later.  

She heard the deafening silence; the fighting had stopped with the final distinct sound of an extinguishing lightsaber. 

The familiar screech of metal as the Pit’s hatch slid open might’ve been comforting in another life. Arten scanned the bar again, determined not to rush, for once. Feeling out again confirmed good earlier perception. There were five more clones, must’ve been one standard squad with an additional officer overseeing. Arten might’ve felt a bit insulted that they thought so few could handle he and Calia, or he may have if not for the only thing he could feel was the empty ache that had taken residence with all his other failures. The only thing the Jedi could really feel was the sight vibration up his arm as he activated his saber—and the jolt that shot up his leg as he kicked the table in front of him that the first clone was leaning on as he wiped the last traces of puke from his lips. 

Arten didn’t even bother to turn his head to the poor kid as his attention shifted forward towards the clone hunched over the bar, still fighting a splitting headache worse than the morning after his shoreleave, but quickly gathering his senses as he saw the golden blade effortlessly slash his brothers chest in half before he even hit the floor with a terrifying scream of agony. The Jedi wouldn’t give him much time to mourn. Despite everything, the clone was disciplined. The shot was off-center, rushed, not panicked. With how fast Arten was charging across the Pit the soldier took the shot when he could and could only pray to the Force he got lucky. They both knew whose side the Force was on, even before the return swing of Arten’s saber after deflecting the shot away slashed across the clone soldier's neck. The Jedi at least gave the trooper the dignity of only severing his spine and not taking his head off completely.  

Not that Captain Odin who had mostly recovered and was firing his pistol at the Jedi as fast as the plasma cylinder could recycle in the next load of tibana gas into the rapidly overheating chamber. As the Jedi spun his saber in a swirling defensive flourish knocking each shot aside. They’d fought at each other’s side enough for both to navigate through the twisting streets of fate and reach the same dead end. The pistol had only handful of shots before it overheated, not nearly enough to hold an ice-cold determined Jedi Knight back long enough for the last two troopers to reinforce him. Satisfied to let his identification number be carved into the wall of the dead next if it saves the rest of his brothers and the Republic against the religious fanatics tyranny, he fired one last shot and with and held the commlink built into his gauntlet to his lips, “Jedi is at the bar, s—” Odin never got to finish. He thought Arten would close the distance, cut’em down with that ugly, brutal weapon of an archaic past the deserved to be put out of its misery. Instead, knowing he wouldn’t have to be ready to intercept the next shot, Arten sent the final bolt back at Odin. He was dead before he knew what hit him. Dead before he hit the ground. 

Stop. Reasses.  It’d only been a few moments since firing had stopped, bit it was long enough for the last two clones to know they were the last two clones. Arten knew their best chance of getting out of here alive, and maybe even completing their mission would be to fall back, barricade themselves into the back rooms, hold a blaster to Tuk’s head threatening to give him a free ticket on the Tibana Express if Arten tried to come in or leave. It would have put him in an impossible situation. Stay and try to work out how to get sic some Mynocks on the Express’ power couplings while the reinforcements race there, that, or leave the man who had saved his life when he was just a boy his fate. 

The first stroke of luck that night. Clones weren’t the hardened ruthless criminals Arten was used to dealing with. They didn’t think in strategy, they thought in tactics, one moment to the next not thinking how or why the pieces fell, but making sure they did fall—predictable. 

They were trained to meet an attack with a counter attack. Stack up on the door, breech, throw a thermal detonator to soften the enemy before rushing in blasters roaring. Arten knew all this; he’d seen them do it enough times, even ordered it himself. It wouldn't a pleasant way to go, but was the safest, safest for him, to reach out using the Force through the solid wall, softly settle around the thermal detonator in the clone's hand, stand there as the door slid open and the clone moved to throw, his arm went through the motion automatically the same way it had after running the drill hundreds of times, so many times, he had already stepped back beside the doorway despite how the detonator remained exactly where it had been in mid-air when he threw, held in place by the Force. 

Held there after it had been primed. 

Arten stepped over the molten remains of plasteel. The flesh and blood had mostly incinerated instantly in the flash, but the armor had melted right to the floor. He hadn’t wanted to kill them. And if it had been only his own life on the line he might’ve tried to spare them like the beings he hoped could someday make a new life for themselves after being btoken down by the underlevels. Now? No, now he was the criminal and knew they’d never offer him that same chance. More important was that he wasn’t just fighting for himself. His life could, would make the difference for Calia, or Chantara, or even Tuk's life, Arten thought as he approached the old Sullustan gazing up at him like a divine savior, back from the space between life and death, with a painful forced smile through missing teeth. 

Calia had never touched a cigarra, but founder herself craving one. From what she knew about smoking, if there was ever an appropriate time, it was a moment like this. 

She stood at the lip of the alley. The usual streets of the entertainment district were deathly quiet, desolate, as she hugged her robe tight to her body. She had to step away, she could no longer bear it. She had felt that Master Arten was alright and had found Tuk, so she would not be needed. She crumpled the bunched bandages that she had removed from over her eyes as she listened to the sound of footsteps approaching from behind her. 

Calia turned to see Master Arten no worse than when she had seen him last, mostly. Tuk was not so fortunate, bloodied lips and nose and one eye nearly swollen closed. Despite his injuries he carried himself proudly, only hobbling slightly as he leaned on her master for support. ‘Tuk, are you okay?’ Calia was relieved to know he was alright. She had never been as close to Tuk as Master Arten had, but she still respected his experience and support. He was an endless font of knowledge and an essential cornerstone of her once burgeoning social network. 

'I’m fine, fine.' Tuk did his best to say clearly despite his swollen lip and bleeding gums, 'Don’t worry about me, you need to—’ 

‘We know. We know, the clones are after us,’ Master Arten interrupted him now. ‘It’s why we tried to get here as fast as we could before—’ He cut himself off, sucking on his teetch harshly. Calia felt so devasted, she struggled to find a word that made it feel less real, losing him. Yet, she only knew him for a few short years, meanwhile, Mel and Tuk her lifetime companions. She could not fathom the heartache he must have felt in that moment.  

‘Listen!’ Tuk implored. ‘The clones are not after you. The entire Order has been declared traitors to the Republic.’ The emergency beacon! Calia thought. With everything that had happened she had nearly forgotten how upon first waking there had been the recall message sent over the Jedi Order’s emergency channel. She realized, if they had not ignored the message the same way they ignored other summons from the Order,  Master Arten and her would have been on the way to their deaths at this moment. And, perhaps, he would not be. 

Tuk continued, ‘Understand? They are after all Jedi!’ 

Wait. No! 

The realization hit Master Arten at the same moment, a blind panic gripping his features, ‘Master Medicum!’ 

They listened to the shriek of pain and terror over the crackling distorted comm, their faces as grim as the Mandalorian inspired faces on their identical helmets. More shots. The distinctive hum of a lightsaber. The shooting stopped. “Jedi is at the bar, s—.” it was Captain Odin’s voice before the entire line went dead. It was only one saber from the consistent hum, Runner thought. He knew Commander Calia could fight, but she’d probably be less direct. It must’ve been the General. 

One man, wounded, and he butchered an entire squad and a captain in seconds. He’d seen the jedi knight in action before, the way he moved, how precise he could be at those speeds, and just thinking about how that weapon could take off an arm, leg, or worse in a split second—terrifying. He didn’t look forward to what had to be done. Had to be done to ensure order, justice. Had to be done so everything his brothers had died for in the thousands wouldn’t be for nothing. That seven more had just died for, murdered. It had to be done.  

Good soldiers follow orders. 

Lord had given his assessment, and the squad had agreed. Unlike most Jedi who either lived up in their golden tower, ventured out to assess or study something before scurrying home, or were fighting with the rest of the GAR, the two investigators lived and breathed among the most densely populated planet in galactic history. Once they decided to go to ground, they’d be ghosts. With the full weight of the Galaxy against them it would still be a matter of time before the Jedi would be brought to justice, but that was force and resources that could be doing good elsewhere, and who knew how much damage the traitors could do in the weeks, months, or even years before—despite it all, it really did pain him to think how they had turned traitor—before they could be put down. Considering all that, it was a matter of being ready, sending regs after their known associates and targeting their works and projects, until they exposed themselves then he and the rest of Sigma Squad would deploy to eliminate the targets. They’d miscalculated. Somehow it seemed the jedi weren’t taking the bait, or they had, cut through the regs like it was nothing, and would definitely be long gone by the time they reach the location. 

The pod brothers looked to each other. Oftentimes they could have entire conversations without words. It was time for the fallback. Lord communicated the order to their pilot and the gunship shifted in the direction of the distribution center. 

Runner could only think. It felt wrong. Maybe some Jedi had tried to overthrow the Republic, install their quasi-religious Order as the sole authority in the Galaxy. General Arten and— his thoughts sputtered. Could Calia really be a traitor? Runner admitted he really didn’t know her that well, but what he did know about her told him she was the last person to ever agree to making a grab for power. Dank feerik! She had power, at any point she could have declared martial law in the part of the underlevels she worked, and fixed all the issues overnight through force, but she didn’t. 

He felt something twist in his guts. Maybe the Jedi Council had made their play, the Chancellor himself had said, still freshly wounded from the Force violently twisting and torturing him, but filled with the determination to defend the democracy he loved declared he wouldn't sop continuing to bring order and peace. Did that really means every single Jedi was a traitor? He knew for a fact the General and Calia weren’t on the Council’s good side. Maybe, maybe they did know about their plans? And maybe that was why they stayed away?  

The pain in his stomach tightened—If they did know, they didn’t say anything. I’m not smart or wise, but I do know it’s impossible to keep a secret for long. The training on operational security was all about giving the sensitive intel to as few as people as possible, as late as possible since it was just a matter of time until something leaked. The ambush we just pulled the Jedi out of was proof of that. If the coup attempt, the attack on the Chancellor, maybe even the whole war was really conspiracy by the Jedi Order to take control of the Republic, the truth would have slipped out from Council to the rank and file Jedi. If they cared, believed in democracy, the Republic they’d have said, done something.  

Ca-The Commander didn’t. She either knew or didn’t care enough to find out. That made her a traitor. Yeah, that made sense. Right? Runner just hoped he had convinced himself well enough he could pull the trigger. That, and he hoped he could convince his brothers it was sweat he was wiping off his cheeks as he lifted his helmet for just a second.