Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For three hundred years, the galaxy has stagnated, divided into many pieces, with piracy growing ever more prevalent. The two largest powers, the Third New Republic, and the Confederacy of Independent Systems, are too stubborn to work together and solve the ever worsening crisis. There lies only one hope for the galaxy. The Jedi.

But, the Jedi too are divided. The Knights of the Republic residing on Coruscant serve the Republic alone, and the Republic has little interest in sending their Jedi out of their space. The True Jedi Order, also called the Grays by the other orders, have many enclaves across the Outer and Mid Rim, but their numbers and influence are too limited, relegating them to putting out fires instead of striking at the source. Lastly, the Jedi Collective hides on a secret base somewhere out of reach of any government. Operating in a draconian manner to the other orders, few planets trust them enough to accept their help.

But six years ago, the state of the galaxy altered. The Jedi Collective has disappeared. Without their protectors, parts of the galaxy are left vulnerable. Ships are disappearing without a trace, while the other Jedi scramble to try and keep the peace. Solar winds carry change after three hundred years of dormancy, and many are left to wonder if this chaos will change the galaxy for better, or worse…

Chapter Text

Rishi, a world of thick jungle and high mountain tops. By all accounts it's a beautiful world, though you can't see it often. Your pupilless white Arkanian eyes are not meant for the bright rays of young suns. Most buildings in the village are as stark as your hair, making even small alleys too blinding. Trapped in the back room of the Limping Maungur, a diner in the humid lowlands of Rishi, you wash dishes, denied the light of the sun by your alien biology. Who are you? You do not know. You only wash dishes, tied to the sink by your word and honor. It would not matter if you escaped. 

You crashed into the ceiling of the Limping Maungur six years ago, destroying the kitchen and diner counter and the dish washing droid of your Duros master, Ron Jen. After you awoke from the crash some days later, you could not remember who you were or where you came from. And, as has proved most annoying, you found you could not speak. Ron Jen demanded satisfaction, and not knowing any better, you offered to work off the price of the droid and ceiling, speaking through a comlink that your nurse connected to a datapad. Both items were the only things of yours found in the crash. 

Only after you started working were you told of the great expense Ron Jen paid for the droid, and that it would take seven years to work off. It is an indignity, but one you have decided to suffer through nonetheless. Escaping Rishi without identification wouldn’t be too difficult, as smugglers are common enough, but without credits they won’t bother to help you. Besides, despite your apparent amnesia, something you think has remained with you is a deep sense of honor. You said you would work off the debt, and so you must.

So you spend your days washing dishes. It isn’t entirely terrible. You like to watch people through the window, and most regular patrons are cordial enough towards you, giving you the nickname “Crasher.” Between shifts, you listen to their stories of the wider galaxy. You often wish you could live their lives, see through their eyes. The patrons themselves aren’t great people of course. Rishi is a common pit stop for pirates and smugglers, but that makes their stories all the more exciting. Daring escapes and heists fill your dreams.

One day, not much different from any other, you peer out the serving hatch, and one patron at the counter catches your eye; A Mirialan man with green skin, purple eyes, and dark hair. He hunches over his blue milk. You squint. They look so familiar, but where you’ve seen him from you can't recall. He wasn’t just a returning patron, you’re sure. He looks up when Ron Jen comes over to take his order, blocking your view, but when Ron Jen moves on, the Mirialan locks eyes with you and squints as well. You do this for longer than you care to admit, just staring all confuddled at each other. As you stare, you get an odd tingly feeling in your gullet. The Mirialan’s eyes widen, as if alarmed by your presence.

“Saber’s grace! Is that really you!” the Mirialan shouts. With supernatural agility, he leaps up on the counter and dives through the serving hatch into the kitchen. His thick yellow coat makes him look almost like a giant animal. You fall in shock, as do the chefs who jumped out of his way. Grasping you by the shoulders, he lifts you back to your feet. “Oh, I thought you were dead. We all did!”

You swallow and smile awkwardly. Looking past the Mirialan, Urgon, the Gamorrean cook, has grabbed a pan and is getting ready to bash his skull. You shake your head to say, “ Don't do that please!” before returning your attention to the overly friendly stranger.

The Mirialan, never breaking eye contact with you, looks concerned. “Come on, say something. It's me, JP-M-0011.”

His name strikes you as very odd. Is he a clone ? Despite being very, extremely uncomfortable, you reach for your data pad to respond.

After signaling the Mirialan to wait a moment, and typing quickly, your datapad speaks in a static robotic tone. “ Hello, I am called Crasher. Pleased to meet you. Where do you know me from? ”

“Are you joking?” The Mirialan looks away from your blank eyes to your forehead, noticing the scar on your scalp from the crash that divides your long snow colored hair. “Ohhhh. Do you not remember me?” he says.

You nod.

“I see,” he pats your shoulder. “Why don't we go sit down and talk, huh?We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Looking in his eyes, your mind floods with excitement. This person knows me . What are the chances that he would find me here, out of all the planets in the galaxy?

Ron Jen bursts through the door, breaking your train of thought, his massive forehead veiny with anger. “Mother of Moons. What is going on? You better spit out an explanation stranger before I have Cleexl blast you into dust.” He screams at the Mirialan.

The Mirialan turns to say something in response. You hold him back and type, “ Need quick break. Sorry, ” before rushing the Mirialan past Ron Jen out of the kitchen.

Sitting in a shadowy corner stall away from the sun, you fiddle with silverware, awkwardly waiting for the Mirialan to speak. His hair is dark green, short, and messy. It doesn’t look like he’s washed himself in a long while. He seems just as stiff, not quite knowing how to broach the topic that is your entire life. 

Finally, he lets out a sigh and speaks. “Since you don’t remember me, there's no reason to use my old designation. Call me Hala. Your designation was JP-A-0005, or A-Five for short; JP for Jedi Padawan, A for Arkanian, and triple-O five for being the fifth Arkanian, back when we were all in the Jedi Collective. Have you heard of them?” You wiggle your hand uncertainty. 

You have heard of them, but you don’t really know anything. Although, what stories you’ve heard have never had a positive view, nor a happy ending for the story teller. If you were one of them, then what kind of person were you before your hands were dressed in rubber gloves?

“That's fine,” Hala says. “It was one of the splinter Jedi Orders, one of the bigger ones too. They’re all gone now, wiped out by… Well, it's complicated. Me and four other padawans were the only survivors I knew about until today. We all thought you were dead, shot down by some enemy fighters fleeing the Central Enclave on Geonosis. Your hyperdrive or navigation systems got damaged, since you never made it to the rendezvous on Scarif.”

You don't quite know how to feel. For the first time in six years, you’re speaking to someone who actually knows you, only to find out that most of the people that did are dead. Despite it all, you don’t have any sort of great outburst, only fidgeting some more with a fork. It's hard to have strong emotions about something you have no real knowledge of. Hala’s story doesn’t even feel real.

“What have you been up to all this time?” Hala asks. He seems genuine enough, but his expression reads as pitying.

You tell him, not that there's much to tell.

“Cool, cool,” he repeats. “Your hair…”

My hair? Concerned, You run your fingers through your long white hair. What’s wrong with my hair?

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he says, noticing your anxiety. “It's just longer. Like, a lot longer. We all kept ours short back in the Collective, but it looks nice long.” After another pause, “I’m surprised no one here knows you’re a Jedi,” Hala jokes. “Did they think your lightsaber was a torch or something?”

Reflecting on when you woke up from the crash, you scrunch your eyebrows and look up at the ceiling. You suddenly stand up, your arms tensing. I had a lightsaber this whole blasted time , and that nerf herder stole it , your mind screams in angry epiphany, finally latching onto something in order to release your emotions. Ron Jen, side eyeing you with his solid red eyes, was serving a Rodian smuggler named Cleexl. Determined to get some answers, you march across the tiled floor. Hala reaches for your arm but you dodge his grasp and circle behind the counter. You get nose to nose with Ron Jen. He doesn’t have a nose, but still. You snarl. Seeing in the infrared spectrum, you notice Ron Jen becoming warmer, agitated by your disrespect.

“What do you want, Crasher.” he snarls back, pushing you away.

You reach for your datapad, but realise, to your embarrassment, you left it back at the table. Too flustered to leave the scene to get your datapad, you wave your hands wildly trying to communicate your accusation. Ron Jen just looks confused and offended, but not because he understands. Giving up, you vigorously signal for Hala to come over to back you up. Cleexl elects to leave before things get too heated, sitting up and walking out the door just as Hala arrives at your side, datapad in hand.

Hala intuits your frustration, handing you the datapad. “Where is his lightsaber, you charlatan?” he demands for you.

Ron Jen capitulates quicker than you expect. “Gone. I sold it while you were asleep. How do you think I paid to fix my livelihood ? No one on this backwater was jumping at the bit to help out, so I helped myself.” He believes he’s entirely justified, showing no signs of remorse. Knowing him for all these years, you knew he was cold, but to keep your origin away from you?

Enraged, you reach under the counter and grab a wood lockbox. Thunk. You smack Ron Jen in his giant blue head, knocking him out cold. Then, you smash the box onto the floor to retrieve the protective goggles within. Ron Jen only ever let you use them to run errands in town, never for personal use. Goggles for a lightsaber and six years of your life isn’t what you call a fair trade, but it'll do. 

“ Let's go ,” you type, throwing off your apron.

Hala chuckles. “Gladly.”

As you march out the glass door, you can feel the eyes of the kitchen staff on your back. Saying goodbye would be the nice thing to do. They were the closest thing to friends you’d had, but, eager to leave your old life behind, you leave without a word.

~~~

The roads of Rishi feel so much different without the pressure of the diner on your neck. Fresh air fills your lungs. Smells like freedom. Another smell is stronger than freedom, however. Your clothes. Nothing more than ratty old rags; they weren’t much like the clothes of a person embarking on a new life, or of a Jedi. As soon as you pinch at them uncomfortably, Hala seems to notice. He pulls you aside to a storefront, The Rancor’s Raiment . You try on a few sets of clothes. Nothing too fancy, as you doubt Hala has many credits to spare. Speaking of Hala, as you filter through your options, Hala seems anxious to leave, tapping his feet and darting his eyes about the store. Eventually deciding on a set of blue work clothes and a brown coat, Hala picks through a small coin purse to pay. Judging from the sparse rattling, he's lighter on credits than you’d thought.

When you leave the store, Hala walks at a faster pace than before. You lag behind. “You know,” he speaks out of the side of his mouth. “It's real lucky I found you, seeing as I only stopped here to fuel up. The masters would say there's no such thing as luck, but what do they know? Did they know? Whatever.” 

Hala briefly slows to walk by your side. It seems like a friendly gesture at first. A pat on the shoulder quickly turns to light pushing, trying to get you to speed up. He obviously thinks he’s being subtle, but judging by what you’ve seen of him, he’s anything but. The spaceport isn’t even that far, so you don’t know what he wants to rush for.

The spaceport itself is rather small, and muddy, with only four ships docked. One was an almost golden fighter, with twin engines and a long elegant tail. It was unrealistic to think that one was Hala’s. Farther back were two freighters. One was brown and oddly triangular. The other was Corellian. Old and rusty, but still a nice ship overall. Hala jogged past them both. Way in the back of the spaceport was a pile of junk one would struggle to call a ship. That was Hala’s. Fifty percent rust by volume, missing panels, and wires hanging from the singular wing made it look ancient. Grimacing, you trail behind Hala toward his “ship.”

“Home sweet home,” Hala exclaims, hugging one of the landing gear. “Don’t let its rugged good looks fool you. This G-20 Rigger, the Goldstar, has carried me across the outer rim going on four years.”

“And not one year more,” a voice rings out behind you.

From around the Corellian freighter and weird triangle ship, a band of five ruffians emerge; Two Nikto, a Nautolan, human, and a Pantoran, all carrying blasters and other instruments of violence. So they’re why Hala was trying to hurry.

One of the Nikto, wearing a red bandana, points his rifle at you. “Been chasing you too long, Greeny. Who's the friend?”

Hala’s face hardens as he steps in front of you. “No one you should concern yourself with, Slis.” Hala’s voice goes deeper, like he’s changed into another person entirely. 

“Oh ho, grown a spine, have you? Not gonna scuttle away like the last two times?”

“Abandon this chase and you can leave with limbs or life.” Hala reaches under his coat and hands you a blaster. You hold it loose in your hand, not sure what to do with it.

Slis bursts out laughing. “So your new friend is supposed to gun us down by himself? Something tells me that ain’t gonna to work.”

Hala reaches into his other coat pocket and reveals a smooth silver cylinder. Holding it out in front of him, he flips a switch. A light flashes across the spaceport as his lightsaber ignites. The pure white blade ripples in the puddles of brown water that separate you and Hala from the hunters. He lowers his weapon into a ready position slowly, like a predator preparing to pounce.

Slis only laughs again. “No one is falling for that. If you were a real Jedi, you woulda killed me the first time around. That lightsaber must’ve cost a fortune. What do you smuggle?” Slis’ blaster makes a low humming sound, apparently having finished charging. “Guess I’m about to find out.”

Slis releases a volley of suppressing blaster fire directly at Hala. He blocks it deftly, but slowly begins backpedaling under the sheer volume of fire. Ducking for cover seems like your only option. Looking around, you see a lone crate off to your left. You dive behind it, a shot from one of Slis’ companions just barely missing your leg. The hunters fan out as Slis continues to push forward. You’ve never held a blaster before, at least not in this life, so you default to the most basic advice you can think of. Point and shoot. Peeking out from behind the crate to get your bearings, you don’t get to see much. As soon as your hair makes it around the corner, a barrage from one of the hunters flies overhead, forcing you back into cover. In a panic, you think,  Pointing and shooting will come later. First, I just need to survive.

Hala continues his desperate defense, his feet sliding back in the mud with every shot. Eventually it's one shot too many, but not for Hala. The barrel Slis’ rifle overheats, erupting into steam and glowing fiery orange. Hala seizes the moment, leaping high into the air, deflecting pot shots from the other hunters. With the hunters distracted, you point and shoot, popping from behind the crate and firing at the Nautolan on the edge of the formation. He falls, struck in the chest by a bolt. You don't press your luck, spinning back behind the crate as another bolt hits the mud where you were crouching. 

Mud flies when Hala lands in front of Slis. Slis screams, but it's cut short by the sound of burning cloth and flesh. More fire comes at Hala, who runs at the other Nikto, slashing at his blaster arm in one smooth arc, and running further towards the human. Breathing deep, you ready yourself to fire again. You dive from behind the box and slide in the mud, moving just fast enough that the blue Pantoran misses his twitch shot. You take aim as you slide, and fire, hitting his shoulder. Hey, I'm a pretty good shot.

Just as he falls and crawls away, Hala finishes the human hunter with a thrust through the chest and deactivates his lightsaber. The Pantoran gets away with only a scorched shoulder. The rest aren’t so lucky.

Still shaking from adrenaline, you stand from the mud, your finger never leaving the trigger. The residual excitement of the firefight begins to fade, but you can’t help but feel… Happy. Only an hour after escaping the monotony of the Limping Maungur, you’re living out your fantasy. 

Hala stands stoic over the human hunter, eyes closed and breathing deeply through his nose. “Sorry it came to that,” he says without opening his eyes. “Lone Jedi aren’t the most popular people.” He turns to you and holds out a hand for the blaster. You, reluctant to give up your protection so soon, slowly drop it in his hand. “Why don’t you go up to the ship? I’ll just be a moment.”

You wipe mud off your goggles and amble to the ship. Goldstar was a very charitable name. You press an exposed red button to open the cargo bay. There obviously used to be a panel that covered it, but it's long since fallen off from wear. The inside of the ship doesn’t look much better than the outside. A layer of oil or rust covers everything. An ancient speeder is tucked in the corner under a dusty cloth. Rips and stains mar the chair cushions. Cables crisscross the halls. You find your way up to the cockpit and sit in the co-pilot’s seat, and pull out your datapad. It got busted up pretty badly during the crash, so nothing of real note survived, but it still had a basic star map installed. You trace your finger from Rishi to Scarif. So close. Just a quick jump and I would’ve been there. If only. Not lifting your finger, you trace south to Geonosis.

Hala walks up after a while and sits in the pilot’s chair, just to the left of you. He punches coordinates into the ship's navicomputer before looking over to our datapad.

“Are you sure?” he says, a clear melancholy in his tone.

You nod.

Chapter Text

Geonosis, once the home of the industrious Geonosians, is a dead world. Anything of value was looted centuries ago by the Galactic Empire during the Geonosian genocide, leaving only barren sand and empty hives. It’s a perfect place to hide. The Jedi Collective, one of the three Jedi Orders, made their home here after the Order split in centuries past, turning one hive into a new Jedi Temple. 

The Collective in some ways emulated the ways of the hive’s previous inhabitants. The Collective despised attachment and negative emotion, like the Jedi of the Old Republic. But, as with the hives of yore, there was no room for individuality in the order. Jedi of the Collective had no names. They all wore the same gray robes and wielded the same yellow lightsabers, unless one reached the rank of Jedi Master. The Collective quickly censured any attempt to emulate one's native culture. Some even went so far as to forgo sex and gender. There was only the Collective and their mission to bring peace to the galaxy.

But they are long gone. Hala stands among the littering of sand blasted skeletons and craters. He told A5 on the way here what happened to them, to the old Jedi Collective. He said it all so clinically, like it was ancient history, but standing in it again, the pain is overwhelming. Hala knows techniques to mute these wounds in the force, while still being able to interpret them, but the anger of whatever unleashed this slaughter, whatever the Geonosians had left behind, is crushing beyond compare.

Under the weight of it, he still senses A5 not so far away. They hadn’t shown any indication of being able to feel through the force when they reunited, but perhaps the intensity of the wound reawakened his sensitivity. Hala takes hold of A5’s shoulders and helps them breathe. He tries to ease the pain, but it still lingers as they stand. On the other side of the arena is a raised platform. As if drawn to it, A5 walks forward. More Jedi skeletons cover it, but one corpse isn’t like the others. A droid, shining silver with a large empty compartment in its chest open to the sky.

“This was Leader One. Grandmaster and founder of the Collective,” Hala says, kneeling down beside the empty vessel. “But the Grandmaster wasn’t a droid. They were a living kyber crystal, over five hundred years old. One of Rey’s last students.This is only a chassis. ” A5 searches the ground for the crystal, but there is only death. “It's gone, if that's what you're wondering,” Hala continues to stare at the chassis as he speaks. “Along with every lightsaber in the temple and every droid we managed to fell.” Hala steps off the platform and sits in the sand. In front of him is a small skeleton bundled in worn robes, one of his forgotten brethren. “They left nothing behind but bodies.” A wave of grief surges through his being, drowning out all other feelings, before crashing into nothing as he taps into the wound, and recalls the last day of Jedi Collective.

~~~

Once, Hala and A5 were part of a larger group of Padawans, united in forbidden friendship. KD9, a Kel-Dor, was the most seldom seen, as his master was active in the Outer Rim. A Zabrak male, Z34 was a skilled duelist with small horns and a proficiency in dual wielding techniques. T2 was one of only two Trandoshans, a large reptilian species, to ever join the Order in its three hundred year history, mostly due to their inborn aggression and distaste of all Jedi. And there was the human female, H117, who had dedicated herself fully to the Collective. Hala was closest with her.

In the labyrinthine catacombs under the temple, they met when they could to play games and share quiet laughter. In the back of Hala’s mind, he realized their friendship wouldn't last. Becoming knights would take away what little leeway they had, sending them across the galaxy to execute Jedi justice. Still, he cherished it all the same.

The last day they were all together was the annual Conclave of the Jedi Collective, when all the masters returned from their posts to debate doctrine, share findings, and elect a new Jedi Council. Packed to the brim with Jedi, thousands had returned to the Temple from across the Outer Rim to attend. This also meant that the higher passages were no longer as isolated as they were before. At the urging of KD9, they went further down than normal. Igniting their yellow lightsabers to serve as torchlights, they made their way down the long, winding passages of the hive.

“We really shouldn’t do this, KD9,” T2 growled, ducking under the ribs of the tunnels. “If I’m late to the Conclave, my master will have my scales.”

“Same here,” agreed H117, spinning her Padawan braid. “We can play sabacc another day.”

KD9 stopped at the head of the line. “There may not be another day,” they said gruffly through their breathing apparatus. “After the Conclave, I’ll leave with my master again, and after that… Well, we’re all close to becoming knights.”

The Padawans stood in silence awhile, before Z34 spoke up. “We should be good here. As long as we hurry, we’ll be fine.”

They dealt out the cards there on the dusty tunnel floor. A grateful Twi’lek villager on Ryloth gave KD9 the sabacc deck after they defended her home from marauders, but they had to hide it from their master. The cards were old and frayed at the edges, the symbols weathered by sunlight and use. As the Padawans played, they could sense a residual joy emanating from the cards through the force, the remnants of distant memories. Z34 won the gambit three times in a row, as usual. Hala was certain he cheated, but so far nobody could prove it. They played on, dampened laughter echoing off the cavern walls.

They played for longer than they should’ve until they heard a rumbling coming from above. Ancient residue fell down on their heads.

“Karkbuckets,” Z34 exclaimed. “They must have started!”

Hala remembers shooting up. “I knew we shouldn’t have done this today,” he yelped. “There goes my privacy privileges, you hydrosnakes.” before sprinting down the Tunnel.

The other Padawans rushed after him in short order, leaving KD9 behind. 

“Wait up!” they yelled, cards spilling from his fingers as he scrambled to collect the cards.

The Padawans knew the passages well. However, the passages were less than direct. They twisted back on themselves, spiraled up and down, making the way long. Too long for them to make it at a reasonable time. As they continued on, the rumbling subsided. Perhaps Hala should’ve known it was strange, that rumbling, but who could’ve predicted that day? The light at the end of the passage blinded them as they frantically stumbled out. They exited directly out into the central courtyard, formerly a Geonosian arena, to the horrible smell of scorched flesh. 

The first to bear witness, T2 ignited his lightsaber immediately. The rest followed, A5 gasping in terror, Hala and H117 grabbing each other's hands, Z34 pushing to the front to stand with T2. The last to arrive, KD9 lingered behind Hala.

Bodies, all wearing gray robes, covered the arena floor, bombarded from above. Young and old. Master and apprentice. The things stepping between the bodies and the edges of smouldering craters were yet more terrifying. Creatures of brass with long skeletal limbs, tall and insectoid, their claws grasping still smoking rifles and bloodied blades. Droids, with piercing red eyes made all the brighter by the artificial shade they stood in. In the sky above was a ship, larger than any the Padawans had ever seen, easily larger than ten temples. Massive black voids opened down, streams of droids flowing up and in. Large red bulbs covered the hull. Sensors. 

Even after so long, the sight of that warship feels surreal. It had so many eyes, the monster that ended it all. Hala knows it couldn’t have just been a droid army or a warship, or some rogue force. There was a hate that emanated from it, like a spirit searching for revenge.

When the Trandoshan Padawan ignited his lightsaber, all the droids’ eyes turned to him. After a moment's hesitation, the droids’ heads tilting to the side to inspect their prey, they lunged forward, firing bolts of hot plasma and readying their long vibroswords.

“Run!” T2 roared. “Get to the hangar. I’ll hold them off.”

Z34 rushed to his friend's defence. “Looks like you need a hand.” He said, igniting his twin blades to draw some fire his way.

Together, they held them off for a few seconds, buying time for Hala and the others to retreat into the tunnels. The other Padawans used the force to enhance their speed as they wound through the hive towards the hangar carved into its side. The entrance to the hangar was so large it connected to five tunnels. The whole way Hala never let go of H117, and she never let go of him. 

They arrived just in time to see two shuttles already flying off, and to see them blasted out of the sky. Their fiery explosions reflected in A5’s solid eyes as he fell backward in horror. Hala remembers the screams in the force stab at him, making him squeeze H117’s hand all the tighter. A few smaller fighters remained, hanging from the ceiling by wires. Light and fast, but each only holding a single passenger, they were their only hope. They nodded to each other in agreement. A5 got up and went to the hangar control console to lower down the ships. Hala and H117 embraced each other, before splitting up to go retrieve flightsuits from the lockers. KD9 ignited his lightsaber and looked down the dark tunnel.

Panting and covered in dirt, Z34 and T2 emerged from the tunnel a few minutes later. By the time they arrived, only three of the needed six fighters were lowered.

“Where are the shuttles?” T2 limped past KD9, a blaster mark burned into his shin.

“Gone,” KD9 responded, not looking away from the darkness of the passage. “That thing above us shot them down.”

“Then let's kriffing go! Why haven’t you already gotten in the fighters?” Z34 yelled, jumping towards the first available ship.

H117 stepped in front of her horned friend and handed him a flightsuit. “If we go one at a time, there's no way we’ll make it. We need to go all at once. Then we can hopefully split their attention enough that we can make it out of the atmosphere and rendezvous on Scarif.”

“How long will that take?”

“Patience Z,” Hala placed his hand on Z34’s shoulder. “The force is with us, and I’m sure A5 is going as fast as they can.” He wasn’t really trying to calm Z34, he was trying to calm himself. Hala couldn’t feel much fear from his friends, but he knew he stunk of the stuff.

A clatter of metal began emanating from behind, from the tunnel.

“Frag,” T2 ran back towards the entrance. “They must’ve gotten through the rubble. KD, help me out.”

Both reached up towards the arch and pulled with the force. They strained with the effort, muscles tightening and shaking. Pulling down such an enormous structure was a tough ask for even two knights. After a few tense moments, just as the foot falls reached their climax, the arch shook and gave way, caving in the entrance. KD9 fell to his knees, exhausted. T2 wasn’t in much better shape. His weight swayed left to right, trying and failing to feign strength.

The final fighter hit the floor.

Z34 leaped atop of the first fighter and yelled down, “Are they ready to fly?”

A5 gave a thumbs up and finished flipping the last few switches.

“Everybody move! Remember the plan!” Hala ordered as he lifted the cockpit and strapped himself in. 

Z34 did the same, starting his engines and yelling, “See you all at the beach!”

One by one, the fighters started hovering off the ground, preparing to escape as one, but the sound of engines drowned out whatever warning of what was to come. Hala, T2 and KD9 were still readying their ships as the vents on the ceiling shook. A vent cover hit the floor as a horde of droids poured from above. As they landed on their feet, it took a few moments for their servos to kick in and point their blasters at the exposed Padawans. KD9 flipped into the crowd of droids without hesitation. T2 and Hala ignited their lightsabers to join him, but KD9 stopped them with a word. 

“Go,” he begged as he slashed at the crowd of assailants, his movements slow and strained. “I’ll hold them off.”

“But-” T2 roared, but the Kel Dor only repeated his order.

“Go!”

T2 gave in with a growl of anger, waving for Hala to get in his fighter and fly. Each flip of the ignition switches swelled a preemptive grief. Once he hovered along with his fellow Padawans, A5 gave the go ahead with a hand signal through the cockpit. Simultaneously, their engines flared with power and they flew out of the hangar. As soon as their nosecones left the hangar, green fire rained down from the warship above. The Padawans spun and swerved to avoid the turbolasers. The ground below shattered with every shot. Shards of earth bounced off the bottom of the fighters, and with every ping their anxiety grew. After a few heart wrenching moments, they left the belly of the beast and shot upward toward the atmosphere, but the volleys continued.

In the open air, Hala could see the ship more clearly. It looked like a great metal worm, covered in turrets and hangars, and hollow in the front. From that gaping maw no light escaped, or so it seemed. Speckles of red materialized in the void, and soon a swarm of droid fighters of no known design emerged to chase after their quarry. 

As soon as the Padawans broke through the atmosphere and into open space, hyperdrives whirred into action. As they waited for them to charge, they dodged the fire of the gaining fighters. Lasers flew past their cockpits, just barely missing their wings. The hyperdrives finished charging. The Padawans put them into action all at once, and as space warped around them and the starlines stretched, an explosion came out of the side of Hala’s vision. A5’s engine got hit just as his nose stretched, sending him veering to the side and shooting off into the unknown. Hala screamed and went into hyperspace, leaving two of their number to the mercy of the Force.

~~~

You watch Hala in silence, his eyes closed in thought as he hovers above the ground among his fallen Order. Wanting to tune out the horrible darkness that surrounds you, you try to emulate his meditative state. Dust, twirling in small tornadoes, scratches at your face. With your eyes closed, the images of the dead still cut at your feelings. Even though in your mind you know there is no danger here, your fear, too, prevents you from entering Hala’s state. 

Hala eventually floats back down to the ground, reaching to stroke dust off the skull buried by the sand. He rises and walks back up the platform, taking your hands in his. You look into his violet eyes. Your goggles mute the colors, but in those eyes you see a determination you hadn’t before. A want for justice maybe, or revenge.

“For all I know, whatever did this is still out there,” Hala laments. “I need to find it. The first step is to reunite those of us who survived. Then, we can tell our story. I know someone in the Republic who can help get it out. Then, we just have to hope someone will listen. Maybe the other Jedi, or the government.” Hala closes his eyes, failing to hold back tears. “You have the choice to leave the life of a Jedi behind, a chance most of us never get,” His voice shakes in pain. “Being an orderless Jedi is a hard life, filled with danger and hateful looks from strangers. I don’t blame you if you don’t want it. You can’t remember any of these people, so you have no reason to care. Just give me a sign if you don’t want to join me and I can drop you off anywhere you like. No hard feelings.”

Hala looks down and tries to pull away, but you cling to his hands tight. In years past, you had people who cared about you, taken by a faceless force, and you can’t remember a single one. That loss makes a hole in your soul that perhaps nothing could ever fill, but that hole demands correction. Holding Hala’s hands and attention, you make a silent vow. On the graves of your fallen family, on the lost memory of who you once were, you will not rest until they have peace. No creature, living or droid, will keep you from your goal. 

Once more, you commit yourself to become Jedi.

Chapter Text

The Goldstar jumps out of hyperspace beside an abandoned Jedi space station, above another red world. From orbit, it's not too dissimilar to Geonosis, but even from so far above the surface, you feel a wave of pain and hatred wash over you. This is Korriban, Hala informs you. Korriban is its true name, called Moraband by the Jedi of the High Republic and intentionally lost in their archives. A dark side cult attempting to revive the Sith rediscovered it centuries ago. For Korriban was the homeworld of the Sith, abandoned after eons of war ravaged its surface and made it near inhabitable, and only suitable for tombs.

In the present it has new caretakers, the Sith Acolytes. They aren’t force users, and do not aim to conquer and enslave as the Sith of the past did. They only preserve and study, copying down ancient texts and techniques, to be sold to the wealthy and curious. Korriban has become the home to the artifact black market, with the Acolytes as its stewards. According to Hala, one of your former friends, Z34, going by the name Loras, is a Zabrak with a great interest in dark artifacts and ancient history.

Hala hands you two small chrome devices just as you set down just outside a crimson tent city, nestled in a valley flanked by massive humanoid idols many stories tall. “This is a tracker and this is a holo communicator. So, if you get in any trouble, just press the red button on the tracker, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Korriban can be pretty messy, so just stay here on the ship. I shouldn’t be long.”

Disappointed, you decide to take Hala’s advice, seeing him disappear into the flow of visitors to the planet. Left on the ship, you watch the comers and goers through the cockpit, counting different species of aliens, and trying to catch glances of people's finds in the market. You’re immediately bored and reminded of Rishi.

~~~

Never thought I’d be coming back here , Hala thinks as he skulks through the markets of Korriban. A hood covers his green features, hoping to avoid recognition. Never looking up from the dusty ground, the force guides him through the crowd. The bounty hunters on Rishi were just the latest to be sent by those that hunted him, and he’s learned quickly that his pursuer’s reach goes far, especially here, on a world so strong in the dark side. 

Hala remembers he and Loras’ first visit here, after they parted ways with T2 and H117. Back then, he had almost turned the ship around the second they came out of hyperspace. The dark aura of the planet was like nothing he had ever felt before. But Loras, always the fearless one, insisted they finish their job, to deliver the stolen goods they’d been hired by the Acolytes to steal back. It wasn’t long before they made Korriban a common pit stop, and a few months later it was their home.

The Sith Acolytes were surprisingly welcoming for a group with such an ominous reputation. Loras fit in right away, thanks to a newfound interest in Sith history. Together, their force sensitivity made them very popular, but they both kept their former affiliations and training a secret. Loras seemed to love it here, but Hala, never could shake the feeling that the acolytes would turn on them once they discovered their past, or maybe push them into becoming more than just Acolytes. Eventually, Hala left Loras behind, after being approached by another group. After two years with the Sith acolytes, he abandoned his friend without a word. Korriban was Loras’ home, not his.

Ducking between Acolytes, Hala finds his way to an enclosed tent at the opposite end of the market. The back of the market eventually came up against the old Sith Academy. Most Acolytes live within, but the one Hala seeks prefers to be nearer to the tombs of the dark lords that dot the walls of the valley. Hala senses him inside, and no others, and so slides through the tent flap. 

An aging Devaronian meditates on a mountain of pillows, incense smoke perfuming the air. “If you’ve come for something to steal, you’ll find nothing here,” he says, not opening his eyes.

“I’m no thief. You should know that, Cros,” Hala jokes nervously, lifting his hood.

Cros Rog, one of the oldest of the Sith Acolytes, opens a single eye. He shaves down his horns to bumps to appear more similar to the extinct Sith species of distant millennia, whose red skin resembles his own, wrinkled and hard from the harsh Korriban sun. 

“You abandoned the ways of the Sith, and so lost the right to such familiarity with me, boy.” Cros Rog lifts from the ground with ghostly grace, pulling a jagged sword from thin air. He rests it at his side. “You risk your life coming here, or perhaps you feel you can finally best me.”

Hala shudders. Cros Rog isn't force sensitive, but he’s still one of the deadliest duelists Hala has ever seen. Once, he even saw him best a fallen Jedi. The Jedi, a former Knight of the Republic, sought to become Dark Lord of the Sith, but Cros Rog proclaimed that the dark side wasn’t strong enough in him. The Jedi challenged him to a duel to prove him wrong. Later that day, as the sun dipped behind the Valley of the Dark Lords, monoliths stories tall looking down to judge the worthy or foolhardy, the Jedi ignited his lightsaber, bled red by the dark side. Cros Rog used his simple battered sword. The Jedi laughed, but in that instant Cros Rog crossed the battlefield in a plume of dust, swinging and spinning his blade like a tornado. His sword, hardened by ancient alchemies, was more than a match for any lightsaber. After a few seconds, the Jedi fell in two, Cros Rog never breaking a sweat.

“I don’t want to fight,” Hala says from across the tent, voice shaking. “I’m just looking for Loras.”

Cros Rog narrows his eyes, but sheaths his sword. “The Zabrak brother? He is long gone.”

Hala raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Where to?” Loras had always seemed so at home here.

Cros Rog returns to his meditative position. “Seduced by heresy, as you were, but I know not where he went. Though, I assumed he had gone to join you. No matter. Leave and never return.”
Smart advice, but as much as I hate it, you’re the only one I can trust right now. Hala goes to sit before his former teacher, passing numerous artifacts placed on high pedestals. “Please,” Hala says. “I have to find him.”

Cros snarls at Hala’s begging. “And what reason have I to aid you? Would you rejoin the order? I think not. Once you were promising, but you always were a fickle creature. Once I loved you like my own son, but you betrayed that love. Go. Now.”

Hala sighs and turns to leave, but he recalls a lesson Cros Rog once taught him. The Sith Code . “The massacre on Geonosis still weighs down on me,” Hala says over his shoulder. “I may have turned away from many of your lessons, but I still long for revenge. Through victory, my chains are broken . If you once felt as you say, then help me gain victory over the things that destroyed my life. Help me break my chains.”

Always a stubborn man, Cros Rog says nothing. Seeing that Korriban is a dead end, Hala flips his hood back over his head and goes to leave. Just as he opens the tent flap, he hears a grumbling behind him. Cros Rog grimaces in pain. Hala can feel the conflict raging inside him.

“Fine,” Cros says, as the struggle finally boils over. “I spoke truly about not knowing specifically where Loras has gone, but I may know some people who do.”

Hala smiles. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Cros Rog spits. “If I do this, you must promise me something.”

Promising Cros anything is a dangerous thing. He may care for Hala, but his heart is dark and rotten. “What?”

“If you truly manage to break your chains,” Cros says, “then you must return here and face judgement. We will duel in the sight of the Dark Lords, and my corpse will feed the K’lor’slugs, or your blood will stain the sands. Either way, I will be satisfied.”

Hala stands still in the entryway. If I make this promise, I'm signing my death warrant .

“Well?” Cros asks.

Hala opens his mouth to answer, but as he does, he hears a beep coming from his pocket. Concerned, he pulls the tracker out of his pocket. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

~~~

Walking through the slapdash alleys between market stalls, they seem more crowded than the best days on Rishi. Aliens of all sizes squeeze between one another. For a forbidden planet, it seems awfully busy . Bidding wars of antiquity dealers, slavers, pirates, break out over ancient knives and Sith Acolytes oversee it all. The Sith Acolytes are as diverse as their patrons, but unified by their love of red. Red robed Acolytes covered in red tattoos man the stalls, selling ancient scrolls, knives, and reproductions. Red armored guards brandish long vibrospears brimming with red energy at their heads. Their clothes ripple in the wind, carrying red dust that would burn your eyes if not for your goggles. 

You stop at one stall holding a variety of rusting knives, jars, and tablets carved in stone, but you’re drawn to a small innocuous bobble. A pyramid shaped device, it's clear as crystal, trimmed with gold, and it speaks to you in whispers. The words are gibberish, but their meaning is clear. You reach out to touch it, but an acolyte smacks your four fingered hand away.

“ Jebadaba wana ninibobo !?” the Weequay acolyte spits in Huttese. “Unless you have credits, no touching for you.”

I’m more broke than a nerf herder . You grimace, rubbing your bruised knuckles. The only things you have to your name are the clothes you wear, your datapad, a borrowed blaster sitting at your side, and the small gadgets in your pocket. Even as you walk away, the crystal whispers in your ear, taunting you to give it all up so you can hold the artifact in your hands. To escape its promises, you exit the market back to the surrounding ad hoc shipyard, and lean against a stone pillar.

“ Achutaa ,” a human, his black hair speckled with streaks of white, calls to you. He sits on the dirt next to a box full of scrolls and tablets. “What did it promise you?”

It promised me a voice , you lament, not that you would tell this stranger that even if you could speak. He looks slimy, even for the black market type, and judging by the haul he’s got, he likes the dark side more than is healthy. You decide to ignore him, and turn to watch ships land and take off, blasting sand into the sky. The press of shady folks catches your eye again. A Twi'lek and a small gang of aliens lead a line of people in chains. Slaves . Hala told you this was a dark place, and you could feel the evil of it from space, but actually seeing it makes you sick to your stomach. Your mood turns sour. You’re unable to stop scowling at the dregs as they leave the tent city. 

The black bearded collector whistles at you, breaking your focus on the slavers. “Here,” he says. “You need these more than I do.” He holds out a small scroll in one hand and a curved knife in the other, offering them to you. 

Without thinking, you almost accept his gifts, before recoiling your hands away. There has to be some sort of catch.

“It's fine, child,” the man says as you step away. “This may be an evil place, but not all of its boons need to be used for dark ends.”

Curious, you accept the gifts. You tuck the scroll in your jacket, but hold the knife for longer, twirling it deftly in your fingers, a skill that was unknown to you. Throwing it in the air and catching the blade between your fingers, the weight of it feels right in your hands, but you're unsure why he gave the weapon up. The man smirks, and lays his head back on the pillar, closing his eyes, clearly satisfied. So, you turn back to the slavers as they load up their product onto a rust-colored freighter.

Clearly the man wants to push you along this path. Hala’s not gonna be happy . You stow the knife and circle around to the slavers’ ship. Watching one of the gang, he presses a switch on the inside of the cargo bay to close up the entrance. It closes slowly. You debate what you're about to do, but against your better judgement, you crouch run towards the ship. Just as the cargo bay doors shut close, you slip inside and press the red button on Hala’s tracker.

Chapter Text

Sneaking around is no fun at all, you think, hiding in the shadows behind a few crates of fruit. Standing at a sink for six years doesn’t prepare you to pop a squat for two hours straight. Crammed in a tight corner to stay hidden, your calves and thighs cramp up. To say that you’re regretting sneaking aboard would be an understatement. Somehow, you need to incapacitate all the slavers, free the slaves, take control of the ship, and hope that the tracker in your pocket is strong enough that Hala will find you afterward. You aren’t certain what your plan is yet, but for now you just bide your time, and suffer the pain.

Why did you decide to do this? The old you back on Rishi would’ve never even thought of attempting a rescue, let alone hijacking a ship. But maybe the even older me would. A5 was a Jedi, and Jedi are all about justice and protecting the weak. Would they have just stood by and watched?

After lifting off, the karking slavers herded their sentient cargo into a cage on the other side of the bay. The slavers refuse to leave the cargo bay, standing in a circle, laughing it up while telling tales of their dastardly deeds. Sneaking a peek over the top of the crates, you count five slavers, with more likely spread out in other areas of the ship, and you recognize one of them, Cleexl. Cleexl was a Rodian regular back on Rishi. His deep green scales and big star speckled eyes made him seem so friendly. I guess now I know better.

The Twi’lek captain pops his head out of the door to the rest of the freighter to order the slavers back to work. They disperse and file out of the cargo bay, leaving Cleexl all by his lonesome. Finally. Cleexl goes into a corner to light up some spice. Slinking from the shadows, you cautiously approach. The slaves watch, fear plastered plain on their faces. Fear for me, or themselves? As Cleexl blows a plume of smoke, your fist collides with the back of his head, sending him careening forward into the durasteel hull. His head hits the wall like a gong. He’s out cold. You grimace and wait for the backup that’s assuredly heading your way. Listening to the creaking of the ship, nothing changes. It seems you’re in the clear.

Cleexl has a rifle slung across his back, which you awkwardly pull off his person. While you tie up his hands and feet with his own leather belts, you hear someone whisper, “psst” from behind you.

“Hey, young one,” a Cathar captive gets your attention. “He’s got a key in his front right pocket.”

Upon checking, Cleexl does indeed have a key. You unlock the cage with a click as the key turns. The other slaves back away when you open the gate. Only the Cathar opts to leave. He looks far older than the others, his fur gray and thin. Confused, you hold the gate open and try to wave the others out. They only turn away.

“Don’t judge them,” says the Cathar, holding out his shackles so you can unlock them. You do. “Fear is a slaver’s most powerful weapon,” he rubs his wrists, before pulling the rifle off your shoulder to inspect it. “Besides, none of them know how to handle a blaster.”

The Cathar walks and takes a position next to one of the two doors further into the ship. “Are you coming?” he says.

With no plan of your own, you decide to follow his lead, leaving the other slaves behind. Pulling out your blaster pistol and sidling up across from the Cathar, you sense a deep determination in him, but also another feeling you know well. Hopelessness. Perhaps the absence of hope is what drives him to fight. Not a comforting thought for you. An old man and a former dishwasher against maybe a dozen slavers. If those aren’t some awful odds you don’t know what are.

The Cathar’s face goes hard as stone as he stares into you with withered eyes. He nods. You nod back. The hiss of the door opening echoes down a claustrophobically thin hall lined with more yet more doors. One of them opens for a stumbling slaver falling to the floor, drunk. Laughter and the stench of cheap booze flow out from the entryway. The Cathar moves up, with you close behind. He tries to close the door from the hall, but the slaver's foot stops it from closing, the door bouncing back and forth on his ankle. With the slavers so close, there’s no getting past them without a fight.

The old Cathar swears under his breath, before initiating the combat. He dives on top of the sleeping slaver, firing into the room before the others can react. They howl, some in pain, and some in fury. On some new found instinct, you twirl into the room, hugging the corner. Spotting two still standing, you fire wildly, destroying a bottle, toppling a deck of cards, and hitting one slaver in the face, but just barely missing the other, who flips the pazaak table to use as cover. Stowing your blaster in favor of your new knife, you vault over the table. While in the air the slaver fires up at you, just barely missing your ear. With the aid of gravity, you drive your knife down and pierce his leather vest all the way through to his heart. He lets out a final gasping breath, before his eyes roll back into his skull.

The world goes silent. The lights go dim as red signals spin on the ceiling. Your muscles freeze, ready to explode. Tibanna fumes burn your nostrils. Your stomach turns over. A furry hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality.

The old Cathar pulls you off the slaver and up to his sagging face. “C’mon kid, we need to get to the bridge,” he says, spitting bullets on your cheeks. “We ain’t got any time to spare.”

As fast as he wakes you from your trance the Cathar goes back into action, stepping over the still sleeping slaver and firing three shots into his back in single motion. Slapping yourself a few times for good measure, you hop over the smoking corpse and continue further down the hall. Two firefights in one week. Wonder if the old me ever beat that record? Another of the rooms hiss open. The slaver that stomps out to meet you doesn’t even get to lift his weapon before you and the Cathar fire simultaneously into his protruding belly. His head smacks the sensor plate at the end of the hall as he falls dead, opening the door to the mess hall.

What slavers are inside are ready for you. They fire as soon as they see you, but the Cathar dives and slams into a table flipping it on its side. Slumped against the sticky underside, he rubs his shoulder and says some prayers. In the space of a few seconds, your mission looks hopeless. With nowhere to go, you meditate, as you’ve seen Hala back on the way to Korriban. Closing your eyes, you tune out bolts screeching overhead, the slavers taunts, the smell of burnt metal, and tibanna gas. For a second time, the world goes dark, and your mind goes somewhere else.

When you return, time seems to go faster, a blur of flashing lights and blaster bolts. Adrenaline and muscle memory take the reins as you and the Cathar battle some eight slavers at once, sliding between overturned tables, throwing cups like grenades to distract the slavers and get just a single safe millisecond to return fire. The mess hall wasn’t that large, maybe the size of six booths back at the Limping Maungur, but the sheer volume of fire and bodies turned it into a warzone. Using the cup trick you pick off two slavers that were dumb enough to not use cover at all. The Cathar gets another by blind fire. One more charges over your cover, like you had in the pazaak room, trying to drive a vibroblade into your eye. The Cathar saves your hide with a well placed shot to the back of the head. After pushing the slaver’s corpse off, the battle turns to a standstill, both sides not moving from their cushy positions.

“Yoka to Bantha poodoo,” one slaver yells across. You recognize the voice as that of the Twi’lek Capitan. “You oughta off yourselves if you know what's good for ya, cuz when we get ahold of youz, we’re gonna hurt you good. Your screams will be obita to my ears.”

The urge to throw some threats back is quite strong. Unfortunately, your vocal cords refuse to cooperate, as usual, and whatever violent determination you conjured through meditation has fallen away. Back to square one. Looking at the Cathar, panting, his eyes closed, he looks drained. Putting your hand on him, you feel his exhaustion and wheezing breath. The strain of battle is too much for his ancient body. If the fight doesn’t end soon, he likely won’t survive.

At a loss as to how to succeed, hopelessness overtakes you, dulling your senses and muddying your thoughts, cursing yourself for ever believing you could save anyone. You grasp your throbbing skull, trying to recenter yourself, but failing. Instead, you spiral down into despondency. Maybe in the past I could’ve won, but I’m not that person anymore. I’m Crasher, a useless dishwasher. A mute with no family and no friends. You want to scream, but your atrophied vocal cords only croak in pain.

A bonk on the top of your head breaks your tortuous thoughts. The Cathar hit you on your head with the grip of his rifle. “You dragged me into this, kid, so stop your whining,” the Cathar scolds you. “It's not like it can get any worse.”

With what little strength he has, he continues to blind fire over the table, his spindly limbs barely holding the blaster at all. Still, you think, there's no way out. Slamming your head against your cover, desperately trying to think of something, mostly so as not to embarrass yourself in your last moments, a thought hits your brain. Turning around and placing your hands on the table, a piece of gum sticks to your palm. You smile. No going back now.

With a forceful lunge you ram your shoulder into the table, pushing forward a shield to bridge the distance. The Cathar falls on his back in surprise, but quickly recovers and scrambles for new cover. Giving suppressing fire to your suicidal assault, he shouts, “Go kid, go!” Frenzied blaster fire bounces off the table as you continue to scrape it across the hold, the slaver captain shouting useless orders. Hearing another slaver go down thanks to the Cathar’s support, you smash the table against the slaver’s cover, causing it to jerk and knock down the slaver’s firing from behind.

As you ready yourself to leap over the top to certain death, the Captain beats you to it. He lands feet first behind you. Smacking your blaster out of your hand before you can shoot up at him, he grabs your neck and throws you back towards the Cathar. Your spine crashes against the wall, sending electric pain throughout your being, before you fall immobile to the ground. Your flight across the room surprised and distracted the Cathar long enough for the Captain to flip the Cathar’s cover and grab him as well. Gasping for breath, the Twi’lek chokes the life out of your newfound brother in arms, while you lie helpless on the cold metal floor.

“Get ready to meet your tribe, old man,” the captain laughs, as the Cathar continues to struggle fruitlessly against the slaver’s mighty claws.

The two other remaining slavers stand, giddy as they watch the Cathar suffocate. Still partially frozen, you spy your blaster lying across the room. You reach out, trying to will the blaster into your open hand. You strain your stinging ligaments, just barely causing the blaster shake, but it doesn’t budge. Without the force to rely on, you must rely on yourself. Releasing another croaking scream, you whip your hand to your side and pull out your knife, stabbing it into the captain's ankle. He screams and drops the limp Cathar to the ground. His painful cry gives you a second wind. 

Your knife becomes like an ice pick, as you stab into the Twi’lek repeatedly to pull yourself onto his back. He reaches behind him, but he can't reach far enough to stop you. The butchering of their captain distracts the other slavers, so they don’t notice the Cathar cough back awake, and languidly take up arms. Killing them with two well placed shots, he fires one more into the captain’s chest. You fall with the Twi’lek onto his corpse.

Both drained of energy, you use each other for balance as you leave the mess hall. Limping down one more rusted corridor towards the cockpit, the alarm continues to blare with no more soldiers to answer its call. A worried voice comes over the intercom. “Boss, you guys okay?” it echoes through the empty halls with no response. Finally reaching the last obstacle or your miniature rebellion, you open the door to the cockpit. The pilots, both skinny aliens, turn around to see you and your companion, blasters ready at the hip. They throw up their hands in surrender, but the Cathar shoots one down anyway, so you do the same, too tired to question it.

You help the old Cathar remove the smoking bodies from the pilot’s seats and fall into them, letting yourself relax after switching off the alarm with the flip of a switch. One heroic mission down, many more to go.

Eyes closed, the Cathar asks, “What’s your name, kid?”

You groan as you retrieve your datapad and respond, “Crasher.”

The Cathar breaks out into a laugh. “With a name like that, it's no wonder we almost died.” His laugh turns into a brief coughing. After catching his breath, he says, “I’m Tacihr. Nice to meet ya.”

You shake hands and take in your triumph. Despite all the pain, you’ve never felt so good in all your living memory. If this is the life of a Jedi, I’m all for it. Letting out one last satisfied sigh, you turn your chair around to look out into space. Space isn’t what looks back.

Your newly commandeered ship drifts forward into the gaze of a massive ebon vessel, covered tip to tail in jagged Huttese markings, hangar bays, and hanging skeletons rendered miniscule by the ship’s enormity. Before you can turn off the autopilot, it catches your ship in a tractor beam, guiding it towards an open landing pad. Your eyes widen in fear. I change my mind. I don’t wanna be a Jedi.

Chapter Text

The Bone Reaper. Feared by every pilot and trader across the Outer Rim, it’s the flagship of the largest pirate fleet in the sector. Its owner, none other than the dreaded Kaleesh warlord Xortast Rrun, brutal slaver, and known admirer of the ancient Sith. Based out of nearby Florrum, It's no wonder then that he would decide to visit Korriban. But why did it have to be today?

After receiving A5’s distress call, Hala rushed to his location, only to find an empty landing pad, and when he looked up the flagship’s shadow loomed overhead. I leave you alone for five minutes, he laments as he chews his fingernails, and you get captured by the biggest pirate fleet this side of Hutt Space. 

Coming up beside the Bone Reaper in orbit, Hala gawks at the chaos unfolding from the cockpit of the Goldstar. Viridian and crimson blaster fire illuminate the port side hangar bay of the Bone Reaper, plain for all to see. Hala had hoped he could bargain for his friend's freedom, but with A5 almost certainly engaged in battle with the pirates, that isn’t much of an option.

With no other choice than to fight, Hala concocts a plan. A plan even he knows is beyond stupid. After flipping some switches to spin the ship around and park in orbit, he drums on his face a few times to get his adrenaline up, before skipping down to the barren cargo hold. In a small locker against the wall, Hala keeps a single space suit and an oxygen canister on hand, in case he has to make any emergency repairs to the outside of the ship. Slipping into the thick padded suit, he stows all his loose items back in the locker, except his trusty lightsaber, which he hooks onto the suit’s waist. Instead of putting the oxygen canister on his back he puts it under his arm and waddles to the cargo bay door.

Air hisses out of the bay as it decompresses. The massive cargo bay ramp, that usually makes so much of a racket Hala has to cover his ears every time he opens it, is silent as it opens out into soundless space. If he had tried to fly his ship into the Bone Reaper, the pirates would’ve eviscerated it in seconds. With limited time, Hala decided the only option was to jump. 

He takes a few steps back from the opening, then with hindered grace leaps out into the void and opens the valve to his air. Like a rocket, Hala accelerates toward the flagship. Spinning all the way, he keeps his eyes locked on his target, the unlucky human pirate standing closest to the bay opening. When Hala gets within a hundred meters, he unclips his lightsaber and ignites it, pointing it ahead like a lance. With the accuracy of a Nightsister arrow, Hala hits the artificial gravity and falls through his target, slicing him in twain, killing him instantly. Hala’s shoulder slams into the durasteel floor. The pirate next to him yelps and falls on his butt, just as the pieces of the human hit the ground. The oxygen tank bounces and flies hissing over the pirate force, numbering some twenty well armed men, and they all turn their attention to Hala.

~~~

Your attempts to pull out of the pirate’s tractor beam prove fruitless. You fall back into the seat, continuing to drift deeper into the pirate vessel’s grasp. You look to Tacihr, hoping he has some plan, as he stares out at the monster about to swallow you whole. To your surprise, he doesn’t seem all that worried. He pants and holds his heart, but you feel no fear radiating from him. He feels at peace. He’s got no fight left.

Even if he's done fighting, I’m not. A Jedi never surrenders. Scooping Tacihr’s rifle off the floor, you try to leave the cockpit to prepare a plan in the few minutes you have remaining. He clutches your arm with a weak grip. Still holding his chest, he tugs you close.

“Just get in the cage kid with the rest of 'em,” he rasps in your ear. “I’ll take the fall. You still got time, and mine’s all run out.”

The pain in his voice rips at your heart, only inspiring you to fight more. You lift his hand off your arm, into his lap, and pat his bony shoulder. You meant to reassure him, but you see him wince from pain. A pain in his soul.

Marching through the smoking carnage of the ship you collect every weapon you can find: Vibroblades, blaster pistols and rifles, you even find a thermal detonator on the captain’s corpse, which he was smart enough not to use. When you lift it from his body. You could swear you see him twitch. A few kicks to the stomach prove to yourself he is fully dead.

You arrive at last to the hold, and drop your arsenal on the ground before the remaining prisoners. Astonished looks overtake them from the back of their cage. However, the slaves still don’t move, except one. Of the slaver’s captives, made up of a Togruta couple and child, Three Twi’lek females, and one Chadra-Fan, only one of the Twi’leks step out of the cage. The others grasp at their pink sister, but fail to pull her back.

Exiting the cage, she eyes you and your stockpile of weapons with concern. Quite a few of them were sticky or wet when you collected them. The pile smells faintly of spice and alcohol. The Twi’lek covers her nose and collects the driest of the rifles and a knife that she slips into her belt.

“What happens now?” she asks you.

You lift your weapon in response and pantomime firing a shot out the cargo bay.

The Twi’lek eyes you with concern. “Is it just us against the pirates?”

Hala is hopefully on the way, so the best response you can muster is an uncertain shrug. Not exactly inspiring, but the vague hope of help seems to steal her nerves.

You and the Twi’lek quickly slide the crates you hid behind to block the cargo bay ramp door, making a wall of cover. One crate is heavy with likely stolen machine parts. As you struggle to push it, the hairy little Chadra-Fan appears. To your surprise, he comes to aid you, creating just enough force that it budges from its spot. As he helps push the last box into place, the others make their way deeper into the ship to wait out the battle, dragging the unconscious Cleexl with them. 

With the wall finished, there's not much you can do but wait. You and your two defenders don’t say a word to each other as you lie in wait for the enemy, clutching your weapons in suspense. The Chadra-Fan squeaks nervously. The Twi’lek freezes in position, her blaster ready to fire on sight.

With a sickening rumble you feel the freighter land, and the battle begins. Just two slavers tried to board at first, opening the ramp from the outside. It barely hits the ground before they get gunned down. After them came the alarms and a swarm of pirates filling the hangar. You pick off a few, so do the Twi’lek and Chadra-Fan, but not enough to make a difference as the stalemate continues for minutes on end, a rain of blaster fire singing just above your heads, until…

~~~

Hala curses himself. Over the years since the end of the Collective, he’s made one stupid decision after another. Joining the Acolytes, abandoning Loras on Korriban, the horrors he saw on Naalol. It seems this may be his last. Hala is a skilled Jedi, but even the most experienced would struggle against twenty blasters firing all at once. As soon as he stands he’s met with an onslaught. He moves his lightsaber at lightning speed, reflecting the bolts back to sender, but not fast enough. One bolt hits his thigh, another nearly hits his face, if not for the hit to the thigh making him fall to one knee. As Hala continues his desperate defense, his movements become more sloppy, the searing pain on his legs cutting through his focus. Hala prepares to use the last of his strength to rush the pirates, who move in for the kill. Luckily, an unexpected sight stops him. A little chrome sphere soars over the growing crowd of pirates, landing at the feet of one Gamorrean.

Kaboom!

A ball of fire erupts, incinerating the Gamorrean and ten others unlucky enough to be near him. The other pirates go flying or duck for cover. Hala shields his eyes from the worst of the blast, and watches in wonder as in a single instant the tide of the battle turned, apparently no thanks to him. Three figures charge out of the parked vessel to finish the last of the pirates. A pink Twi’lek, a Chadra-Fan, and A5, all screaming a triumphant war cry. The surviving pirates run deeper into the flagship, leaving Hala and the rebels alone.

As the Twi’lek spins Chadra-Fan in celebration, A5 rushes to Hala’s side, lifting him off the ground.

“How did…” Hala says, still stunned. “I thought I was done for.” A5 just smiles, helping Hala towards the rusty freighter. “We need to get out of here before they get reinforcements. My ship is parked out a few klicks-”

A5 shakes his head, as another hobbles down the freighter’s ramp.

“The Bone Reaper’s tractor beams are too strong for us to make an escape, master Jedi,” an aged Cathar remarks. “We either take the ship, or die trying.”

Master Jedi, that's a new one. Hala can’t help but laugh. “I can barely walk, and I don't see you being much help, whoever you are. Better to get on the comms and negotiate some kind of trade.”

The Cathar responds with a stern look of judgement. Hala may be foolhardy on occasion, but he has no interest in certain death. He turns to A5, expecting them to silently agree, instead they appear as the Cathar does, disappointed and angry. The Cathar’s opinion matters little to Hala, but A5’s look hurts deeply. The only friend he’s found in over a year, hates him, just like all the others, and it only took a few days. I can’t be that awful? Surely he’s being the most reasonable, the most levelheaded. He doesn’t understand why they all seem to want to throw away their lives, but instead of argue, he swallows his pride. The things I do for friendship.

“Forget I said anything,” Hala concedes to the Cathar. A5 looks pleased. “So, it's four people against a whole warship?”

The Cathar nods. “If I can’t get anyone else to pitch in, yes.”

“Do we have any more thermal detonators?”

A5 shakes his head no.

We’re doomed. “Okie dokie.”

Everyone retreats inside the freighter in case of another assault, while the Cathar goes to try and recruit more soldiers. A5 leans Hala up against the barricade and follows, hopefully to get a medpac on the way. Hala groans as he holds his wounded thigh. The Chadra-Fan and Twi’lek both have a confidence emanating from them as they peak over the barricade. In contrast, he can’t see any way out that doesn’t end with him dead on the cold ground.

The Twi’lek pokes Hala to get his attention. “Are you really a Jedi? I’ve heard stories, but never thought I’d see one.” The Chadra-Fan squeaks in concert.

“Sure. I mean, yes.” Hala corrects himself. If he wants to get out alive, it's better to get their hopes up.

She introduces herself and the Chadra-Fan. “I’m Dai Kotu. This is T’rash.” T’rash bows. “What order are you from?”

Hala prepares to lie, as the Collective were pretty widely hated in their day. He almost says, “I’m a heretic,” or “I’m one of those foolish apostates.” He lands on, “I'm a Gray.”

“Truly? How wonderful. We’ve heard many good things.”

Most have. Hala nods awkwardly. “Do you have any plans for when this is all over?”

“No, not really,” she says. “The slavers burned our homes on Ashas Ree. Maybe we could go back there and rebuild, but there are so many horrible memories. I’m not sure I would want to go back.” The screams of her loved ones and the orange glow of flames come off Dai in waves until she says, “Could you take us to your enclave? I’ve heard they offer people such as ourselves second chances.”

“There's an old Jedi Temple on Ashas Ree, Master Jedi,” T’rash squeals. “Perhaps you could persuade your superiors to form an enclave there.”

“I can certainly try,” Hala says, uneasy.

Before Dai or T’rash can press further, A5 returns and rescues Hala by leading some new soldiers, two more Twi’leks and a Togruta man. Leaning down, A5 applies a salve to Hala’s wound, while the others collect their weapons. It stings like hell, but it's nothing he hasn’t felt before. After they apply a wrap to Hala's leg, Hala asks them to lift him up. All the fighters meet near the weapon pile, along with the old Cathar.

“So, what's the plan?” Hala asks. Concerned looks shoot Hala’s way from the group. Hala realizes too late that they figured he would have a plan. They think he’s a Jedi, after all. “Bad time to make a joke, I guess,” He attempts to recover. “I figure I’ll stay at the front of the group to deflect and draw their fire. A5, you’ll have to help me around. The rest of you, just stay behind me and try not to shoot me in the back.”

The group reluctantly agrees to the plan. “Sounds reasonable enough,” the old Cathar says. “I’ll have to stay behind. These old bones won’t take me much farther. May the force be with you.”

“And with you.” The group says to each other.

After leaving the ship, the Cathar shuts the ramp, locking himself inside. Hala doesn’t feel particularly confident about his plan, especially after watching the group handle their weapons uncomfortably. One of the Twi'leks is even holding her blaster pointing directly in front of her, while walking behind Dai. If a fight breaks out, he’s sure the first casualty will be from friendly fire. But it's too late to turn back. The knowledge that they have a Jedi leading might be the only thing holding them together.

The group enters the ship proper from the hangar. As the door slides open, Hala’s precognition alerts him just in time. Just as the door reveals him, Hala ignites his lightsaber and deflects a bolt back at a slaver. A5 twitches, almost making him lose his balance, but he's just able to recover before another bolt careens towards A5’s face. Hala blocks it, and A5 fires at another slaver. One shot, one kill. The hallway is clear, for now.

As they continue forward, Hala and A5 in the center, Hala looks back at their force. The hall is wide enough that he hopes he won't get shot in the back, but their nervousness seems infectious. But so is courage. Dai and T’rash are amped from their victory in the hangar, and Hala can only hope it's enough to keep their new recruits from disintegrating when they get the chance to fight.

He doesn’t have to wait to test his theory. Reaching an intersection, Hala elects to go left, and head for the bridge at the stern of the ship. As the group turns, a door opens behind them. Hala breaks from A5’s support, as a barrage rains from the opposite end of the hall. An ambush. The force of the blaster fire bears down on his wounded legs, but he remains upright. Blaster fire surges past him towards the ambushers. A valiant effort, but without cover, it doesn’t do much to stem the tide. Ten pirates flood into the hallway, with more behind. Breaking focus from the pirates, Hala searches for a way out. Seeing a room, he shouts for them to run inside and get some cover. A5 dives towards the door and ushers the others in while Hala continues to shield his compatriots to the best of his ability, but he's only one man. Many bolts escape him and fly towards their innocent targets.

Over the carnage, a squeak pierces his ear. Hala turns just in time to see T’rash fall to the ground, the last to have not made it inside. Dai runs out and grabs the little furball. With Hala dashing in between them and their attackers, Dai makes it back inside. Hala backs into the room. A5 closes the door behind him, as he falls to the ground clutching his thigh, blood weeping from his irritated wound. The room is a little supply closet, just large enough to fit the group.

Dai holds T’rash’s hairy body in her lap as she leans against a shelf of chemicals. “He's dead,” she whispers.

“Dead!” the Togruta man yells as he spirals. “We only killed, what? Five? Five for one! There are probably hundreds on this ship. And I left my child on the freighter. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have listened to my wife.”

As Hala’s fears come true, Dai lays T’rash down gently. She walks calmly over to the Togruta and slaps him so hard drops of blood splat on the ground. “Pull yourself together,” she scolds. “T’rash knew the risks, but would’ve rather died for the chance at freedom. Do you want to doom your daughter to the spice mines of Kessel, because you were too much of a coward to fight?” The Togruta shakes his head. “That's what I thought. Have faith, we have a Jedi on our side.” She looks to Hala. “What now?”

Hala stares blankly up at her through the pain. I don’t know.

~~~

You wait for Hala to make a plan, but as the moments turn to minutes and the march of the pirates gets louder, you realise he doesn't have a clue. So, as the Jedi in recovery, it falls to you. You already used your trump card, the thermal detonator, and being trapped in here limits your options. T’rash’s corpse in the corner doesn’t help either. You may not yet be able to use the force consciously, but you can feel the blank spot from across the room, and it weighs heavily on your confidence.

You close your eyes, hoping to return to the meditative state you conjured back in the freighter. Your senses heighten, but your second nature doesn’t bubble up. Instead, you smell something. Over the sweat and charred flesh of your allies, you smell something familiar. Bottles of Corellian gangway bleach. You often used it to clean the floor of the Limping Maungur, at Ron Jen’s insistence. He said the smell reminded him of his smuggling days. It was powerful stuff. You had to use it carefully, on account of its explosive properties.

You rush to the shelves excitedly, searching for the missing pieces of the puzzle. Hala tries to get your attention, but you’re too focused. Aha, bottles of stellar pipe-cleaner. By itself it's nothing special, but when mixed with gangway bleach it creates a deadly gas that spreads quickly. You find tape on another shelf, and you feel fresh air being pumped into the closet. Quick as you can, you tape bottles of gangway bleach and pipe-cleaner together, and motion your friends to get out of the way of the door. Dai drags Hala off the side.

When you hear the pirates surround the door, you put your plan into action. You open the door with a push of a button and slide the bottles out into the hall. A deep voiced pirate says, “What the-” just as you unholster your blaster and shoot the farthest bleach bottle. It only takes one. The bottles all explode into, first as green flames, then a cloud of green gas. The pirates cough up a storm, and you shut the door before they can rush you. You cover your mouth with your shirt and look up at the air vent, dreading that you might be wrong, but none of the gas flows through.

As the pirates outside cough and gurgle, the blue Twi’lek says, “What did you do?”

You just smile.

After a few minutes, it’s safe to go outside. The gas is heavy, so it eventually settles on the ground. Lifting Hala up, you leave the safety of the closet into a pirate graveyard. A group of fifteen pirates lie dead on the ground, foam pouring from their mouths. The biggest of them made it pretty far from the closet before succumbing to the gas, leaving his gun for the taking. Your smile gets bigger. Handing off Hala to Dai and stowing your pistol, you pick up his rotary blaster cannon, heavy black metal with six barrels of never ending death. You just found your new trump card. 

You and yours continue the march toward the stern, Hala blocking incoming fire while supported by Dai, the others providing support, and you holding down the trigger and watching the bastard's bodies hit the ground. As you make your way further, warnings on the intercom flare up. “Red alert, intruders on port side, deck three,” it blares. Getting nearer, it says, “Red alert, intruder on the starboard side deck four.” I didn’t think we had switched sides?

The pirates melt away as you push on, you even see quite a few desert and run off screaming. The farther you go, the thinner the defense becomes, until you reach a large door marked, Bridge, with only a scrawny Neimoidian standing guard. He doesn’t even try fighting, he just raises his hands in surrender and drops to the ground. Tacihr, the old cat, probably still would’ve shot him, but to you, it doesn’t feel quite right. Instead, you all march around him as he sprints in the opposite direction, and get in position to charge the bridge. 

You, Hala, and Dai stand in the center as the rest flank the door. As you wind up your cannon, the Togruta opens the door. The pirates are entirely unprepared, all of them looking up at the higher level of the two story bridge. With Hala on defense, you fire indiscriminately into the bridge. As the fight rages, the ring of his lightsaber sounds different, like you’re hearing double. You look up, as you swing the cannon back and forth. You see another Jedi.

Locked in battle with a giant Kaleesh, she duels with a lightsaber as yellow as a sun. The Kaleesh swings a massive vibrosword that shines like silver. The Jedi leaps over the blade and flips over the Kaleesh, slicing off his sword arm. He collapses onto the floor, clutching his new smoking stub. The duel over, she looks down at your battle below. Her face, covered in what you hope is red paint over her eyes and forehead, makes her eyes look like dark empty sockets. Her gaze locks onto Hala, and she sneers. After the Kaleesh’s defeat, your fight ends not a moment later. The Jedi leaps down in front of you.

“M11,” she calmly points her lightsaber at his throat.

Hala lowers his weapon, but doesn’t retract his blade. “Hiiti,” he says, not looking away from her yellow saber.

“Don’t call me that,” she thrusts her blade closer.

“Oops…”

Chapter Text

Xortast Rrun still lies moaning above you as the Jedi pokes her lightsaber at Hala.

“So, have you turned mercenary? Smuggler?” the Jedi questions Hala. “Assembled yourself quite the crew.”

You try to reach for your datapad to explain yourselves, but the Jedi stops you. “Don't even think about it,” she says. When she looks at you, she raises an eyebrow, but whatever interest in you she has quickly fades as she turns back to Hala.

“Hii- I mean, H117, you’ve got it all wrong,” Hala says.

Dai steps forward. “What do you think you’re doing, threatening a Jedi like that?”

“He is no Jedi. What lies did you tell these people that they follow you so?” You try to reach for your Datapad again. “I already warned you once.” Her lightsaber inches nearer to Hala’s neck.

“By the light, don't you recognize them?” Hala exclaims. “Can’t you see it? Their hair is longer, and he’s wearing goggles but…”

After a moment examining you, her face softens, and she lowers her saber. “A5? How?”

“We can talk about that later,” Hala responds. “I'm sure Xortast called for backup. Do you have somewhere we can meet where it's safe?”

H117 doesn’t break eye contact with you. “Elom should be safe. Just follow my lead once we’re off this wreck.”

Carrying Hala back through the abandoned hallways to the freighter, your curiosity becomes too strong. As Dai enters the supply room to retrieve T’rash’s remains, you tap Hala’s shoulder and shoot him a questioning eyebrow. He just shakes his head. Perhaps whatever happened between them is too private?

Once you reach the freighter, Dai bangs on the ramp, signalling to those left inside that you’ve won. The ramp lowers to the sound of cheers. The captives, now freed, pat you on the shoulder and give constant and emphatic thanks to you and Hala. The Togruta woman even pops open a bottle of something strong and pungent from the slaver’s stores to celebrate. You can’t stay to enjoy it however, instead you set down Hala in the hold and run up to the cockpit. Tacihr is ready and waiting. Together, you pilot the freighter out towards the Goldstar.

After a quick dock and swap you and Hala lean back in the Goldstar’s cockpit and wait for H117 to come pick you up in orbit. Quite a few ships leave the Bone Reaper while you wait, but they all either immediately jump to hyperspace or flee down to Korriban below. After half an hour you begin to worry, as nothing moves in your view. Eventually though, you see a clean blue and white starship swing around the Reaper’s mass. As it does, the Reaper moves to, turning to face the long abandoned Jedi outpost in orbit, before firing off its engines and ramming it at full speed. The collision destroys them both in an eruption of color and flames.

A voice comes over the comm as you’re mesmerised by the destruction. “This is Jedi H117, sending coordinates now. See you on Elom.”

~~~

Arriving on Elom after following her through hyperspace, everyone arrives safely at a small trade settlement, nestled in a snowy plain. Hala parks the Goldstar next to Hiiti’s fighter. It's the same one from that day on Geonosis, white and blue, with two twin engines and sharp wings. She’s managed to keep well maintained. It looks as if it never left the hangar.

Elom, frigid and harsh, Hala finds it a fitting place to reconnect with Hitti. Their split wasn’t on the best of terms. He had planned on finding her last. I suppose I should be grateful. I didn’t have to search the entire galaxy for her. They meet at a cantina. Hala, A5, and Hiiti take one booth, while their rescuees take two more behind them. 

Hala explains their situation, with A5 interjecting occasionally with his datapad. As he talks to her, feelings from the past come flooding back. Without her red war paint, she’s just as beautiful as he remembers. Her dark brown hair billows over shoulders, as her umber eyes stare unfeeling through him. Hala takes great pains to try and not show his admiration. Doing so would only make her hate him more. After they finish their explanation, A5 leaves to relieve himself. Hala sits quietly, trying not to steal glances at Hitti. To his surprise, she interrupts the silence.

“So he really doesn’t remember anything?” she asks.

“He really doesn’t.”

“Can he use the force?”

“If he can, he hasn't done it in front of me.”

“I guess that's good,” she says, sipping at a glass of ice water. “Maybe I, or someone, could train him to be a Jedi again. Hopefully, he isn’t corrupted as you are.”

The insult hurts, especially coming from her. “I haven't been corrupted, I just went a different way than you.”

“Then why is your blade as white as the snow outside?” she stabs deeper. “Not that it matters. You were lost before the order fell, and you would’ve dragged me down with you had I not left.”

Her unfeeling slander pushes on Hala’s ego. “Lost,” He scoffs. “Are you happy Hiiti, still following the order’s draconian ways? If we had stuck together then-”

She interrupts you, “Then what? My happiness is irrelevant compared to the good I do. And don’t call me Hiiti”

“We could’ve been happy and done some good,” he retorts. “There's no reason they have to be exclusive.”

“With you, they would be.” She gets the last word, as she and Hala see A5 returning, and mentally agree to push their feud aside for the moment.

A5 sits down and sets their goggles on the table. It's dark enough they don't need them. Taking out their datapad, they type, “Where are we going to take them?” pointing with their thumb at the old Cathar and the other survivors.

“Elom isn’t so bad.” Hala says.

“True, but the Elomins aren’t so friendly to those that overstay their welcome,” Hiiti retorts. The Elomins, red skinned with horns protruding from bare scalps, are as cold as their planet. Since Hala landed, they’ve stared frigidly at them. Even the cantina owner could barely feign politeness when he presented their drinks. “Better they head deeper into the C.I.S, to Raxus maybe.”

“Do you have any Jedi contacts? They usually take in people like them.” Hala says. He knows it's childish to remind her she’s orderless, but with his wounded ego he isn’t thinking so rationally.

Hiiti betrays a small scowl. “No, I don’t. Like I said, Raxus seems like the best option.”

After settling that issue, A5 asks, “Will you be coming with us?”

Hiiti and Hala stare into each other for a moment. She sighs, “I will. It never sat right with me that the droids disappeared without a trace.” She takes another sip of water. “However, are you sure your Republic contact is trustworthy? It isn’t exactly the most noble of institutions.”

“I’m more than certain they are.” Hala says confidently, not wanting to reveal his contact until they're all together.

“I suppose it's settled then,” Hiiti agrees. “I’ll connect my ship to yours once we’re out of atmosphere.”

~~~

After Hala and H117 leave the cantina together, you move to tell Tacihr and the others about Raxus. They greet you with worried faces, clearly less than pleased you weren’t able to set them up with other Jedi.

“Raxus wasn’t really what we had in mind.” Dai responds.

“Yes,” Tacihr agrees. “We are a farming people. I’m not sure Raxus is the best place for us, but if that's what the Jedi recommend, then I suppose that is what’s best.”

“Are we sure we can trust them? They were at each other's throats not but a day ago.” Dai questions Tacihr.

“Hm,” Tacihr strokes his fur in contemplation. “Arkanian, I trust you more than I do the others. Do you truly think that Raxus is the best place for us?”

You scratch your head. They are Jedi, but is Raxus really what's best? You hadn’t even thought to question them on their decision. Tacihr may be harsh, but he may be wiser than your companions. Personally, you find the idea of residing in a city world like Raxus frightening.

You give them a noncommittal shrug. Given your lack of experience, that is the best you can offer, but you can’t help but wish you could help them more. They lost so much.

“Well, we needn’t decide immediately. We still need to mourn T’rash.” With all that's happened, I almost forgot. “Would you join us as we send him off?” Tacihr asks. “It seems right, since you started us on this path.”

Without hesitation, you agree. After purchasing firewood from a local Elomin trader, you and the other survivors gather far outside of town. Stacking the beginnings of a pyre is hard work, and before long you finish the pile of logs. Dai and the Togruta man gently lay T’rash, wrapped in a bundle of the dead pirate's clothes, down on the bare wood. Tacihr douses T’rash and the pile in flammable fluid, and you set it ablaze with your blaster. Sending T’rash to rejoin the force, it's hard not to think of all the dead Jedi on Geonosis that never had the privilege of a proper funeral. In your mind, the funeral pyre is not just for T’rash, the brave little furball, but also for all the comrades you forgot.

It's a quiet, solemn moment, and the fire warms your chilled skin. The Elomins watch from the edge of town. Before long, Hala comes to retrieve you. He sets his hand on your shoulder to tell you it's time to leave without the use of words. You say your final silent goodbyes to Tacihr with a long warm hug. Your goodbyes with the others are much shorter, composed of handshakes and pats on the back. Dai embraces you as Tacihr did, adding a peck on the cheek. Leaving you blushing, you depart for the Goldstar with Hala.

Inside, Hala tells you he and H117 turned in Xortast Rrun in for a substantial amount of credits while you prepared the funeral pyre. Maybe he can finally fix up this rust bucket. H117 rejoins you once you’re out in space, docking her fighter on top of the ship and climbing down a ladder from a hatch in the roof. Carrying a bag of her personal items, she goes to claim a room, something you had yet to think of doing.

Hala’s personal space sits directly next to the cockpit. For whatever reason, H117 selects a room on the exact opposite end of the hall, closest to the hold. You decide to take the room beside Hala’s. You don’t have many items to store or extra clothes. As you remove your knife and blaster from your belt and decide where to put them, you remember the other item the bearded man on Geonosis gave you. You reach into your jacket’s inside pocket and remove the scroll. 

It’s encased in a red stone sheathe, engraved with images of battle. The central figure is what looks to be a man screaming out a war cry, while his attackers all hold their ears. You carefully remove it, closing the door to your room before you do. You're not sure how your companions would react to you possessing a Sith scroll. Unfurling the yellowed and frayed paper, you're disappointed to see that it's written in a script you can't read. The sketches in the margins are jagged, drawn as if the artist is in the throes of horrible pain, but that's hardly enough to tell you anything useful. No worries, my datapad should be able to translate. It cannot. After scanning it, your datapad spits out an error message. Translation function corrupted. I should’ve known. Defeated, you drop the scroll back into its case and place it under your bunk.

Just in time, H117 knocks on your door.

“May I come in?” she asks.

You stand and open the door for her, inviting her in. She seems apprehensive to enter, despite her coming to you. She walks past you, going to stand in front of your drawers. You return to your seat on your cot, lightly kicking the scroll further underneath. She doesn’t seem to notice.

She begins, as you flatten your sheets. “M11 tells me you can’t remember anything of your time with the Collective.” Who? Oh, she means Hala. She continues. “Even so, do you remember how to use the force? Have you used it, perhaps subconsciously?”

You answer immediately. “During the fight with the pirates,” your datapad says in its robotic tone, “I closed my eyes, and then it was like I was somewhere else. I was more aware of everything around me. I even shook a blaster a room away with my mind.”

“Sounds like battle meditation,” she says. “You were always skilled with the more complex techniques, but to use it without meaning to is… unexpected, and then struggling to use basic telekinesis. How odd.” She stops and thinks for a moment. “If we get into more scuffs, we shouldn’t rely on chance. I don’t know if M11 has already offered, but I would prefer if I trained you, if you’ll allow me.”

“He hasn’t, but why shouldn’t he?” you ask.

H117 sighs. “His training since the end of the Collective has been fragmentary at best, whereas I never stopped my training. That datapad you use to speak, we all have, or had one. Inside is a wealth of knowledge, training manuals, histories, that I have studied constantly and consistently to hone my skills,” she says proudly. “Yours looks damaged. If you like, you can borrow mine.” She reaches behind her back and hands you her datapad, pristinely maintained to look as if it just came out of the factory, before asking, “How much do you really know about M11?”

“I guess not much, but we’re friends, aren’t we?”

H117’s face grows grim. “Once.”

On that note, the conversation stalls. You wonder why she seems so cold towards Hala, why she doesn’t use his name. H117 is lost in thought for a few moments. 

Before turning to leave, she says, "It's been a long day, and you should get some rest. We can start training tomorrow, if that is your wish.”

You type excitedly, “Yes. Absolutely, but can I ask you something?”

H117 stops in the threshold. “Of course.”

Your curiosity gets the better of you. “Why does Hala call you Hiiti?” It seems a sensitive subject, but you ask anyway.

H117’s expression becomes yet more grim. Seems like a bit of a pattern with her. “After we left the collective, me and M11 gave each other names. He called me Hiiti. Just my designation turned from numbers to letters, with an “ee” sound at the end. It's so… uncreative. I called him my- I mean, I called him Miriman. I guess that's not much better than his name for me. We were so used to designations, coming up with real names with meaning wasn’t our forte.” She leaves again, and as she rounds the corner, you hear her whisper, “What does Hala mean anyway?”

You peek out into the hallway to make sure she's gone. She walks out of the hall and into the hold. The coast is clear. You shut your door and return to your cot. New datapad in hand, you retrieve your scroll for translation again. Scanning it with H117’s datapad, the translation goes through, along with a widget concerning the details of the text. Before reading it, you transfer it over to your datapad and delete it off H117’s. Probably best this is just between us, my broken friend. You also transfer over some beginner level training manuals. You would grab more, but your hard drive, damaged as it is, can’t hold much data.

Laying back, you read the scroll. It's Sith in nature. You had guessed as much, but the pad confirms it. Skimming further, it appears to be some sort of parable concerning Sith on the verge of defeat. The odd style of the illustrations makes more sense, perhaps written as the last testament of some great lord too damaged by the confrontation to live on. Unnamed in the story, a team of Jedi battles the lord, and nearly dead from a hundred cuts, screams through the force. The scream’s sharp edges cut the very essence of his attackers, rendering them immobile, and allowing the lord to kill them one by one. Unnerved, you skim past the rest of the parable. The second half of the scroll is written in different penmanship. No longer the last tale of a dying man, it becomes instructions on conjuring the technique that won the lord the day at will. That catches your attention.

Putting away the real scroll, you convert it into a text document. That way, reading it in public, or in front of your companions, will be less conspicuous. You reread the second half many times as you push away the urge to sleep. As your head rests on your thin pillow, you attempt a quiet scream, emitting only a pained croak. Perhaps that much vocalization being lost to you means you cannot perform the technique. Or maybe it's an issue of practice. Either way, it's not something you need to worry about at the moment. But in the back of your mind you wonder, if within this scroll lies the secret to regaining your voice.

Chapter Text

An air of sweat fills the hold. I don't know how much more I can take. Training with H117 hurts more than you expect. She claimed she would teach you how to use the force, but these past few days in hyperspace you’ve mostly been getting your butt kicked over and over again. Every day begins with hours of hand to hand combat, only being allowed to practice using the force when you're beyond exhausted. She says it's to break you down, in order to build you up stronger. Is this how I learned back on Geonosis?

H117 sits you down and places a bottle across the hold, telling you to move it. Too tired to even move stray strands of hair stuck to your forehead, you reach out your hand. Despite your sore arms, keeping your shaking hand up is the easy part. Reaching out with the force is much harder. Closing your eyes, you try to feel the room around you, but so much of it feels dull. H117 and yourself are like stars in the night sky, everything else is invisible. After concentrating hard enough that the sides of your head feel like they’re going to snap, the bottle comes into focus. Reaching out, you take hold of the bottle and slowly bring it forward. It's not a smooth motion, but you manage to set the bottle down in front of you, before falling on your back in exhaustion.

“See what three days training can do for you?” while standing above you H117 lets slip a small smile. “At this rate your skills should be back to a Padawan’s level in a few months.”

I don’t know if I can do this for a few more months. H117 pulls you back to your feet, intending to start again. You lumber clumsily into position, while H117’s stance looks as solid as a rock. If she hits me too hard, I might fall to pieces.

Hala’s voice comes through the hold’s speakers. “We’ll be reaching Sleheyron in about an hour,” he says. Thank you, Hala!

“Guess we’ll have to continue this later. Get yourself cleaned up,” H117 says, before relaxing and gliding out of the hold. You breathe a sigh of relief.

Left in the dust, you shamble to your quarters a broken shell. As you clean up, you remind yourself of what Hala said of your next friend to be. Once called T2, who knows what he’s called now, Hala described him as a beast of Trandoshan, prone to fits of rage. He left the group after H117. While doing a job on Sleheyron about three years ago, he stayed behind and fought in the slave rebellion there that's been going on for the past decade. Being a Trandoshan, he shouldn’t be hard to find, likely only one of a few of the hunting lizard race fighting for the Free Kingdom of Sleheyron. Trandoshans have an unfortunate record of being on the wrong side of history.

After washing up and getting dressed, you go to the cockpit to watch your approach. The stars snap into place as you come out of hyperspace. The planet doesn’t look like anything special from space, its atmosphere covered in dense orange clouds, but dipping under them reveals a densely urban planet. Refineries and cityscapes litter its surface of volcanic rock. Spires of the stuff dot the horizon, threatening to skewer any reckless pilots. The thick dust clouds darken the atmosphere enough you don’t need to wear your goggles to examine the planet, letting your white eyes free.

As you fly over Sleheyron City the harbour master hails Hala and guides him to an open landing pad. Leaving the Goldstar, you and H117 leave the starport and wait for Hala to finish paying the docking fee. Loitering outside the starport you get a closer view of the city. Many surrounding buildings bear scars of battle, roofs blasted open and blaster marks on the walls. Otherwise though, people seem to go about their business as if everything is fine. Maybe the war has already moved on.

H117 rubs her temples as she leans against the stone wall. You tap her shoulder to ask what's wrong.

“I’m fine, A5,” she says dismissively. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes in big cities like these. Do you not?”

Rishi may not have been the most populated place, but there were plenty of people passing through every day. If you had a sensitivity to large population centers, you figure Rishi inoculated you to their effects. You do sense something else though, a lingering darkness bubbling just below the surface of feeling. It doesn’t hurt as much as it just gives you goosebumps. As you try to dig deeper, a low rumbling breaks your concentration. 

Hala rounds the corner in his speeder. You hadn’t even bothered to ask if it worked the first time you saw it in the hold, considering it looked more like the skeleton of a speeder than something safe to ride. Apparently you were mistaken. Its engine and most of the internals are exposed, as well being clearly worn and rusted. It had four seats, all just as busted as the ones in the ship. Tipping your head to get a closer look, you see they’re the seats from the cockpit.

“Xortast’s bounty won’t last long if we stay here,” Hala exclaims as he hops out of his deathtrap to join you and H117 outside. “They’re charging one hundred credits a day for the right to dock. Outrageous.”

H117 scoffs. “They’re funding a war, and need all the credits they can get. Of course it's going to be expensive.”

Hala grimaces. “Ya well, lets just find T2 and get out of here.”

“Where do we start?” you ask. “This planet seems pretty big.”

“Thus the speeder,” Hala smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a good idea where to start looking. I got the location of a recruiting station for Sleheyron’s army. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a lead there.”

“There’s no such thing as luck.” H117 says. “There is only the Force.”

Let’s hope not, you think. We’re gonna need it.

The ride across town is very bumpy, and the off putting sounds of Hala’s speeder draw many eyes. Every few seconds it sounds like a dying fish gasping for air. Other times the engine pops like a slugthrower, causing passersby to duck for cover. H117 continues to rub her temples, the sputtering of the speeder not helping her headache. Eventually you reach the recruiting office. The sign overhead is the opposite of subtle, every neon letter obviously salvaged from other signs. The inside is much more official than that. Clean and orderly, potted plants linger in the corners beside long benches. An Anacondan, a species of armless snake creatures, mans the front desk.

A wide toothy smile greets you as you approach the desk. 

“Oh good,” the Anacondan says in a high, hissing tone. “The Queen is always looking for new soldiers to fight the good fight.”

Hala utters a light chuckle. “I’m afraid you're mistaken, we don't want to join. We’re actually looking for someone in the army. A Trandoshan. Very tall, gray, and angry.”

The Anacondan continues to smile. “Sorry young man, but we can’t give out that kind of information.”

Hala grumbles. “Very well, maybe this can change your mind?” He reaches into his coat, just jingling his credits before H117 stops him.

“Allow me,” she says. Stepping up to the counter, she waves her hand in a smooth motion in front of the Anacondan. “Give us the information we desire,” she commands.

The Anacondan’s face goes limp, and it immediately begins typing information into the computer with the tip of its tail. After a moment of buffering, it looks up to H117. “There are only three Trandoshans in the army, and only one that has gray scales. He is based out of Camp Northpoint. I’ll print out directions for you. Ask for the sergeant when you arrive.”

Hala whispers in your ear, “So creepy.”

~~~

Hala, thoroughly unnerved by Hiiti’s mind trick, opts not to start up some small talk on the long drive to Camp Northpoint. By speeder it’s about three hours. Flying the Goldstar would've saved time, but Hala wants to make his credits last. Besides, he was curious to see how Sleheyron was holding up since the last time he was here. 

Four years ago the entire planet was a warzone, every street was a second away from becoming a battlefield. A Rodian refugee, hiding out on nearby Klatooine, hired Hala, Loras, and T2 to smuggle his family off planet. It went by without a hitch, but T2 didn’t want to leave. He tried to convince Hala and Loras to stay with him, but he was never the most persuasive lizard, and Hala and Loras’ priorities were strictly survival. Coming back after so long, the streets are mostly cleared of all but the largest rubble, many of the buildings are repaired or in the process of being repaired, and Hutt enforcers no longer haunt every other corner. If not for the awful dust storms, sweltering heat, and lack of sun, it doesn’t seem like a terrible place to be.

Camp Northpoint occupies what looks to be a converted market square, surrounded by road blocks and soldiers lying in wait on outlying rooftops. After spotting them, Hala slows down significantly, not wanting to appear a threat. A soldier walks out of the barricade calling for Hala to stop, before circling around to the speeder’s side. The soldiers of the Free Kingdom four years ago just wore normal working clothes with blue armbands. Now they look far more professional. Wearing white plastoid armor chest plates over a brown and blue uniform, they remind Hala of a poor man’s stormtrooper.

“What’s your business here, Mirialan?” the soldier asks bluntly.

Hala says, “I’m here to see the sergeant.”

 Suspicious, the soldier leans in close. “And what do you want with the sergeant?”

H117 grabs Hala’s shoulder, getting ready to use her mind trick again. He quickly puts up his hand to stop her. “It's Jedi business,” Hala says, revealing his lightsaber clipped to his belt.

The soldier raises an eyebrow, before yelling to one of the barricade guards, “Go get the lieutenant.”

Guess I need to talk to the lieutenant first. Hala gets out of the speeder, along with the others while they wait. It doesn’t take long for Hala’s objective to come walking. T2’s gray scales have gained some yellow and black markings since last he saw him, as well as having somehow gotten even taller. He would tower over the other soldiers, if not for the larger shark-like alien following in his footsteps. T2’s piercing orange eyes lock onto Hala, as he stops in front of him and crosses his arms. He wears the same uniform as the others, with rough blue stripes on his pauldrons denoting his rank. Hala has to admit, it's quite intimidating.

“M11,” T2 greets him with a cold hiss.

“T2,” Hala responds with a somewhat guilty cordiality, after seeing the scars dotting his scales, and that one of his hands is missing a finger, and all the others are thicker. “When did you lose it?”

T2 glances at his right arm. “Lost my arm not long after you left. Blew up a tank,” he says, so nonchalant one would think losing an arm was normal. “I’m called Ssarj now.”

Guess none of us are that creative when it comes to names. “Change it when you were still a sergeant did ya? I changed my name too: Hala.” 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Ssarj hisses. “Not riding with Z34 anymore, huh? He finally get fed up with you?” Upon his attention finally drifting to Hala’s companions, his mood changes drastically. “H117,” Ssarj booms with a fangy smile. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.” Ssarj dashes past Hala and wraps H117 in a big hug. “How long has it been? Five years? How’ve you been?”

Insulted, Hala scowls as H117 gasps for air in Ssarj's arms. “Fine,” she rasps before he drops her.

Ssarj grabs A5 as soon as H117’s feet touch the ground. “I can’t believe it,” he says, spinning A5 while his hands clamp their arms to their waist. “A blind jump through hyperspace should’ve been the end. I always knew the force was strong with you.” Dropping A5, he rubs his claws together. “I guess we have some catching up to do. C’mon I know a place in the city. Jungal,” Ssarj turns to his sharky companion. “Keep an eye on the camp for me.”

~~~

Ssarj took everyone to a rooftop cafe, where you sink into the fluffiest cushion you’ve ever felt. Hala and H117 explain everything to Ssarj, but you’re too comfortable to listen, sipping on a cold fruity drink. Sitting under the open sky without the need of your goggles, you watch the dusty clouds roll by. You get the sense most wouldn’t find the smog filled sky beautiful, but to you it is quite the sight. As you look up, straw stuck in your mouth, you just overhear the catching up part of the conversation come to a close.

“After we all leave together,” Hala begins, “We just need to wait for me to get a lock on Loras' whereabouts. That's what Z34 calls himself. Then we can pick him up and meet my contact in the Republic.”

Ssarj lowers his heavy mug to the table. “No offense Hala, but I don’t trust no one in the Republic as far as I can throw them. But even still, I can’t just leave. I’m a commissioned officer in the middle of a war. My boys need me.”

Hala grimaces. “My contact can’t get an audience with anyone unless we’re all there.”

“Well too bad greeny,” Ssarj snarls. His muscles tighten, before he stokes his head scales and calms himself. “It's not that I don’t want to help, cus’ I do, but the fact is I can’t just go AWOL. Especially not with an active Hutt cell in the sector.”

Hala hangs his head, Ssarj watching with as close to a sorry expression his reptilian face can muster. He turns away to watch the city streets. You can sense his duty weighing on his conscience, chaining him to this dreary planet. But, you wonder, what if he fulfilled his duty?  You sit up, and still sipping on your drink you ask, “If we took care of this Hutt cell, would you be able to leave?”

Ssarj raises what would be an eyebrow if he had one. “Maybe,” he says. “I would have to confer with my superiors, and I doubt I could leave permanently. It would have to be a brief leave of absence while we get things sorted, but I think that just might work.”

“Not to be rude,” Hala butts in, “but how long will that take? The docking rate isn’t exactly cheap.”

Ssarj hisses out a laugh. “I already know where the cell is held up. I’ve just been waiting for reinforcements before I make my move, but with three more Jedi, I don’t think I’ll need to wait much longer.”

“Two more Jedi.,” H117 corrects. “A5 lost all knowledge of their training, not to mention they don't have a lightsaber.” It's true, but you still feel a little insulted. H117 tilts her head to look at Sssaj’s belt. “And where is your lightsaber?”

“Sold it,” he says, “and gave most of the money over to the cause when I joined up.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Hala slams his fist on the table. “What exactly do you plan to defeat the Hutts with? Your bare hands?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Ssaj grins. “You two aren’t the only ones who've kept training, I just went in a more unorthodox direction.” Ssarj stands from his seat and calls for the cafe owner. “Eero,” he yells. An old alien woman answers his call. “Would you mind if my friends stayed here for the night?”

The old woman shakes her head. “Of course not, Ssarj. Any friend of yours is a friend of ours.”
“Wonderful.” Ssarj turns back to you. “I need to head back to Camp Northpoint to work out a strategy. Get some rest. You’ll need it. I’ll send someone to retrieve you in the morning.”

You, Hala, and H117 are shown down to the basement by the old alien woman, where a ring of bedrooms surround a central living area. It's dark but cozy, lit by a single light hanging from the ceiling in the middle. It all smells of spices and sweets. Hala and H117 don’t stick around, departing to their rooms not long after being led down. You opt to stay in the living area, sinking into the couch with your datapad to read the manuals H117 gave you, and occasionally glancing at the forbidden scroll. Engrossed in your reading, you get startled by the clink of dishes, nearly dropping your datapad.

The old alien woman had snuck in without you noticing, and was cleaning up the kitchenette in the corner. Some Jedi I am if I let an old lady sneak up on me. The old woman seemed not to notice you, caught up in her chores. The longer you look at her, the more you are confused by her, as she's not any species you can recognize. She looks almost human, but her nose is wider than normal, and her black hair is thin, like her frame.

Deciding to take a break from your reading, you walk up beside the old woman, tapping her shoulder and doing a scrubbing motion with your hands. She chuckles. “If that's what you desire, I won't stop you,” she says, her wrinkles growing from her smile. She grabs a duster and goes around the room while you get your hands wet and soapy. 

You’re surprised, but washing up these plates and cups is meditative. After you finish, you dry your hands and turn to sit back on the couch, and see the old woman reading from your datapad. Frightened, but trying not to alarm your host, you stiffly walk over to the couch and smile awkwardly at the woman, hoping she stops reading. She looks down her nose with a pair of reading glasses. When she sees you staring, she lowers her glasses and hands back the datapad to you.

“Are you all Jedi?” she asks. You nod instinctively, before remembering Hala’s warning. From how Hala spoke of being a Jedi, you expect her to kick you all out on the spot. Instead, she hugs you. “I had thought you all gave up on us,” she says in your ear. She sees the confusion on your face. “I suppose you’re too young to know. Back when the war began, we had quite a few Jedi helping us fight off the Hutts, but after High Chieftain Baranji was murdered, the outworlders gave up on us. The other governments, the New Republic, the Confederacy, ordered the Jedi to leave us. Most Jedi abandoned us. Most who remember those days resent your lot for that, but some stayed behind.” The old woman picks up a cup and sips at her drink. “I’m glad more of you have come. We’ve lost most of the Jedi who stayed by now.” 

The old woman becomes grim, but you sense more grief than one would feel from the deaths of strangers. Then you remember the empty rooms, eight in all, and only one woman living here.

Picking up your datapad, you ask, “Have you lost anyone?”

“I have,” she says. “My children all went off and joined the army, and my husband before that.” Surprisingly, she smiles. “I haven't lost everyone, mind you. Two of my children are still fighting, and I couldn’t be prouder. What about you? What have you lost.” she grabs your arm as she asks.

You try to answer, but you don’t know what to say. My voice? My family? My memories? Everything? Nothing at all? Frozen by the complexity of the question, you stay silent until the old woman says, “It's alright child. Those we lost are never truly gone, as long as they live in our hearts.” Her answer does little to comfort you. How can they live in my heart if I can’t remember them?

Eager to move on, you ask the question that's nagged at you since she first came down. “What species are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone like you?”

She laughs. “Most never will,” she says. “I am Evocii. Last I heard there might be only a few thousand of us left in the whole galaxy. Some of us live here. Most of the rest still wait for freedom in the undercity of Nar Shadaa, but those aren’t our true homes. Our legends say we came from Evocar, but it is lost to us now.”

“Was it destroyed?”

“In a way. It was one of the first worlds taken by the Hutts, many millennia ago. Now it is called Nal Hutta, and the lands of our ancestors have been polluted beyond habitability. But our Queen Qanarji has promised that before she joins the Force we will have our home again.” She shakes your arm to make her point, the idea of retaking Nal Hutta clearly giving her hope.

“The leader of Sleheyron?” you ask. “Why would she make that promise?”

The old woman laughs. “Why? Because she is Evocii too. As was her father, the very last of our chieftains. My husband was one of the first to swear loyalty to him after the revolt started. It's funny really. When the war first started, we never really thought we would win with so few of us left. We just wanted to show the galaxy that we would go out swinging. But we got lucky over and over again, and more and more aliens joined us. Now here we are.” The old woman stands with her cup and begins to walk towards one of the rooms. “Look at me, Its dangerous to get me talking. I better hit the sack before I never stop. Good night child.”

As she disappears to bed, you wave her goodnight. Picking up your datapad, you can’t help but think of something H117 said. There's no such thing as luck. There is only the Force.

Chapter Text

Sitting around a table in the cafe, you all have a breakfast of warm, soft rice and juicy meats. The old Evocii, Eero, is more than eager to serve, you assume because she knows you are Jedi. After double, then triple checking with you that food is to your liking, she leaves your group alone under the dark clouds.

Once you know she’s out of earshot, you ask Hala and H117 a question that's been bugging you since last night. “Do people hate the Jedi?” Back on Rishi that was at least partially true. While the ancient Jedi were revered, modern Jedi, not so much, but the Evocii’s stance confused your preconceptions.

Hala answers after slurping down a chunk of fatty flesh. “I suppose it depends on where you are. In the Galactic South where most worlds are independent like Rishi, they absolutely hated Jedi, since they mostly dealt with the Jedi Collective. I would say most other places have positive views.”

“The Jedi Collective was greatly misunderstood by the people they protected,” H117 butts in. “Most were ignorant of us because of our secrecy.”

Hala glares at H117. “People didn’t hate us because they were ignorant, they hated us because the Collective was awful. Have you not heard about the things the Collective did while you were off on your own?”

H117 turns to you. “Don’t listen to him. Those are just stories. The Collective was a noble order. They were just different from the others.”

  “All the horrible rumors people say about the Jedi as a whole: That they kidnap children, that they were as callous as droids, that they were a cult. The Collective was the one Jedi Order where all those things were true.” Hala jumps out of his seat, saying, “I actually met an Ithorian mother who the Collective forced to give up her child. You remember I27? That was her mother.”

“Nonsense.” H117 dismissed Hala. “How can you say that about our family?”

“They may have been our family,” Hala retorts. “But that doesn’t change the fact that they were evil.”

H117 sneers, “You’re projecting.”

What is that supposed to mean? Before you can ask, a soldier appears in the doorway behind them. Hala and H117 stop arguing, but continue to glare icy daggers at one another. Together you leave the cafe and get into a speeder with your escort, grateful that you don’t have to take Hala’s deathtrap. Hala and H117’s tiff answered your initial question, but left you with more about the Collective than when you left Rishi. You decide the speeder ride to Camp Northpoint wasn’t the time to pry, with the soldier not even a meter away, leaving you pondering some uncomfortable questions.

Arriving at Camp Northpoint, you are led to a central tent, where Ssarj, the sharklike alien Jungal, and a human male soldier stand around a paper map of the city streets. Holograms dot the surface of the map, painting Ssarj and the other’s faces with blue light. Looking at the holograms, none of them are of soldiers, instead being different monstrous aliens. After further inspection you realize they are pieces from dejarik, a game you played many times on Rishi, though you used physical pieces. Clearly they repurposed a dejarik holochess game into some sort of ad hoc planning aid. You’re beginning to understand why Ssarj felt he had to donate so much to the cause.

“Good, you’re here,” Ssarj waves you in. “A5. Hala. H117. You’ve already met the Karkarodon, Sergeant Jungal,” Jungal reaches out to shake your hand. His grip is strong, and his skin is thick and leathery. His pointed head, blueish skin, and solid black eyes portray some sort of respect towards you, though he’s harder to read than Ssarj.

Ssarj moves to introduce the other officer, “This is my other second, Sergeant Lux Bonteri VIII.” Sergeant Lux greets Hala and H117 with a curt nod. In his stance you sense a regal background, his back arched and head held high. He seems not to be over thirty, but looks much older. His face is littered with tiny scars, and his eyes and cheeks are sunk into his skull.

Ssarj waits until Jungal releases your hand before speaking. “Let's get down to business,” he hisses. He fiddles with the hologram, the dejarik game switching into the image of a large slimy Hutt floating above the map. “ Meet Merga the Hutt, the daimyo of this district of Sleheyron. After we took the last of the planet last year, most Hutts entirely abandoned their territories. Not Merga. His loyalists have been harassing us for months, and we believed they were getting their orders from Merga, offworld.”

The holograms shift into a recording of Klatoonian gangsters struggling to push crates through a back loading door. “But, reconnaissance of their supposed headquarters, a cantina called the Slicer’s Den, has revealed they’ve been shuffling in massive amounts of fresh produce and spice. More than enough to feed a Hutt’s appetite. We’re certain Merga never left Sleheyron,” Ssarj continues. “Orders, direct from the Queen herself, say we have to take him alive so he can face trial. Capturing him will not only cut the head off his operations on Sleheyron, but also deal a humiliating blow to the other Hutts.”

Hala strokes his green chin, “So, what's the plan?”

Ssarj steps away from the hologram controls, and Sergeant Lux takes his place. “We will strike with three teams: Grimtaash, Molator, and Savrip, each with a Jedi in the vanguard,” Lux says, switching the holograms back to the dejarik pieces. “Team Grimtaash, headed by Master Hala and myself, will strike from the front entrance. Team Molator, led by Sergeant Jungal and Master H117 will strike from the back service entrance. Your jobs,” he says to Hala and H117, “will be to draw their fire away from our soldiers, as well as distract them from the main assault. After a few minutes we’ll hopefully lure most of their forces out of the building. Using a blind spot between the two entrances, Lieutenant Ssarj, at the head of Team Savrip, will charge in with one of our troop carriers and scale the south facing wall, inserting into the cantina from the roof. Once there we will take Merga and his goons unawares and then take his forces from behind.”

Three dejarik pieces converge on the center of the map, swiping their claws at the K’lor’slug that sits on the cantina. The slug, which bears an eerie resemblance to a Hutt, falls over dead.

~~~

Camp Northpoint erupts to life as you follow your companions out of the tent. Soldiers march past in formation. The troop transports, large speeders with extra armor plating haphazardly welded on, start up and hover above the ground with a low hum. Sergeant Lux leaves with Hala off to the right. Sergeant Jungal leads H117 the opposite way. You're left in the dust wondering what your part in the plan is supposed to be, until Ssarj calls over his shoulder. “C’mon A5. You’re with me.”

He strides off with a brisk determination. Keeping up is more annoying than anything else, as his legs are so long and he makes no effort to slow down for you. His quick pace is also what makes you notice that he doesn't wear boots, his thick claws digging into the dusty square. You follow him through the camp, soldiers saluting him all the way, making you in your casual work jacket feel quite out of place. Eventually he bursts into a larger tent open to the air. Weapons and armor are stacked high behind a man at a desk, tinkering with a rifle. Must be the armory.

The quartermaster, a spindly man with graying hair, doesn’t notice Ssarj saunter up the desk. Eventually he runs out of patience. “Get this soldier some equipment,” Ssarj startles the quartermaster from his project with his bark. The quartermaster quickly runs off and comes back with a rifle, and some plastoid plates. After Ssarj examines each item personally, he slides it down the length of the desk to you. 

After finishing, he asks the quartermaster, “You know we’re moving out don’t you, man?” the quartermaster nods. “Then why isn’t my equipment sitting in front of me?” The quartermaster squeaks and runs off to the back of the tent. You hear shuffling as you hold your stuff in your arms. The quartermaster sprints back, leaping over the weapons strewn across the ground and drops a strange looking device in front of Ssarj, along with a little gas mask and goggles. “Thank you,” Ssarj issues a sardonic hiss. “Now go clean up. This is a military base, not your personal workshop.” With that the quartermaster leaves again without a word.

Ssarj holds his serious snarl until the quartermaster is deep in the tent, before turning to you and quietly chuckling. “Never gets old,” he says. “Go ahead and put that stuff on. It shouldn't be too hard. The plastoid won’t protect you very much, but it's better than nothing.”

As you strap into the plastoid armor piece that covers your chest, Ssarj keeps talking, despite the fact your hands are too busy to answer. “Hear Lux call Hala master? That was hilarious,” he says. Ssarj is like a different person from when they were in the planning room. There, he spoke with a cold matter-of-factness, missing all the warmth of yesterday’s meeting. Around his fellow officers he was almost stately. Now, he talks like you two are still old friends, like you never left him.

“I noticed you use that datapad to talk.” Ssarj says unprompted.

A little hard not to notice that, you think with a chuckle.

Ssarj lets a small chortle. “Sorry. I just meant, why don’t you use sign language? I’ll admit my skills are rusty, but surely that would be faster.”

You’re taken aback. Not because you’re offended. If anything, you're ashamed you never thought of that yourself. Nobody on Rishi ever used sign language. You’ll have to look into it once all this is over.

After putting that thought in your head, he continues trying to make conversation, even as he’s putting on that odd pack the squirrely quartermaster gave him. Part of it is some kind of metal backpack, but it has two long tubes that connect to nozzles that he places on his wrists, with triggers he sticks to his palms. It takes the whole outfit, with the gas mask and dark goggles for you to realize what he’s wearing. Is that a flamethrower? Ssarj tests the palm triggers, blowing short bursts of bright flame at the ground. Ssarj reaches behind the desk and grabs a smaller pack for you, but missing the flamethrower nozzles. A jump pack for scaling the wall of the cantina. You wonder, with that giant flamethrower, how he’s going to get up the wall.

Clipping your helmet loosely on your head, Ssarj slaps it down and lets out an echoing laugh. “We’ll make a soldier out of you yet.”

As you load into the troop transport behind Ssarj, you look out and see your friends loading in as well. H117 marches in without so much as glancing in your direction, her long brown hair tied into a tight bun. Hala glances your way as he enters his transport, giving a quick enthusiastic thumbs up before disappearing inside. Neither wore the plastoid armor everyone was, though you suppose they needn’t bother. You can’t help feeling a bit of envy: Envy in their confidence, skill in the force, in the lightsaber, while you’re stuck bottled up in a restrictive white box.

The speeder ride is cramped, dark, bumpy, loud, and a little smelly. After a quick talk with the driver, Ssarj takes a seat next to you near the exit ramp. Removing his face gear, he isn't bothered by the conditions at all, nor are the rest of the soldiers. Most of their faces are covered by rudimentary gas masks, bandanas and goggles, but those whose faces you can see are cool as ice. And you’re pretty sure some whose faces you can’t are taking a nap.

Off in their own little worlds, Ssarj seems to think it's a good place to let down his officer’s mask. “Do you have a name other than A5?” he asks. You roll your eyes, type out “Crasher” on your datapad, and show it to him. He jerks a clawed hand to his mouth, to hold in a laugh. “I’m guessing you didn’t pick that one out yourself,” he chortles. “You should figure one out though. I learned pretty quick most people are weary of people with numbers for names. Besides, it's not like we’re in the Collective anymore. For star’s sake you can’t even remember the damn place, right?”

You nod in the affirmative, but retort, “H117 kept her name.”

“True,” Ssarj says earnestly. “I doubt she’ll ever change it. Beside you she was the most devout of all of us.” That surprises you. Hala hadn’t told you, well… Really anything about you before your crash. “But judging by the fact you didn’t try to shut me down back at the armory,” Ssarj continues, “you ain’t that person anymore. Put some thought into a name, my friend. Embrace your freedom.” A light on the ceiling suddenly starts flashing red, triggering Ssarj back to officer mode. “Ready weapons. Two minutes out,” he barks.

~~~

Hala attempts to strike up conversation with Sergeant Lux early on the ride, but he answers with only quick deflections. This leaves him plenty of time for meditation and preparation. Considering what happened last time he had to block a hail of blasterfire, Hala doesn’t love Ssarj’s plan. The cold discipline of the other soldiers assuages his fears somewhat. However, the scar on his thigh still stings when he bumps it too hard, and though the transport provides a lot of protection, a smooth ride it is not. He will need all the concentration he can for the task ahead, and the constant little pings of pain are not helping. By the time Lux gives the warning that they’re five minutes away, Hala feels less ready than before.

As the red light spins on the ceiling, the transport screeches to a stop. The ramp out slams to the ground, and the soldiers march out in orderly lines, taking up positions behind potted plants, while others drag some metal blockades they brought along. Hala and Lux follow behind. Two henchmen guard the front entrance to the cantina under a flashing pink and green sign. Seeing the force brought down upon them, they quickly dive inside. Well, that wasn’t the plan.

“Get into position, Master Hala.” Sergeant Lux calls, standing behind one of the barricades, with his hands calmly behind his back.

 Hala ignites his lightsaber and twirls it into a defensive stance, marching just ahead of the frontline. Focusing ahead on the cantina entrance, he feels a sudden shiver, and angles his lightsaber just in time to deflect a shot coming from the right. It bounces back to its sender, a sniper on one of the surrounding buildings, hitting directly in the forehead. If not for his Jedi training, he would be dead before the assault even starts.

Hala throws an accusatory gaze Sergeant Lux’s way. Lux, to his credit, orders the soldiers at each end of the barricade to watch the rooftops. Three other snipers try the same trick, but get shot down by the troopers. Hala can’t help but feel that maybe Ssarj should’ve waited for reinforcements. Only fifteen troopers are assigned to Team Grimtaash and Team Molatar, and who knows how many of the Hutt’s men are preparing to burst out. Or, if they’re smart, the Hutt could just wait them out, and Ssarj’s team will get overwhelmed.

While Hala anxiety rises, he hears a clicking sound to his left. Two troopers lift open the lids of large metal cases, after they drag them out of the transport. They start to build something behind the barricade. Thirty seconds later, a heavy blaster emplacement stands ready. After finishing its construction, and letting it charge, the trooper operating it fires at the wall. Red plasma flashes as it begins carving into the brick, making a hole to the inside. This also wasn’t part of the plan.

Hala prepares to get back behind the barricade to ask Lux what’s going on over the clamour of the heavy blaster. But after a few seconds, he realizes what’s up. The blaster is only blasting open the top half of the wall, leaving the bottom intact, for the Hutt’s goons to use as cover. After a full two minutes of non-stop blasting the emplacement overheats, likely an intentional choice to allow the Hutt’s men to use the cover the troopers made for them, luring them into a fight with the troopers.

The troopers yell at each other at the top of their lungs, saying that the emplacement is completely useless. The goons take the bait, blind firing over the waist high rubble. Deflecting their random shots proves simple enough. Hala regains some confidence in Ssarj’s plan. After deflecting a shot straight into Gamorrean’s stomach, Hala starts to smile. As long as Hiiti is having similar luck, this will be over before we know it.

Suddenly the ground shakes, throwing Hala off balance, and a plume of fire erupts behind the cantina.