ObliviousKnight

Some time later, the YT-2000 freighter Prism settled on the landing pads surrounding The Red and Black. The Jedi Grandmaster had spent almost the entire journey in meditation, looking towards The Force for guidance--anything, a whisper of advice, a vision of a planet, a scent of foliage, a starfield… All she felt was the weight of a rifle in her hands, the smell of blood in the air, and the acrid tang of blaster oxidation on her tongue. And… ropes, all around her. They didn’t bind her, but they spread over every surface and threatened to tangle her ankles as she fought. This was possibly the most vague that The Force had ever been for her. Once she heard the urgent klaxon that signalled their proximity to Nar Shaddaa, Armiena rose from her feet and blinked away the sleep sand. “I hope I will see you soon,” Draygo rasped through a dehydrated throat as she departed the Corellian freighter. “The Force be with you.” Not quite certain of where to go, the Jedi Grandmaster took a few deep breaths and followed The Force. It led her to her own ship. She glanced from side to side at the top of the boarding ramp. The Force offered her no destination. Under these circumstances, her typical course of action were to wander towards her forge, gather some coils of fiber and ingots of steel, and set to work. That was exactly what Armiena chose, allowing her own sense of inspiration and The Force guide her to next creation...

“Indeed. If there is any planet that can withstand an attack from the Sith, it will be Bothawui--and they know what will happen to them if the Sith are able to seize their world. Pogroms, being treated as target practice by the more depraved Sith. They’ll be motivated… huh.” Draygo stared a few meters into the nearest wall, a faraway expression on her face. There was the most peculiar sensation that had just shivered down the back of her neck, an indelible impression that something significant had just changed. Perhaps it was a warning from The Force, or a sudden crack in the Fourth Wall, but she just had an intuition that she must not go to Mon Calamari--more than that, it was impossible. “I… uh, think I will be joining you for a short time. At least as far as Nar Shaddaa. Hard to say. Uh… Vos? Vos! We need to go!” Armiena blinked hard, remembering that she had been flying the blind Jedi Master’s ship during the entire visit--and she had been communicating with Borleias’ security forces. She sprinted towards the cockpit and seized the controls, muttering an excuse to satisfy the consternation of the local traffic control tower--something about a minor family emergency, she thought she blurted out. Whatever the excuse, it at least won the Prism a priority corridor away from the planet, and the three Jedi soon fled into hyperspace. Their work, though only partially finished, had left a major starfighter base under construction and the local HoloNet thoroughly corrupted.

After looking through everyone’s actions for the last few days, there are a few matters that need to be addressed with regards to MandaJetii’s and Johan Fae’s actions: in a combative scenario such as an invasion on an actively-defended world, it is required to give an opponent at least three days to respond before continuing to post. Violating what we call the “Three-Day Rule” has the potential to result in your actions being nullified, but as Johan Fae’s and MandaJetii’s actions have been primarily conversing with each other, we are going to stop at just warning both of you to be mindful of this rule in the future. More significant is the detonation of explosive charges in the sewers by MandaJetii, leading to the destruction of a sizable portion of a Mon Calamari city through a chain reaction of exploding gases. This is an atrocity that would cause the loss of many thousands of innocent lives if the results of these actions are accepted as posted. As a result, we are going to significantly curtail the damage caused by this detonation. It is very reasonable to assume that this detonation has caused severe localized damage, including injuries to those who have set it off, demolition and loss of local power, gas lines, industry, and other infrastructure. It is not reasonable to say that this has sparked a chain reaction throughout the entire city. Again, this is a combative scenario with an active defender, and it is a breach of RP rules to post “closed attacks”: that is, posting the damage suffered by your opponent. The precise damage that has been inflicted to the city is to be determined by your opponent, Krath Apothos. And lastly, the moderator team wishes to express their dismay at the recent disruption on the Discord server. We call JediRP a “Collaborative Storytelling Community” for important reasons. Player vs. player combat is a unique feature of our community and every player should be prepared for their best-laid plans to be foiled in combat--but we thrive on friendly communication and coordination between players. This is true even and especially when our characters (who may hate each other’s guts in-character) are doing their best to kill each other. Heated exchanges and starting fights over a matter of a scuppered battle plan will not fly. Battle plans will fail again in the future, and while that’s always frustrating, we hope that a future conflict on our Discord will not ensue. We will do our best to ensure that all storylines are able to continue satisfactorily. From here on out, all players should abide by the Three-Day Rule to give all other combatants the opportunity to react in this ever-changing situation. As we have issued a warning, any future violations will result in actions up to and including removal from this scenario or temporary bans, to be determined by the mod team. ------ObliviousKnight and the JediRP Mod Team

“In my experience, no one is ever ready.” Draygo another chuckle that threatened to run away into hysterics, but the veteran Jedi managed to collect herself. “I was… full of myself when my own Master declared my apprenticeship complete--and please, get up from your knees, this isn’t an occasion for oath-taking.” Draygo grabbed her former apprentice by the hands and fought away In less urgent times, the Jedi Grandmaster would have afforded more time to indulge in this momentous occasion--allow herself to exult in having trained another young man to become a fine Jedi Knight and for that young man to appreciate the mantle just set over his shoulders--but the galaxy had erupted into war on multiple fronts. Minutes were now precious beyond appreciation, and even this mission might have been an unacceptable expenditure. “I wish we had more time, but I have a mission that I need addressed, and by someone I know. There are significant Sith fleet movements in the Outer Rim by way of the Arkanis and Sullust sectors. The Rebel Alliance has been trying to halt their advance, but a significant portion of the Colonies are under threat. Sullust and Naboo will be the least of our worries if we can’t halt their advance. We need to know where they they are, where they’re going--and to prepare everyone that’s in their path. There are some things that a Jedi Knight can do that a military man would never dare without months of negotiation. There’s a Rebel task force massing near Bothawui headed by a Mon Cal named Klatchka, you’ll need to coordinate with him. Her. I’m not sure. I know it’s not a lot to work with, but there’s not a lot that we know. Can I count on you?”

((Actually, we are boarding Tobias Vos’ ship. It is a YT-2000 named Prism.)). There was a pause as the two Jedi trudged up the boarding ramp of the Prism. Rather than rage or curse at inevitability, Armiena just sighed and sat down heavily on the first available cushion in the freighter’s common room. The veteran Jedi began to doff pieces of equipment--a small datapad, a ring of dataspikes, a small utility knife and comlink--but rather than tidily securing the items, she just let them fall on the deck. A second sigh and Draygo rubbed a hand across sleep-deprived eyes. “You would not have been able to stop her, no matter what you did. If she wanted to follow you, she would have found a way. Stowaway, tracking beacon… hijacking.” There was a courageous attempt at a smile that died quickly. “It wasn’t your responsibility and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Armiena tossed one final piece of equipment onto the deck plates: it was a small metal disc that was studded with holoprojector divots. It bloomed to life in a ghostly blue projection and resolved into a cartoonish icon of a comlink. The veteran Jedi was visibly bracing herself for what she expected to be an emotional communication, closing her eyes and clenching her hands periodically as the seconds mounted and the device struggled to connect while in hostile territory. Finally there was a connection. With the algorithms that Draygo had implanted into the local Holonet still inactivated the local security was thoroughly hostile to Jedi communiques, but audio-only was preferable for the occasion. “Mother?” Armiena hated the fear in her voice. “Master Healer Helgru, Grandmaster,” came the raspy growl of a Mon Calamari. “She’s resting. She’s doing well.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Her first words when she woke were ‘I need to be operational.” There was a muffled commotion in the background. “Is Stormhelm there? I need to… Armiena, dear, please do not waste time on my behalf. This dedicated Healer has these matters well in hand. Redeploy at your…” Heavy breathing was audible. “...At your first opportunity. No--I insist--I will not forgive you if you waste time sitting at the bedside of a convalescent at this critical moment.” “Mother--I can’t just--” “And I’ll not waste the time. Genesis--he has changed. Substantially. He has become a formidable young man, but more importantly…” There were a few deep breaths from the Miraluka and what sounded like an abortive struggle over control over the comlink. “More importantly a good person. Men of his caliber are regrettably rare... You will be a fool if you… if you do not reinstate him into your Order and allow him to begin operating independently.” There was another sound of a struggle. The elder Draygo growled some language that would have made a Corellian dockworker blush, but the Mon Calamari Healer seemed to have been victorious in the skirmish over the comlink, for his was the next voice heard. “Thank you. Your mother has already been through a substantial amount of physical therapy. She is out of danger, but she will require time before she can be considered ‘operational’ again. I will be in contact if anything changes--for good or ill.” The transmission terminated with a decisive click. For a few seconds, Armiena just stared at the comlink--then she began to giggle… then she threw back her head and laugh.. and then begin to laugh hysterically. It was one of those laughs that was simultaneously therapeutic and painful and made one concerned for the health of the one who was simultaneously whooping and crying, hollering and screaming. It was physically hurting her ribs, and tears were streaming from her eyes… and yet the brief exchange had been so absurd that Armiena could not help but embarrass herself. Draygo finally succeeded in composing herself and brushed the loose strand of grey-streaked hair out of her face. “So, it seems you made quite an impression on my mother. That’s not exactly an easy thing to do. She has… exacting standards. It’s not enough to be skilled to impress my mother--you would have needed to demonstrate some significant force of character, some true grit.” A weak smile finally managed to stick on her face and a chuckle threatened at the possibility of another bout of hysterics. “So be it, Jedi Knight.”

Armiena remained silent for a few minutes, instead focusing on the sounds and feel of the city. There was an undertone to the rhythmic chants from the protest march--it wasn’t just the call-and-response of the amplified voice of a single leader and the roar of the crowd, there was… music. At least, that was what the Jedi Grandmaster gathered from the steady thumping noises that echoed between the glassy towers. Draygo gave a nod; even without laying eyes on the approaching throng, she knew that this was a student protest. They would be convening upon the pavilion that they had just departed, make some noise, perhaps vent their outrage on the responding security precinct, and most likely disperse--possibly with blunt-force encouragement from those same security officers. In a previous life, those would have been her people. Foolish, idealistic, convinced that they could change the galaxy with moral courage without the backing of arms. Their habits were predictable, their effectiveness… debatable, but they hinted at a world that had quickly become resentful of the presence of the Sith. They were no threat to the two Jedi--of little threat to anything at all save a few blocks of glass walls. Draygo snorted at her own internal monologue as they snaked through a corridor of landspeeders that ringed Sihnon’s spaceport. It had only taken a few seconds for her to cease thinking of her Padawan as a former Jedi and once again regard him as one of us. Passing through the security checkpoint was as simple as it had been in the opposite direction. Maroon-clad security personnel from Borleias--not chrome-plated Sith stormtroopers from Onderon--manned the checkpoint, who were more concerned with halting contraband and maintaining a constant flow of traffic than hunting down The Spider’s Most Wanted. Even after a middle-aged guard--probably a former soldier, judging from the spectacular shrapnel scar that ran down one cheek and removed half of her left ear--made direct contact with the two Jedi and squinted in potential recognition, the Jedi Grandmaster merely reached out with The Force and rendered that shocking moment of recognition just slightly beyond the reach of the human’s mind. That security guard was still frowning in their general direction as Draygo and Stormhelm boarded a turbolift and rose to the Docking Bay 827. It was only after those turbolift doors opened to reveal the saucer-like Corellian freighter and the hum of sublight engines on standby that Draygo relaxed. “Yes, you are absolutely welcome. I had actually… hoped for you to be a little bit older when we finished your training. I need to ask--you ran into my mother, didn’t you? On Katarr. What happened?”

It was always difficult to describe the philosophies behind Jedi training. There was a paradoxical combination of pragmatism with nurturing, of field experience with theory, of serene meditation with personal violence. As much as the ancient Jedi cautioned against forming emotional attachments with any individual, the methods through which they trained their cadets--that intense, personal one-on-one relationship--made it nearly impossible to not form an emotional attachment. And there were the difficulties with the modern crop of Jedi, who almost invariably joined--not inducted--the Order as adults with all the emotional baggage of a normal life. And then there were creatures like Armiena Draygo. It was still worth making an attempt at explaining. “Genesis… if you’re fortunate then you will one day be in the same position. I will never stop worrying. One thing that I’ve had to accept about myself is that I inevitably grow highly attached to my Padawans. I don’t think it would be too much of an exaggeration to describe it as maternal.” Draygo let him take the sack from her shoulder. It was no significant burden, just a change of clothes, several false ID cards, and a small arsenal of dataspikes. From somewhere nearby, there was a barrage of shouts and cries--and terrible music--and she hastily began to move perpendicularly from its point of origin. It would be a short detour from the spaceport. The shouting was growing closer--and somewhat more rhythmic. It was difficult to make out phrases from the confusing echoes that bounced between the walls of the pavilion, but it began to adopt a consistent cadence. It was a protest march, Armiena realized. Sirens were growing closer, but the veteran Jedi relaxed, understanding that none of them were responding to the presence of a detected Jedi saboteur. “The war continues. We gain some and lose some… mostly lose, for the moment. Mon Calamari got overrun, we lost the Eternal Vigilance, but we managed to gain an outpost on Kessel.” For a moment, Draygo’s aquiline expression of hyperalertness faltered and the Jedi Master betrayed how very little sleep she was getting. “At least we’ll never run out of glitterstim. And there’s hints that something is brewing deep in the Outer Rim… but intel out there is rare and invariably of poor quality.. As you can see, the war is my… oh.” Very nearby, there was a spike in alertness as one of the local precinct’s security officers, clad in dark blue and with a hand the ebon pommel on a stun baton, came jogging up. The familiar routine of wandering eyes ensued; a distracted glance down the low neckline that persisted on the writhing, delicate scars that twisted all the way up the side of her neck.. then the human’s hazel eyes lingered on Armiena’s face and widened in surprise. The veteran Jedi braced herself to assault this security officer as she passed--a sharp jab to a kidney and a boot on his comlink would suffice, she decided--but the peacekeeper just stood there, either too surprised or sympathetic to take action. The Force offered no warning of imminent violence. Even as the two Jedi passed, the peacekeeper’s gloved hand strayed slowly from the hilt of his weapon and he just silently mouthed a single word: “Je… di?” Several seconds of hasty walking and a turn down an intersection followed before Draygo trusted herself to cease monitoring that peacekeeper’s Force presence for hints of malice. “Unexpected, but… welcome. The war is currently my life.” Armiena gave a sigh. “What has your path shown you?”

Several hundred kilometers away, a squad of combat engineers was hard at work in the Erciyes Highlands, preparing turf and tunnels for use as a landing strip. Every few minutes, dull, bassy whummmmps reverberated through the trees and sent birds scattering as subterranean tunnels were expanded with excavating charges to make room for what would eventually become ammunition and fuel dumps. A pair of the engineers contented themselves with watching permacrete dry and attempting to look busy. Four of the more enterprising engineers, led by their massive Togorian captain, hauled electronics components and other equipment onto their backs and ventured into the hills to establish what would become a small sensor array. ____ Deep within the headquarters of an interstellar megacorporation, a Jedi Grandmaster had begun to grow overconfident. It had been several minutes since the last time that one of the HoloNet technicians had even bothered to check on her progress, and Draygo had enjoyed free rein of the hundreds of square meters of mainframe computers. To add encouragement for Core Dynamics’ technicians and middle management to not indulge in their natural curiosity as she continue to jam dataspikes into scomp ports, the Jedi Master had begun to sing. This wasn’t the quiet, barely audible mumbling that a craftsman might hum to themselves while lost in a highly-technical task of metallurgy, but the enthusiastic and high-volume bellowing that a military veteran might shout during a running cadence. For all of the many skills that Draygo had learned , learning to sing--at least pleasantly--was not one of them. Her vocal talents were geared almost entirely to having her orders heard by partially-deaf soldiers over the din of blaster fire. Keeping tempo, key, or anywhere remotely close to the true note was an afterthought. Her hair bound by a flimsy mesh-like hat and her face mostly obscured by a breath mask, she nonetheless happily wandered from station to station, having successfully driven away nearly all the occupants of this room through a combination of social engineering and pure obnoxiousness. “Doo--doo-doodeedoodoo doo duh nuh nuh, duh nuh--In a garden of evil baby, don’t you know that I’ll always be true--no, that’s not right, uh, in the garden of evil honey, don’t you know that I always will love you-ooh. Oh, won’t you come with me-ee-ee, and walk this--take my ha-and. Won’t you come with me… and…” By the time that Draygo had started imitating the extended drum solo of this ancient song from her childhood, the few remaining technicians had begun searching for makeshift earplugs or other means to drown out her voice. Two hours later, once the malware routines had embedded themselves into assembly code and were waiting for an external trigger to deliver their covert payloads, most of them had resigned to just waiting for the unwelcome visitor to leave so they could finally get some work done. ____ A short time later, Armiena had doffed her jumpsuit and bid a forced-friendly farewell to the helpful security guard, who had been so easily influenced with a combination of mild Mind Tricks and more innate talents. The veteran Jedi sighed as she left the climate-controlled building and the hot evening sun reflected on the surface of the pavilion; she detected her Padawan very close by. Did she even the right to still call him that? After two years of hindsight, Armiena had supposed that she was perhaps a uniquely unsuited teacher for him--her talents lay primarily ending lives and convincing others to join her in that struggle, and Genesis was clearly of a less hard-bitten nature. And there was the terrible decision to send the ailing boy to Chandrila, an active war zone and a humanitarian crisis--what seemed to her a rational test at the time, but something had clearly gone horribly wrong there. Stop it. You’ll find out. Have some courage. “Even if it hurts,” the Jedi muttered to herself and slung her pouch over her shoulder. Her eyes widened in a series of confused emotions as the boy--young man, at this point--rounded a corner of one of the other buildings surrounding the pavilion. There was recognition, concern--something bordering on fear crossed her presence for a fraction of a second--but that was erased by shock at seeing just how much her Padawan had aged over two years. The pouch slipped from her fingers and fell to be forgotten. Her pace quickened and she embraced her Padawan--and lifted him about a centimeter off the ground, carrying him backwards for a pair of staggering steps before a complaint from her back demanded that she immediately release him. “Genesis!” As Draygo set her Padawan back on the ground, some unconscious corner of her mind reflected that her would be feeling this mistake for a few days. “It’s been… two years. You look good. How did you even get here?”

Draygo’s familiarity with Borleias, in hindsight, was somewhat overstated. It was absolutely true that the peninsula around the old Jedi Dojo was practically a second home to her and she was thoroughly familiar with the jungles and mangroves that had been cleared to found the refugee camps. She had even explored the Erciyes Highlands somewhat--spelunking had always been one of her passions, ever since it became so thoroughly important to her as a Jedi. However, she had never spent more than a single day exploring its capitol city of Sihnon, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now she was sitting in a public pavilion just outside the Core Dynamics HoloNet center. It was an ugly conflict of Republic-era public architecture, with its excessive indulgences in open space and ceramics, and the soulless corporate blockiness where the megacorps had built their headquarters. The veteran Jedi munched thoughtlessly on an overstuffed sandwich as she pored over a set of holoprints on her datapad, ignoring the chants of a small but persistent band of protestors. Their grievances seemed to be related to the Sith occupation of their world--although Armiena had yet to see a single unit of the chrome-plated minions that were their typical representatives. Security in the facility was… comprehensive, yet unimaginative and standard: retinal scanners, metal detectors, localized electromagnetic barriers, and the cheap but reliable keycard scanners. All could be circumvented with The Force or an accomplice under the influence of a Mind Trick. A simple hack of Core Dynamics’ less-secure servers made it possible to schedule a simple maintenance session, which would probably handle the alleviate any suspicions and render their staff even more susceptible to influence. It was… distinctly uncomfortable wearing civilian clothing. Realizing that the outfit would be considered slightly revealing even for a planet as Borleias, Armiena had chosen the low-cut top for a purpose--the average civilian (especially males) would likely only remember her for her scars. It was still uncomfortable to watch passerbys attempt to glance down her neckline. Armiena sighed and tossed aside the last remnants of her sandwich. A flock of avians that had been inching closer for the last few minutes instantly set upon it and began bickering amongst themselves for their share. It was time to get to work. And yet… there was a presence in the Force that just revealed itself. It did not inadvertently stumble upon her--its owner had chosen to make themselves known. Armiena knew it well, but she had not expected to see her Padawan ever again. ____ Ten minutes later, a bored, idle security guard glanced up from their desk in the lobby of Core Dynamics. This guard does not require description--other than being slightly portly, he bore the weary expression of a man who was simultaneously overworked and bored almost to the point of mindlessness. The arrival of a female--especially wearing a jumpsuit and identification tag that designated her as one of the soulless corporate machine’s tech specialists--brightened both his day and his expression. Even though she was pale and wore an expression that was almost equally haggard, the woman was not unpretty--her pale-green eyes and dark hair could even be called striking. Stumbling over the idea of how to begin this interaction with a stranger, the woman spoke first. “Hi. Nikita Trulalis. Here for a software update on the Pyrian system transceivers.” “You’re ah… not scheduled,” the guard stammered. It would have been rude and unreasonable to simply turn her away, and he didn’t want to seem either during what was almost certainly to be the only bright point of his day. “It’s probably a bug on our end.” “Yeah, we’ve been having glitches like mad ever since the Imps showed up in orbit--” “--Nevermind,” the security guard interrupted again, tapping impatiently at his terminal’s screen. “It… it... it’s there.” “Yeah, they’ve been working us to the bone ever since the Imperial fleet arrived in orbit. I… um… have not been to this location before. You wouldn’t mind showing me to the mainframe room?” Why not? It was only common courtesy. It was rare that he was afforded an opportunity to even be helpful to a stranger. He waved the tech over to a retinal scanner and enjoyed the opportunity to glance at her figure as she leaned over to stare into the scanning beam There was a distinctly negatory-sounding buzz buzz, then the routine repeatedly itself again. And again. And… “Trouble?” “Eh…. I have a weird eye condition. I love my mother very, very, very much, but I would have done anything to have not inherited her eyes. Aside from other things, it means that I always need to hit weird angles with scanners… like… there we go.” A green light and cheerful chime rewarded Trulalis’ contortions in front of the scanner, admitting both of the humans into the transceiver facility with the silent hiss of sliding steel doors. Only a few minutes later, Armiena had cajoled the security guard into not only guiding her to the transceiver’s mainframes, but into providing her with a mask and cap that almost completely concealed her identity. “Gotta dig into its guts, it’s sensitive equipment,” she had claimed. The desperate little man had even gone to the extra effort to demand that the other two humans working amongst the mainframes leave the room while she worked. Now, Draygo had total privacy in the warm, dusty room as walked amongst the rows of ceiling-high computers, occasionally jamming a dataspike into an exposed SCOMP-link. So far, this had gone far too easily for her liking.

Several minutes later, the construction equipment was removed from Prism and the engineers set to establishing a landing strip. Even as the freighter pulled away from the surface, Draygo caught sight of branches swaying and collapsing as portions of the jungle were cleared to make space for permacrete decks and comms beacons. Some minutes later, once the veteran Jedi punched the sublight engines and took the freighter up to cruising altitude among the clouds, and unwelcome crackle issued from the ship’s communications terminal. “Corellian YT freighter, you’ve deviated from your flight plan. Explain.” “Ah… Sihnon Control, we had a mistiming in ourrepulsorlift array. Had to set down in the Air… yin… yees to recalibrate. Everything seems to be functional, just… make sure the docking bay’s cleared until we’ve settled.” Draygo allowed a trace of nervousness to enter her voice as the peak’s of the capitol city’s horizon silhouetted the horizon. As could be expected for a city of several million, a number of patrol starfighters and a pair of police transports were cruising through the airways. Those vessels were traveling at near-idle speeds, seemingly more intent on putting up an appearance of security than the actual practice. “Very well. You are cleared for landing. Docking Bay 827 is yours. Damage control is standing by.” One of those police transports hounded Prism as it descended towards a multilevel spaceport that towered over a hub of warehouses. Not detecting anything more than idle alertness, Draygo ignored the steady whine of proximity warnings from the freighter’s controls until it settled in the docking bay and the transport buzzed away. “Well, Vos. All is still well.” The veteran Jedi muttered to her copilot and gestured towards a pile of civilian clothing. “If you could… step out for a moment.” A minute of frenzied squirming to change into civilian clothing passed, and Draygo reappeared before her fellow Jedi Master before the ship’s boarding ramp, clutching a sack that contained her mechanic’s jumpsuit. She had cast aside the multilayered robes that she typically favored for an outfit more suitable for the humid, tropical city--a low-necked top, faux-leather vest, and a pair of cropped trousers. With the lightning-scars on her chest visible, even this relatively modest costume revealed far more skin than the Jedi was accustomed to showing and she felt vaguely naked without the familiar presence of a blaster or lightsaber. “Vos, best of luck. If all goes well, I’ll be back by nightfall.”

The initial shock of the attack had ended and Misal Draygo was no longer paralyzed with indecision. However, in some corner of her mind that had been suppressed into silence by the wracking pain, the elderly Miraluka understood that it was absolutely essential that she not move--that she allowed herself to be operated on and maintained by the young Jedi, to be forced into a stupor until proper medical facilities could be reached. However, decades of training had given the operative some ability to subconsciously register that something had changed and survival required her consciousness. Misal stirred, but feebly. Significant pain came with even this foggy form of consciousness and she shivered. Her senses tried to make sense of the drastic change in their surroundings: not blind darkness, but garish and glaring and overwhelming brightness of color and shared sapient sensation, so much that entry to this world was disorienting. A few seconds passed in which the Miraluka merely drew breath and allowed herself to be lifted onto a cot. The world was Nar Shaddaa. Of course. That was where Genesis had left the Jedi. “Genesis--you won’t….” Weak coughs wracked her body and one of the medics forced a breath mask back onto her face. Misal made a rude gesture and managed a single word before a clean-smelling gas began to seep into her lungs and steal away her consciousness. “Borleias.”

Misal’s body was surprisingly light when Stormhelm lifted her--so much, that he could be reasonably assured that she could be lifted over a single shoulder. She didn’t even offer any objections to being treated like cargo to be hauled aboard the Prism; she merely shivered in pain and spat weak, breathy syllables and curses that were barely even audible. It didn’t even matter that her veil fell to the ground and lay abandoned as they retreated to their ship. “F.... Frack… n--not--get me off here…” She was set on one of the ship’s cots, to be treated as well as four disoriented Force-Sensitives could manage with the limited medicines aboard a light freighter--in summary, with not much expertise at all. At some point a breath mask was placed over her sweaty face and the Miraluka breathed greedily from a gas that smelled faintly stale. She pressed the clear mask for her face with one hand, groping blindly with the other to try and discern who was at the side of the cot. Not feeling anything more than the indistinct cloth of cheap trousers, Misal lifted the mask from her mouth to try and gasp something intelligible. “Heart… been a problem for… scar tissue.” At those words, she faintly discerned the pinch of a hypospray against her arm. Misal returned the mask to breathe desperately with every few words. Still disoriented from Katarr’s wound, she resorted to just gasping the name of the half-Miraluka boy..“Genesis… Genesis… please tell me… you’ve learned something… from this.”

Some time passed. On this still world, the only sounds that Misal heard were her own breath and the occasional meager breeze that floated into the dried riverbed. Periodically, the Miraluka thought that she heard a voice speaking. That was usually her own voice, but it was always from another time… at this point, it may as well have been from another lifetime. Her lips turned downward in a frown. Katarr was supposed to be dead to the Force, even if that ran contrary to the central dogma of nearly every Force tradition in the galaxy. Misal idly removed her gloves from her hands and dug her fingers into the silt. As expected, it was dry and dense. This riverbed had been still for many centuries, and there had not been any rain on these steppes for at least several days. Her thin fingers felt cracks in the soil and dug into the barren earth. Most traditions claimed that The Force was present in all things--inanimate or otherwise. Even the barren silt of a dried riverbed should have a presence in The Force… and yet her hands were groping blindly just to confirm that it was warm soil that she was resting on. “So there was something of an… awakening after Palpatine finally got his just deserts. Most of them came out of hiding became somewhat... “ “I think the term you’re searching for is ‘proud’. I’ve seen what some of them wear.” Misal’s head snapped up. That was a conversation that she had had with her daughter only a year ago. How could this planet be turning these memories against her? “Flamboyant. Flighty. Promiscuous--” “Really, mother?” “There was actually something of a baby boom in the years after Palpatine’s death. And I’m certain that they think of me as a stuffy arch-conservative. Some of the refugee groups contacted me. It likely had to do with--please, don’t blame yourself. Frank conversations were had, then we came to a mutual agreement to leave each other alone. It’s a beneficial arrangement for both parties.” “So you have no estimation of whether they would be inclined to ally with the Jedi Order.” “I believe that they would be of little value.” Sputtering, incredulous noises ensued. “Armiena, dear. It isn’t that they aren’t fine people. It’s that I find them boring. Most of the great Force traditions of the galaxy offer some interesting perspective to the mysteries of life or are denoted by some remarkable characteristic. The Matukai have a highly individualistic connection to The Force and some quite literally flagellate themselves into a trance. The Korrunai found a way to live comfortably in one of the most hostile environments in the galaxy. The Dathomir Witches substituted much of your meditation for ritual. What is the defining characteristic of the Luka Sene? Its species. They offer no significant advantage, and the species will be exterminated the moment they enter the war.” “You speak of them as though you’re not a member of that species.” “Begone,” Misal muttered to the silent earth. She refocused her attention to Katarr. Every tradition--even the Sith--claimed that life could not exist without the presence of The Force. Even Myrkr, the home of the notorious, Force-stilling ysalamir, was not absent from its presence. The planet was merely quiet. Once the ysalamiri were cleared from a suitable breadth of land, Misal would have been able to perceive that world as vividly as Coruscant. “At least it’s over.” “Indeed. Carrying out a purge is the worst duty that we can perform. How are you coping, Mister Hamis?” Misal stiffened. The last time that she had been tasked with the purge of an entire cell of her organization was nearly a decade in the past. It was a hideous punishment that was reserved solely when a cell’s misdeeds threatened the whole of the sect--and with the Jedi and Sith Order waging war for decades and billions of sapients being caught in the middle, the risk that a few hundred weakly Force-Sensitive individuals would be exterminated or conscripted was very real. To sacrifice ten or twenty rogue operatives was an acceptable loss. “Not well. I… knew some of them. The cells aren’t supposed to have contact with each other, but… Draenos was alright. She looked after her people, had a training record better than almost anyone in the order. She--she helped me stay sober at the academy. Kriff, why did it have to be us that killed them?” “Because… we would have attended to the moment. We would have appreciated how dreadful the task is, and that this must never happen again. These were more than dossiers to us--they were friends, colleagues. Sometimes students. It had nothing to do with our ability to complete the task. I knew all of them, but when they went rogue and began targeting Imperial strongpoints, it posed a significant danger to everyone in the order. Suffering the fate of the Jedi is a risk that we cannot risk. Do you understand, Mister Hamis?” “Intellectually… yes. It doesn’t stop me from feeling like a murderer.” “Then trust your feelings, Mister Hamis. It is an abominable task. The alternative is centuries of fruitless warfare and genocide. We must look to our own--to the people we are charged to protect. They can never be risked. Synch?” “Thanks, Space-Mom. But I’d rather be alone for the moment.” “Silence,” Misal spat to the soil. Why was her mind revisiting these dread moments? Having ripped the planet from The Force, Nihilus surely could not have left traces of his consciousness to torment any visitors. Was the offender her own conscience? There still remained the question of how the ancient Sith could have consumed all life on the world--rendered it dull and dark in The Force--without its final destruction, without crumbling the planet to dust. The answer should have been obvious to her. At that moment, she heard her own voice from only a few years ago. “If you please. I'll take over from here. CoreSec and the Fleet are in chaos. Move boldly. “I am a cruel woman, Chandrandin. I apply whatever force that I require to solve a problem, and if that means that I need to lie, or steal, or murder, then so be it. No, shush... consider what you say next very carefully. I don't care about your life at all. You are just the next step to solving my problem. "You know this woman." Sputtering and protestations. “Oh, no--don't know anything about--” “I'm not interested in what you don't know. I only care about what you do know. You and I are going to have a long conversation. It ends only when you and I understand one another perfectly. "For example, your wife and children. She's a charming lady. And eight is such a wonderful age, mine was such a troublemaker. Inquisitive. She liked to take things apart just to see how they worked. Not quite as successful in putting them back together, but... the spirit was there. Why on earth you chose to spend your nights with that Zeltron schutta is beyond me--woman wasn't even there when you woke up in the morning, was she? But your predilections are of little concern to me. Last quadrant there were significant advances in micromolecular implants. I know perfectly well that none of the major biotechs were investigating these applications--too expensive, too much risk of rejection, too much risk of metastasis. Where did the prototypes come from?" "I Don't know what you're..." "Were you listening to me earlier? I'm not interested in your ignorance. Come, your Rella--she's... thirteen. That's a difficult time. I suppose you're trying to just keep her focused on where she'll be going to school, not that boy who's keeps seeing--" "We're just the manufacturer! The transfer agreements are all handled by multiple tiers of shell corporations, we're not supposed to know who developed the tech!" "Chandrandin, look at this holo again. My daughter is the most precious thing in my life. There isn't anything that I wouldn't do to ensure her happiness. Her safety. You're a father--surely you understand my perspective. Sputtering and consternation. "“For Force’s sake, you’re a Jedi! You--you can’t do this to me!” “Hardly. I don’t subscribe to their absurd monochromatic moral philosophy, and my order… practices certain techniques that the Jedi would find heretical. When I release you, how would you like to return home and see your wife and children, and feel… nothing? “Everything that you know. Everything that you can speculate. Tell me everything, and I swear that you’ll return to your family unharmed. Otherwise... I don't know what I would do if I lost my family. I'd probably die. A suicide, I suspect.” There was much whimpering, pleading from a subject who understood that they were at the mercy of a party who was little concerned with their well-being or future. Eventually, out slipped a few names--unsubstantiated rumors, drunken ramblings blurted out by indiscreet researchers--nothing terribly useful. "There... was.... something that we learned from our liaisons in CreoVive. Something very classified--hadn't even been given a project name other than a number. Claimed it would set the field forward by a decade. Lots of bribes to members of the Senate STM committee. They were claiming significant improvements in data storage, military applications. "Everything, Chandrandin. Stay focused. Both our families are at stake.” Misal gasped. Something was pressing hard on her chest--she tried to slow her breath, lower her heart rate, but it wasn’t working. Something had gone terribly wrong--something terrible was coming. It was absolutely within her abilities and her intentions to sever that human’s Force Bonds, leave the man adrift in life and without attachments to anyone--simultaneously total freedom and total loneliness, a poetic mind might have described it--and the threat was necessary to ensure her daughter’s freedom. No, the Miraluka had reassured herself, it had not been a threat. It had been a promise. She felt faintly nauseous. Her hands were sweaty. Then… pain. There was a horrible, fiery sensation in her shoulder. Pressure. Something was squeezing her chest in a pincer motion. Couldn’t breathe. “F… F…. N---not here, not now.” Misal spat to the dirt. She clutched at something in her chest, as though her fingers could pluck away what had assaulted her. The Miraluka collapsed to the dirt--her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She would not make it back to the ship. Clambering up that riverbed was a dicey proposition, but now it seemed an impossibility. If she lived that long. With one hand, Misal forced herself and her dusty robes to face the sky. The other groped blindly for her blaster pistol. Unclasping it, the Miraluka seized the weapon in sweaty, shaking hands, and pointed the barrel directly upwards. She fired several times into the sky in a wild, uncontrolled pattern. She kept firing until its power cell was dry--when several more times to produce nothing more than a pathetic metallic click.

Several hours later and five minutes before Prism reverted from realspace, Armiena Draygo gave a snort in the pilot’s seat of the Corellian freighter that was best described as “industrial.” The swirling lights of hyperspace danced across her face, but the veteran Jedi was wearing a sleep mask and her rest went undisturbed. Then the alarm buzzer sounded and the sounds of activity were heard all throughout the ship. “No, just a few more minutes,” she stirred and mumbled, not quite willing to interrupt whatever dream was entertaining her sleep. Decades of habit overruled her wishes, however, and she blearily pulled away the mask to face reality. That reality was Borleias: espionage, criminal activity. And if all went as hoped, the beginnings of violent revolution. As the familiar blue-green orb of the tropical world spread out before them and bored-sounding traffic communications came in, to be answered by equally bored-sounding responses, Armiena reflected on the unlikelihood of her return. She had first made contact with the Jedi on the inhospitable oceanic world of Manaan, but Borleias was the closest thing to a homeworld that she had enjoyed. Armiena knew the jungles and hills surrounding the Dojo as well as the city streets of her childhood; she had met most of her friends in the Dojo’s arched halls and wildflower gardens… and now most of those people were dead or missing. Nostalgia had little appeal in the present day. By the time that the YT-2000 freighter entered the Borleian atmosphere and began to deviate significantly from her stated flight plan, it would have disappeared from the civilian sensor arrays and gone slipped from detection. The next thirty minutes that followed were of constant terrain-hugging maneuvers at treetop altitudes, interrupted only by irritable hisses from the Jedi Grandmaster on the two occasions that one of the Rebel engineers dared to offer advice. The twisted jungles eventually thinned as the terrain grew hilly, and Draygo finally admitted the black-furred Togorian into the cockpit probe for suitable landing sites. “What do you think? It’s flat enough. I think I can fit her between those old trees there. The, the tall, rotted ones there.” Armiena took her attention from the controls long enough to point out a pair of tall, blackened trees from which a large flock of birds had taken flight, retreating from the approach of the freighter. A reverberating grumble issued from the Togorian as he consulted the holomaps. “Satisfactory. Suitable caves are fifty meters away. Can stow gear there. Go.” A final minute of delicate flight that was punctuated by the demolition of one of those dying trees ensued, then the YT-2000 freighter was concealed by a proud canopy of jungle. Armiena wiped clammy sweat from her hands and called for Tobias Vos. “Looks like we’ve been undetected so far. Want to signal your… friends? I’ll just need the ship to get to Sihnon.”

An informal cavalcade of sapients and equipment began to proceed up the boarding ramp of Vos’ corellian freighter. At first, it was merely a number of rucksacks, small arms, and a chain of dataspikes that was handed directly to the veteran Jedi. Eventually, some truly massive equipment was ferried into the ship: sacks of powdered permacrete and unset polymer, coils of refueling lines and crates of innumerable electronics components that would eventually become sensor arrays and comms towers. A GNK-series power droid eventually came wobbling up the ramp and a small speeder bike was eventually hauled into the cargo hold. Draygo bobbed her head as she received the dataspikes and placed a hand on a massive shoulder that was carelessly slinging a rucksack that had been taken from her ship. “Careful with that one. It has about ten kilos of nergon-14.” The scruff of the black-furred Togorian rose in startlement and the feline carefully slung the satchel charges over his shoulders. Armiena just shrugged and tossed a miniature holoprojector onto the floor between them. A blue-light hologram bloomed before them: a topographical representation of a sizeable region of Borleias. It was notably flat. “This… is the Juanthir Peninsula. About ten klicks to the south is the old Dojo. All indications of its staff are that the Sith never launched an attack against it and it might be a viable source for scavenging… but it’s been some time. This clearing you see is the Survivor’s Foundation refugee camp. We will not be landing there.” The hologram shifted approximately five hundred kilometers away: a much more rocky, hilly region. Little red splotches periodically denoted caverns, some charted, some present only as 2D specks. “Here is the Erciyes Highlands. Rocky, lots of wooded valleys that will make for candidate sites for a starfighter base, lots of caves in those hills that we can use for temporary storage. An Imperial--” “Sith,” interrupted a clipped Coruscanti accent, somewhere in the cargo hold. “Thank you. A Sith task force could probe the region for days and not find a starfighter base. Captain, I’ll leave the construction of the facility to you. Vos, I understand that you have some less-than-legal friends operating in the region whose help we’ll need; supplies in, recruits out, bonuses for solid intel, that sort of thing. I’ll count on your discretion in handling the negotiations... just as long as they're on our side." Armiena nodded to her fellow Jedi Master. Once again, the view of the holoprojector shifted to that of a familiar cityspace: spires and kilometers of residential blocks, it was the capital city of Borleias. "My target is Sihnon. There’s a HoloNet transceiver facility there that serves the entire Pyria system. These…” She jingled the ring of dataspikes. “Have all the programs I’ll need to subvert its security protocols and forward any traffic it handles to our intelligence lads. If this goes well, we’ll gain a base for operations in the Core that will be excruciating for the E… Sith to root out. I’ll take the helm. Questions? You have two minutes before lift-off.” Matching action to words, Draygo spun on a heel and followed the familiar floorplan of a Corellian-built freighter to the cockpit. There was a moment of hesitation as the veteran Jedi realized that she had never flown a YT-2000, but a space-pale hand rose to the ceiling and blindly touched the familiar buttons and switches of its ignition panels. It was almost identical to the other Corellian freighters she had flown. Smiling, Armiena proceeded through the routine of the steel saucer's pre-flight checks. It would not be long before the ship lifted off and catapulted them into hyperspace.

The rain continued, yet Misal never once felt a refreshing gust of humid wind or the patter of raindrops against her shoulders. That much was different from that almost-forgotten jungle. There was a curious raw sensation at the back of her head, irritating and not completely dissimilar from having a wad of steel wool rubbed vigorously against her skin. “Interesting,” she remarked, tracing a slow circle in her steps as she continued. As expected, that raw sensation persisted against the back of her skull. She had long forgotten the name of that world and the name of that Trandoshan, but it was impossible to forget his amusement at having encountered a humanoid without eyes, nor the sear of his knife or the depraved laughter of his crewmates. Nor had she forgotten that, within a few days, every last one of them were dead. No dramatics had ensued during that episode--just a few blasts of blaster fire, and the queer whistle of metal flechettes and thunder of falling bodies. Those sounds marked something of a turning point in her life. At step five hundred fifty-eight, the ground beneath her feet gave way into silty dust and the Miraluka tumbled down an embankment. Blind and tumbling, Misal tucked in her limbs and waited for the bruising impacts against her sides to end--fortunately, as the Miraluka came to a halt amidst a cloud of dust, she suffered nothing more than an unenthusiastic battering by the lifeless roots of perfectly-preserved trees and rocky outcroppings. The blinded seer removed a glove and swept a circle around her fallen form. The soil was dusty, as before, but of a finer consistency--silt, perhaps--and utterly lacking in vegetation. There was not even a trace of mummified grass to crumble under her touch. A few minutes of cautious steps felt little gradation in slope. Misal sighed. She had fallen down the banks of a dried riverbed. Even without having sustained an embarrassing injury, her exploration of this world would have to come to an end. Her hand went to her hip and felt the reassuring weight of a blaster pistol. She would at least be able to signal for assistance. With that small comfort to console her, Misal collected her legs under herself and began to meditate...

“So one thing that I’ll grant to the Sith Empire,” Armiena took an obnoxiously loud slurp of caf and glanced down appreciatively. The beverage still tasted of chemicals and mediocrity, but at least it wasn’t watered down mediocrity. “They were quick with reconstruction once they managed to dislodge the Mandalorians. Almost as responsive as we were the last time that Faust visited Coruscant. It wasn’t just rebuilding, but atmospheric scrubbers, the works…” The comlink on her hip glowed momentarily and vibrated. Even as she continued, the disc continued to pulse insistently. “But Hesperidium is a mess. Its orbit stabilized, but… no one is returning home there without significant intervention. The collision shook something loose in its plate tectonics that won’t settle naturally for several centuries. Significant debris ring surrounding both Coruscant and Hesper. Most of what was above Coruscant burns up on re-entry, most of what won’t gets diverted by tugs, the rest… not pleasant.” The veteran Jedi paused to take another irritatingly loud slurp of her caf. “Can’t help but wonder if either the Foundation--Survivor’s Foundation, I mean--or AgriCorps would like a challenge. But… no, I think it will be a while before we see Coruscant again. The strategic goal is to riddle the Core with so many security holes that we will be able to operate with impunity, bring in some of our allies from the bad old days. Some of our hyperspace routes from the Old Republic never got cracked by Palpatine, but we’ll need control over certain systems to move about. Once we can operate in the Core without the Sith being able to challenge us effectively… oh, what is it? Come!” At that moment, one of the Alliance engineers took that opportunity to knock loudly on the ship’s boarding ramp, sending a metallic clang into the ship. “For you, Grandmaster,” the Gotal said, presenting a maintenance jumpsuit for her inspection. Draygo took a moment to regard the garment with a kind of horrified admiration. Woven of a cheap, synthetic blend of plastics and traditional fibers, the blue jumpsuit seemed deliberately designed to not hint at any potentially flattering lines of its wearer’s anatomy. Several stubborn stains had already been inflicted on the legs--oil, caf, and what looked like some greasy mixture from a street food vendor’s menu that was only known by the mysterious term “white sauce”. Several patches had been sewn into its sleeves and an identification tag featuring a blurry, unflattering picture from twenty years ago--it looked like she still had yet to obliterate some of the weight from her pregnancy--had already been clipped to the breast pocket. The engineer had even prepared a cheap helmet and toolbelt. “It’s horrible. I hate it. It’s perfect.” Armiena sniffed the sleeve. The caf stain was fresh. “Is your team ready?” “Ready to load up. We’re all waiting on the deck.” The Gotal coughed. “Local Holonet transceivers are serviced by Core Dynamics. Their internal security is heavy stuff, biometrics and retinal scans, standard for a HoloNet facility but nothing imaginative.” “That won’t be a problem. Vos,” Draygo glanced back to her fellow Jedi Master. “If you could summon your Padawan, I think we’re ready.”

“Thank you, but I can’t drink.” THere was just the barest emphasis on the can’t in Draygo’s polite abstention from Vos’ offer, and a twitch of her left eye. It was possible that he had heard some of the rumors about the Jedi Grandmaster when she was younger--somewhat overfond of good food and drink, seemed to have smuggled a small stash into every significant Jedi outpost in the Core… disappeared and reportedly had some significant difficulties after the Third Death Star. An intelligent person probably would have put the breezy rebuttal and the almost-wink together to arrive at an uncomfortable conclusion of what these difficulties might have been. She leaned against the opposite wall and folded her arms. “In this case I suspect you’re correct. I’d rather the Sith not divert their resources to the planet until it is thoroughly prepared. I’m distracted by…” She forced her attention away from the departure of her Padawan. “Well, Borleias is practically home to me. I met my master there, spent more time on that planet than any other, I even worked the refugee camps after Coruscant fell. On that note, some of the people that my Padawan and I healed were veterans from the Galactic Alliance. They might be useful. But bringing the war back home will feel…” There was a pause as she searched for the words. Somewhere in The Red and Black, there was a team of combat engineers assembling parts and equipment to service a squadron of starfighters and maintain a small listening post. On her own ship there was a chain of programming spikes that were vital to hijacking the world’s Holonet network and her insurance policy of several satchel charges. She had determined that her second home was ripe for infiltration, and chaos would be unleashed upon it the moment she gave the word. “...very peculiar.”

From the instant that the bat-like freighter reverted from hyperspace, Misal began to appear physically ill. Sweat was beginning to bead on her forehead. Her hands felt clammy within the thin synthleather of her gloves. She developed a slight list to her left even as she remained seated with her restraints buckled. Her mind struggled to conceptualize what she saw as her Force-senses beheld an absence, an inanimate void that thirsted for meat, a physical nonpresence that was growing closer. The walls of the ship, the only physical object that the Miraluka was certain existed, began to press in on her, and a familiar heat began to rise in her throat. Heat. That was the best way to describe the sensation. It was like baking in a set of full-body armor whose power core had been depleted, and its life-support and sensor functions had gone offline. Heat-haze. Yes. That was the best description her meat mind could conjure to describe this new sensation. It was a limited and incomplete metaphor, but the concept helped her to control her breath and master the nausea and claustrophobia. Nonetheless, the sensation of the ship rocking forward upon landing came as a surprise and she actually gasped with the shift in motion. Then she listened, and waited. _____ “Mr. Armegedon. I shall depart the ship. I did not travel this distance so I could sit with four passengers in the hold of a freighter built for two.” Misal declared to the other passengers of the ship. “I will manage. I spent enough of my life pretending to be blind that I have learned to live the part.” Matching action to words, Misal removed her gloves, leaving a small pool of sweat where they lay discarded on the deck. Her shaky hands deftly affixed her respirator to her face, and she stepped slowly towards the airlock of the freighter. Her mind idly counting the carefully-measured steps, she nonetheless overestimated one of the dimensions of the ship and ran her shoulder into the wall. Another bout of fumbling passed as she located the controls to the airlock--her fingers traced the control panel adjacent to the heavy metal doors, then her hand discovered that the control panel was designed along a galactic-standard format and she was able to cycle through smoothly. Katarr, she found quickly, was not a planet that offered comfort in any form. It had been many thousands of years since vegetation or animals--or even photosynthetic bacteria--had grown on the planet, yet its geological activity had not yet ceased. The air had a stale, oily feel on her skin, and Misal thought she detected a reek of sulfur that somehow managed to penetrate through the plasticky membrane of her rebreather. The air was not… completely stagnant, yet the heat-haze caused the breeze to offer her no reprieve. Once her boots touched the surface of the world, Misal ignored the pain and knelt down to feel the ground. Her fingers touched flattened grass, as she expected, but it crumbled in her hands. The soil under it was densely packed--naturally, in the absence of planets or fauna or insect life or any metabolic processes, any nutrients remaining in the ecosystem would merely decay over time without exploitation. It was a quiet world. Life had not touched it in many years, unless one counted the tourists. It was so quiet in The Force that Misal barely perceived beyond the tips of her fingers. It was… not that bad. The Miraluka rose to her full height, arthritic knees shaking with the undampened pain. She watched the heat-haze, felt the warm currents on her skin. There was a vague shift in the breeze, a direction directly behind her from which the current never approached from. Foothills--mountains--or a city, she decided. On this lifeless world, only entropy would cause a city to crumble. Misal began to step towards it, counting each step. At approximately five hundred thirty-two steps towards the disturbance in the breeze, uncharacteristic sounds began to creep into her perception. There was a steady patter of rain, yet no sensation of cold or wetness struck her skin. She thought she detected… buzzing. Whispers of… flying insects? The rasp of singing beetles? There was a persistent hum of an operating ship in there air, and the occasional hiss of landing hydraulics. Then she heard a harsh, raspy, Trandoshan voice that she had not heard in over fifty years. She never would again--its owner was dead. “Look--the schutta doesn’t have no farking eyes! You dumb kriffers got your arses beat by a schutta with no eyes!” Misal paused at step five hundred thirty-seven and frowned. The old Miraluka pressed a hand to the scars surrounding her eye sockets, then continued on. Did this phenomenon really believe that it could bleed her where the scars had healed so long ago? Was it so unthinking that it resorted to adolescent insults?

A GR-75 medium transport popped out of hyperspace within the vicinity of Felucia, escorted by a pair of obsolete Y-Wings that kept a generous distance from the ship. The transport broadcast an automated signal as it descended towards the planet, repeating on an exact sequence its callsign and a request to land at the Jedi Temple. More heavily encrypted information followed in this sequence, clarifying that it had been sent from Nar Shaddaa on an express courier mission from Grandmaster Draygo, and that it carried a cargo of medical supplies and droids. Judging from the perfect frequency at which the sequence repeated, it would soon become clear to the Temple’s traffic control that the transport was piloted solely by computer--not a single living sapient was aboard the ship. After it was granted permission to land, a second automated message was transmitted by the ship as the clamshelled transport descended through the atmosphere. “Apologies, Sarna, this was the best I could do on short notice. The ship’s main cargo is medical supplies--mix of everything, the initial reports were rather confused from a technical standpoint. Also, just shy of two thousand droids. They’re not too talkative, but I’m told that they have basic lifesaving protocols and they’ll at least make decent scouts.” A brief technical summary was attached to the ship’s manifesto, making clear to note several times in large red characters that, despite the reinforced chassis and sunken faceplate of the Sentinels clearly implicated them as being designed as battle droids, they were utterly incapable of taking offensive action. Their built-in comlinks, however, recommended them for service as scouts to make first contact with settlements potentially afflicted by the plague. Once the GR-75 transport settled with the painstaking slowness indicative of a droid pilot, a dozen of the droids disembarked. Their glowing yellow slats scanned down the length of the ship, before quietly plodding along its flanks to lend their strength in unloading its cargo. Indeed, they were far from talkative: when the organic deck crews interrogated the plastoid brutes of their purpose, they merely responded with an electronic beep and a terse, rumbling, “Assist disembark. Alternate directive?”

There was a brief inhalation and a pointed pause from Misal. One could imagine that if she were younger, more impatient, and possessed functioning eyes, then she would have closed them and let out a sigh of exasperation before fixing Armegedon with a withering stare. Instead, she just nodded gravely and adjusted her gait as the grasslands gave way to pavement and pavement gave way to pressure-treated duracrete. “We shall see what we shall see,” Misal responded patiently. “Imagining what we may find on Katarr will be pointless and potentially demoralizing. It is best to take sensible precautions and to work the problem when we encounter it. Please, lead us to your ship.” But there was a sharp edge of anxiety to her Force-presence. The Miraluka had once stepped into a gaping wound in The Force, on the umbral surface of Kashyyyk. It had not been a pleasant experience, and the location had attracted fauna that was better rendered extinct. Partly to distract herself, Misal lifted her helmet out of the cup of her hip and her fist and spoke loudly into its cavity. “Overwatch, Space-Mom says to take a nap. I will re-establish contact once our task is complete. Night-night.”

Draygo woke with a start and a snort. Dataslates fell from her desk as she pushed herself away from her desk, and she rubbed at a series of ridges burrowed into her cheek from falling asleep on the pile of tablets. She had collapsed from exhaustion after poring over intelligence reports for two days. There could be no time to dwell. This was more than making excuses along the lines of “necessities of the war effort”: the Rebel Alliance was at a severe backfoot after the loss of Fondor and Mon Calamari. Predictably, the Kuati nobility had displayed their predilection for governments even more depraved than their ancient class privileges. Without the gain of a new array of shipyards, it was possible that the entire venture of the Rebel Alliance would simply wither and die from sheer attrition. This state of affairs was not quite as dire as it might have seemed, however. Though Mon Calamari was a loss whose value that could not be easily calculated, there were several ostensibly neutral systems that had been reliable allies of the Galactic Republic in the past. Certainly, they had been treated as hunting grounds for the more imaginative Sith Lords. Gaining access to those was likely to be contingent on their success at Fondor and Kuat. Admiral Slaughter might have been an uncompromising, merciless butcher of an officer, but he was at least well-suited to the cold-hearted task of subjugating a hostile world--and Kuat, at least, was far from a Sith-dominated planet. Her hand groped for a mug of caf. She glared down. empty. She was going to need to banish the sleep-haze--and indulge her addiction--before meeting with Tobias Vos and embarking on their mission. A visit to the commissary and two cups of twice-brewed caf took care of that, and she soon boarded his repainted YT-2000 freighter with an extra pair of mugs for the benefit of the Jedi Master and his Padawan. She banged on the side of the boarding ramp, instinctively making her way towards the common room in the familiar Corellian layout. There she found the Kiffar, who was poring over civilian clothing--not unarmored Jedi robes, but fabric trousers and a tunic--and of all things, a thin vest made of some kind of cheap faux-leather. “People… really wear this kind of clothing?” She asked of Vos, gauging the thin vest with a skeptical eye. “I mean, the fit isn’t bad, but that faux-leather will provide absolutely no protection against blaster fire… and… haven’t these people heard about layering?”

“Actually, you sounded like my daughter for a moment.” There was a momentary flash of yellowed teeth, but it quickly disappeared into the gravity of their conversation. “She becomes easier to understand when you stop viewing her through the prism of her Jedi training and more through that of her background of her life as a soldier. But I digress. “I would and have visited horror upon those that would violate my family.” Her thin lips pressed together and her blind gaze drifted over the many kilometers towards the horizon behind them, where the smoke clouds were just beginning to fade. “And sometimes those less deserving of my personal attention. The former I’m certain was necessary. The latter…” It was several minutes before Misal spoke again. Her mind was focused on parsing through many years of memory: of missions, mentors, manipulation, and murder. Of a corpulent businessman that she’d left snivelling in a Coruscanti alley, drenched in a cocktail of expensive brandy and his own sweat. The Miraluka couldn’t even remember the man’s species. It was likely that he’d survived Hesperidium’s fall--he likely had the credits to book travel off-planet. That was one of the few occasions where she had threatened to utterly destroy a sapient--not merely to ruin their body, but to rend their bonds asunder and render them an island. That was absolutely necessary… even if she had escalated the man’s interrogation. But there was another occasion. The muscle at the side of her vestigial eye sockets twitched in a grimace, stretching a network of crude scars. “Yes. I believe that I would have been more careful about substituting my master’s will for my own. His ideals were admirable, but there was a certain callousness to his methods that was not always justified. Bah. I was an angry child then, impulsive, but afraid to trust my own judgement after I committed several critical errors. But I’ve no desire to speak of distant regrets. We must proceed to Katarr. Perhaps we will find useful answers there.”

Misal continued her limp, pondering morosely on what Genesis had just said. He spoke of being delivered to the Jedi Order was a gift from the Luka Sene. There was always the possibility of the young man speaking in metaphorical terms, as she hadn’t known the Miraluka Force-Sect to have degenerated so far into depravity as to indulge in sapient chattel. But, limping along with her right arm impeded by the boy’s elbow and a small blaster pistol in clear sight at her him, she was newly aware of the robed half-Miraluka behind them and began allowing her Force-Sight to wander. The elderly Miraluka nodded. Her voice gained a meandering tone. “You may think it strange. Self-centered, perhaps. I have rarely thought of my own parents, not since having Armiena. I think often of the family I created, the dozens of students who I’ve taught. Some of them left me before I considered their training adequate. Some of them surpassed me. A few I’ve had to bury. My husband… constantly. He was a good man--not great, certainly not perfect, but that would have made him uninteresting.” A small smile had crept onto her face, and a queer inflection in her voice hinted that she was thinking of happier years in more than merely abstract terms. “It might not be much longer, I think.” "Setting foot on Katarr is likely to be… unpleasant. But I think you will someday appreciate the effort. In my experience, the past is never dead. It isn’t even past.” She remained silent for a few more minutes, the rustle of the grasses and buzzing of insects the only voice in their conversation. ”You’ve no obligation to answer this. I’ve always been somewhat mystified by the Jedi Order. Their call to service is admirable, but despite their insistence on not clinging to the past--or to personal attachments--they’ve lacked the courage to surpass a war that they have fought for millennia. From time to time they earn a few well-deserved centuries of stability, only to fail to win the peace and the Sith are able to consolidate and return. It’s a cycle that seems to repeat without end. I know that my daughter possesses the imagination to see the possibility, but I suspect she lacks the moral courage to break that cycle and this failing may… consume her. I’ve often wished for the capability to break it myself.” That was more speaking than Misal was accustomed to and her mouth had become dry. There was no question asked, just a few thoughts that she wanted to share with a much younger man.

It was a few hours later that Armiena was able to tear herself away from the throng of attention-seekers--some of whom actually did have emergencies that needed her attention--and return to her ship. She found the old freighter empty. A lap around the living spaces aboard the ship discovered that her mother had left, leaving only a shakily-scrawled note that contained only a comlink frequency and well-wishes. That was not surprising; her mother was prone to coming and going without ceremony, but this time there was a sense of finality to her visit. As her pale-green eyes scanned the square of paper and committed the numbers to memory, her mind kept wandering to the possibility that this was the last time that she would ever see him again. The veteran Jedi wandered, half-aware, towards McShipface’s cockpit, tearing the square of paper into scrap and swallowing the ragged fragments one piece at a time. It was there that Armiena found that there was a message from her Padawan. She opened the message with mild concern--none of the Jedi dispatched to Chandrila had sent a thorough status report--and her stomach dropped further when closer examination of the message revealed that it hadn’t been sent from Chandrila, but Nar Shaddaa. Though silent, the message struck with all the thunder and confusion of an ambush in the middle of a minefield. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to scream, sob, and storm out of her ship to hunt down her Padawan all at the same time. That was an impossibility, of course. There was no opportunity for self-indulgence and personal satisfaction, especially that as stupid as forcing the harrowing life of a Jedi on an unwilling apprentice. Mostly, she just wanted to see her former student and listen to that speech he had prepared for her benefit. Armiena held her face in her hands and just stared into her palms for a few minutes. This also explained her mother’s absence. She’d left to pursue the boy. After a long hesitation, the Jedi Master sent a brief message to the frequency that her mother had left. Please respect his wishes. Do not pursue him.