ObliviousKnight

Misal linked a hand under Genesis’ arm and began to limp along in the general direction of civilization. From the unyielding grip on his arm and the occasional brush of their bodies, it quickly became apparent that the limp wasn’t an affectation. Her hand and shoulder were skeletal. There were slight tremors in her Force-presence even as she stepped. “Less trouble than you might expect, Stormhelm,” the aged Miraluka responded with a soft exhalation of laughter. “Forgive me. I’ve spent most of my life searching for people who preferred not to be found and reporting on their activities to interested parties. Small freight concerns in the Expansion Region tend to be highly susceptible to bribery and more amateurish forms of infiltration. The great difficulty in this particular task is a degree of emotional attachment that was absent from my previous assignments. I’ve never felt any urgent need to replenish the ranks of the Jedi Order, but I do wish to report to my daughter that you’re happy, healthy, and that she doesn’t need to continue worrying for you.” Misal dug in her heels and stood still at the next step. “The Luka Sene have asked you to embark on a further task for them, haven’t they?”

There was some excited squawking coming from the headset comms, which Misal tuned out. She was perfectly capable of perceiving the appearance of a second humanoid who had somehow eluded her practiced gaze, and she was as irritated with her own failure as she was with the failure of her student’s overwatch. She merely raised her hands to just behind her ears, shifted her grip, and the near-transparency of her helmet changed to cold grey iron. The Miraluka rested the helmet on her hip and regarded the interloper with an unchanging stare of veiled disdain. “Young man, Master Stormhelm is perfectly capable of speaking for himself. Answering a question directed to him isn’t merely patronizing, it’s bad manners and unproductive.” She did not return the handshake. She didn’t approach Armegedon. Her armor-clad form limping with every step, she hobbled towards the young Jedi Padawan and faced in towards the young half-Miraluka. The coldness with which she disregarded his chaperone was in stark contrast with the empathy written in the lines of her face. “Armiena is surviving. She’s buried herself in work, no sign that she’s making progress in digging her way out. I’ve found that means that she’s deeply upset but understands that any intervention she could make would be a disaster. At least she isn’t drinking this time.” That addition may have been a touch too far. Her daughter would not have appreciated her divulging any details on a very low period of her life. “But I need to ask how you have fared since leaving.”

Sentinel “Battle Droids” Identity Real Name: Sentinel Mk1 Battle Droids A.K.A: Sentinels, Clankers, etc. Homeworld: Mechis III Species: Droid Physical Description Age: About 1 year Height: 5’ 8” Weight: About 300 pounds Hair: None. They are plastoid-alloy droids. Eyes: White-yellow lines, dimly glowing behind an sets of armored slats. Sex: Not applicable Equipment Clothing or Armor: Their armored carapace is composed of a matte grey plastoid alloy similar in composition to mainline stormtrooper armor. Weapon: Their programming is intended to allow them to use a variety of small-arms and heavy weapons from blaster rifles to man-portable missile launchers, but their combat programming has been sabotaged and they are unable to even enter a combative state. If confronted with violence, they can attempt to physically block an assailant or evacuate noncombatants, but that is the limits of their capabilities in combat. Common Inventory: Possessing remarkably dextrous hands for droids, they are capable of performing a variety of noncombative duties, including basic ship and vehicle maintenance, data entry, firefighting, and even basic first-aid. Faction Information Force User, Force Sensitive or Non-Force User: Non-Force User droids. Alignment: Lawful Neutral. As they are exposed to the Jedi Order, they will inevitably begin to form something of a moral compass. Current Faction Affiliation: Jedi Order Current Faction Rank: Unranked utility NPCs History Force Side: Not applicable Trained by: Programmed by the Mechis III droid foundries Trained who: Not applicable. Known Skills: No Background: The Sentinel droids are a limited-production model of battle droids commissioned by the Jedi Order to supplement the marine forces of the Rebel Alliance. The droids stand just below two meters tall and their armored shell is composed of a matte grey plastoid alloy. Although humanoid in form, they have a recessed faceplate that sinks slightly into their chest cavity and their dimly glowing photoreceptors are protected by armored slats, giving the droids a fortified appearance. Their speech, when the ordinarily tactiturn droids elect to speak, is a synthesized baritone with a slight buzzing quality. Unlike most battle droids, their five-fingered hands and feet are remarkably dextrous, comparable to those of a reasonably coordinated organic being. Although they were designed to be significantly more versatile and competent in their abilities than previous droid armies, such as the comedically incompetent B1-series of battle droids deployed in overwhelming numbers by the Confederacy of Independent Systems, their armor and weapons are standard-issue and most predictive simulations placed them on even footing to the mainline units deployed by the Rebel Alliance and Sith Empire. However, they have been sabotaged with a crippling weakness in this regard: the Sentinel droids are literally incapable of using their weapons. Their single production run was sabotaged by an unknown third party, causing their combat and maneuver subroutines were irrevocably corrupted. They are not capable of any action more aggressive than picking up a weapon and accidentally pointing it in the general direction of an organic being. The droids seem to be aware of their flawed, incomplete nature. The inability to fulfill a droid’s primary directive has been known to drive lesser models of droids into a state of terminal indecision, but the Sentinels possess just enough independent intelligence that their condition has made them curious with regards to the nature of their design and construction. The droids have elected to accept Grandmaster Draygo’s offer to serve the Jedi Order as demilitarized assistants, capable of performing functions deemed too dangerous or hazardous for their organic compatriots. This has given the droids an opportunity to see the galaxy, to learn, and to search for a new purpose to assign as their primary directive. Ship Registration While the droids have some basic fire-fighting and maintenance capabilities, they lack the necessary programming to control any class of starship.

Partly out of necessity to block the young half-Miraluka’s passage and partially out of respect to perpetual aching of old joints, Misal remained perfectly still, her sightless gaze distracted between the smoke-cloud beginning to billow from the homestead and the young Stormhelm. No longer concealed by her traditional veil, a peculiar expression was on her face. She almost appeared… sympathetic. “On the contrary, Armiena has no knowledge of my actions other than that I left that intolerable moon a few days after you did. Permission has never been something I’ve required from my daughter, not when it comes to looking after those she cares about.” Misal never felt particularly compelled to be diplomatic or justify her actions, yet she found herself speaking unprompted and explaining herself. Perhaps it was watching the distant fire that was making her sentimental. More likely, it was the fact that the Miraluka had helped to train dozens of young Force-Sensitives, some of whom bore as much trauma as the young Stormhelm. For the moment, the Luka Sene and Katarr would need to wait. “When I read about what happened to you on Chandrila, I was concerned that you were descending into a mindset of despair. Severing ties with your teacher and the Jedi Order, though you have my every sympathy in the latter, was a drastic decision. I decided to intervene when I learned that you had made contact with the Luka Sene and returned to Dantooine. “I’ve trained many young--and not-so-young--sapients to use their abilities, and it wasn’t uncommon that we were forced to postpone their training while we dealt with lingering trauma that was becoming a significant distraction. My successful trainees tended to follow recognizable patterns, but the challenging ones were all distinct, sometimes engaging in spectacular and rather symbolic behavior. Quite simply, destroying your family home is a highly disturbing decision. Fire… and… explosions tend to have a significant element of symbolism in the minds of those recovering from trauma. What you intend to do with it, I have no idea.”

Armiena had expected these droids to be chatty--maybe not as bad as the typical protocol droid or one of the useless B1-series, but there was not even so much as a confirmation or utterance of “roger roger.” Those expressionless faces just stared at her through their sunken chestplates. The veteran Jedi reached to the Force, and felt a slight tremor between the horde of battle droids--it was steady and ceaseless, likely a transmission. Most likely the droids were constantly sharing tactical data between themselves, possibly audio or visual data. But there was something else, some gossamer connection between the droids. “I understand that you were created to serve the Jedi Order as front-line soldiers. I can’t compel you to do that--not because your programming was sabotaged, but because I wouldn’t force any sapient being to fight and die against their will.” Hands on her hips, Draygo turned about, searching the droids for any flicker of reaction. The hem of her brown robes snagged on one of the droids’ armored feet. There might have been a barely audible beep from the droids. “But if we’re going to have a chance of overthrowing the Sith Empire, we’re going to need all available hands. Even pacifists who refuse to raise a blaster in anger will be valuable. I’d like to invite you to assist the Jedi Order. We’ll have need of your services--construction, logistics, even spare computational cycles. In the meantime, you’ll be able to complete self-diagnostics and we’ll be able to find out what was done to you.” There was another one of those tinny beeps. Draygo counted a minute between each of the sounds--perhaps it was a running indicator. Only one of the droids spoke, the grey Sentinel that stood directly before the gaze of the Jedi Master. A rumbling baritone voice issued from a speaker that was buried somewhere in the droid’s sunken neck, not exactly unpleasant to listen to, but the droid’s inhuman appearance gave the rumble an intimidating quality. “Awaiting assignment, Grandmaster.” “Wonderful. There are two flashpoints that need steady hands, and not being susceptible to contagions will be… useful. Sync your comms to me,” Armiena held up a disc from her belt . “And I’ll send you tactical data for your first mission.” ____ Two hours later, a transport packed to the bulkheads with Sentinel droids--nearly two thousand mechanical souls--departed The Red and Black, and vanished into hyperspace.

“One more time, Baakua, just the facts.” Draygo took the opportunity to catch her breath after having sprinted several kilometers to the distant arms warehouses that stored the vast arsenals held by the Rebel Alliance. No fewer than thirty battle droids had circled around the Jedi, observing them through glowing eyes that were just barely visible through armored slats. “Right, so, the previous Grandmaster--Master Alluyen--commissioned an order of droids of about one million units. The Peth-Osk is on the dataslate. Manufacturer’s brochure suggest that they have a wide variety of capabilities, frontline combat, peacekeeping, law enforcement and security, even some minor first aid capabilities. Everything went as scheduled with Mechis III, except our techs claim that their combat subroutines have been corrupted.” “Irrevocably?” “Most likely. They say that, uh… self-diagnostics and, fractal, mutations, might help them regenerate their… asynchronous callbacks to their combat protocols? But they sounded skeptical. I was kinda getting the impression that they think the droids are a loss. Broken. Kaput. Sabotaged, even. The techs and Mechis were using a lotta big words when they were talking, but they’re claiming that since the droids were sabotaged on our watch, warranty is void, no obligation to update firmware or perform further maintenance, get your lawyers involved if you want your credits back.” Draygo glanced through the specifications of the droids on a dataslate that Baakua had offered her, ignoring the aide as she attempted to translate the reports from the engineers. The droids were not remarkable in their capabilities, nor were their equipped weapons or armor, but at least they wouldn’t be a mob of mumbling idiots like the mainline units deployed by the Trade Federation. A set of holoprints suggested an unusual degree of dexterity in their hands and feet for a battle droid, with surprisingly long, slender fingers. That was an oddly feminine touch for a droid with a torso carapace composed of a solid brick of plastoid alloy. What concerned her, however, was their communications capabilities. Their primary transmitters were low-powered, likely designed for transmitting tactical data to nearby units, but they were equipped with a secondary HoloNet transceiver, albeit one with impractically low bandwidth. The Jedi Ace suppressed a shiver when she considered the implications of such a device. It was a device with low bandwidth, but theoretically infinite range and was exceptionally difficult to intercept. Tactical data could never be transmitted through these devices, not even intelligence holos or even detailed reports. Only brief, encrypted bursts of data could be processed by such a transceiver. Those were encrypted orders, passcodes to manually activate behavioral protocols--optimistically speaking, that would be a shutdown sequence. Hypothetically, a single person could take control of the entire army of droids, all million-strong of them. Draygo could very easily imagine circumstances in which she would be thanking the unknown third-party of droids that had sabotaged these droids. “Thank you, Baakua, you can stop trying to speak technobabble. I’ll take it from here.” Draygo smiled, trying to disguise the fact that her runaway imagination had caused her to pale. Once the Togruta had fled, Armiena stepped into the middle of the circle of battle droids and kept her hands clear of the twin lightsabers on her belt. Dimly glowing eyes squinted at her from thirty expressionless plastoid faces, waiting for… Draygo was uncertain whether they were waiting for commands or for an impulse to act. The engineering reports claimed that they were likely still programmed to obey commands from the Jedi Order and that no hidden subroutines had been inserted for an assassination attempt. “Sentinels, my name is Armiena Draygo. I am Grandmaster of the Jedi Order.” There was no clack of plastoid limbs seizing weapons. The droids stood almost motionless--one of the squinting faces shifted its weight to better view the veteran Jedi. At least there would not be an assassination attempt. That was a promising start.

A number of small, furry mammals, invariably whiskered and cute to the eyes of most sapients, fled the arson of Genesis’ childhood home. It may not have been inhabited by humans in years, but the natives of Dantooine made use of any shelter that was to be found on the prairie. They scrambled into the grasses, some chittering angrily at the growing flames, some dashing into the prairie and back into their former making sure that the entirety of their offspring had escaped their den. An hour later, a passing freighter would take note of the burgeoning smoke and report it to the volunteer firefighters at Khoonda. The sirens and the sunlight engines and the dusting of extinguishing mist would arrive later, however. For now, the plains were still. Perhaps they appeared just a little too still to the practiced eye, for more than a hundred meters away from Stormhelm, there was a patch of partially-flattened grass that was being trafficked just a little less by the buzzing, pollinating insects, where the dry gusting wind was failing to push aside the waves of grass. Upon close inspection, even the grasses appeared slightly… off, almost as though one was looking at a high quality image of Dantooine’s plains rather than the grasses themselves. There, a watchful presence waited for the approach of the erstwhile Jedi. Misal Draygo was laying prone between the grasses, ignoring the teeming of a hive of stinging insects as they attempted to penetrate through her armor. It was not a comfortable posture; her cheeks were pressed painfully against the faceplate of her armor. She slowly breathed in the filtered air, scented heavily with sweat and antimicrobial filters. She deliberately kept her Force Presence very still--not an easy task for a Miraluka, especially not when her legs were aching from hours of trekking through Dantooine’s hinterlands. A low baritone voice piped into her ears at steady intervals. “He’s coming towards you, space-mom. One hundred fifty meters and closing. One forty. One thirty. One twenty. Are you sure about this? The boy seems a bit distraught. Shocking him at a moment like this might provoke a reaction.” “Maintain the count,” Misal snapped at her overwatch. “He would have fled if we signaled him by HoloNet transmission. He won’t be able to run at this distance.” “Twenty.” A exasperated sigh followed. “He’s not looking at you.” “Thank you.” A quick gesture of her left hand deactivated the adaptive camouflage that previously rendered her a wheat-colored ghost, and rendered the grey faceplate transparent. Old bones and knees complaining at every motion, Misal pushed off of Dantooine’s dirt to rise to her full height--almost to her full height, as a new pain in her hips rebelled at the notion of unsupported mobility. If Stormhelm happened to glance towards her way, it would appear almost as though a ghost had risen from the fields. Admittedly, it was a short ghost and an unarmed one, favoring one leg, face heavily wrinkled by a long, productive life, and displaying undisguised the vestigial eye sockets of a Miraluka. “Greetings, Stormhelm!" Misal called out to him. "It’s been a while--Coruscant if I remember correctly."

As was tradition, Misal had intercepted the transmission from Draygo’s Padawan. Unlike most of those other observances, the message had been dutifully relayed from her comlink to her archives aboard Shippy McShipface, where the elderly Miraluka was dutifully cleaning the connections of her prosthetic arm. It was a familiar routine, gently scraping away at the alloy leads with a stiff fabric brush, but the routine was comforting when faced with what seemed likely to be the last significant deployment of her life. If she survived, then the rest of her life would likely be… epilogue. Perhaps there would be a short amount of time left to enjoy her duties and privileges as the matriarch of the Draygo-Darkfire clan. Her lips curled downwards as an unmistakable tremor shuddered through The Force. She had never taken advantage of her rights to embarrass her grandson and his consorts. That would be something to look forward to. An old ache voicing itself at the motion, Misal rose to her feet and returned to the freighter’s cockpit. There was a message from her daughter’s Padawan. Leaning on the twin pilots’ seats to take the pressure off her old bones, the Miraluka listened to what she presumed to be a private message. Her lips parted in a disgusted sneer as she listened. That stupid boy. Fine young man or not, his departure from the Order--from her daughter--by means of a time-delayed HoloNet transmission was reprehensible and cowardly. It was unbecoming of a Jedi, and more importantly unbecoming of anyone that her daughter cared for. The stump that ended her right arm began to curl as she attempted to clench a fist that was not there. The child had requested that Armiena not attempt to follow him. The Draygo matriarch knew that her daughter would honor that request--likely justifying that decision with an excuse about needing to put the needs of the galaxy before her own--but Misal was not bound by any such request, nor would she have honored it. Her anger for the moment causing the ache in her joints to be an unwelcome memory, Misal began to pace the corridors of McShipface. Where to begin? Where to begin? Stormhelm would have several hours of lead, and unlike her grandson, his name was not nearly as notorious. He could easily travel anonymously. There was the pontite crystal. The two Jedi had traveled for months with it in their company. They had shattered it to construct lightsabers, and the gemstone had been soaking in their combined Force presences. The Miraluka glided in her ebon robes towards her daughter’s quarters. It was a sad, small, utilitarian room--no momentos unlike her room on Ghost Breath, just a few changes of clothing and some scattered datapads. There weren’t even sheets over the cot, and Misal realized with a pang that her daughter probably still wasn’t able to sleep on a proper bed. Her hands rifled through the brown and grey cloaks and withdrew a small leather pouch. She squeezed the little bag--there were still a few shards remaining. Misal sat on her daughter’s unused cot and lowered her face to the closed pouch. The Miraluka forced herself away from dwelling on her momentary rage. The moment required her attention, not her self-indulgence. Breathing deeply, she let her senses pass from her surroundings and into the memories held by those crystals… ________ Still within the Rebel Alliance’s Marine Proving Grounds, Armiena rose to her feet. The veteran Master had somehow dozed off while meditating and had been roused by the buzzing of her comlink. She listened, her expression shifting from annoyance at the urgency of the young Togruta clerical, to confusion, to well-disguised horror. “On my way. Try to keep the sentinels from leaving. No,don’t contact the Rebel Alliance, I’ll handle this myself. Have the chosen a representative, someone that I can talk to?” It was a rare occasion that caused a Jedi Grandmaster to run, and several Rebel soldiers found themselves staring as Draygo sprinted in the general direction of the arms warehouses in the vicinity of The Red and Black.

“Finished?” “Bit of polishing work left, but everything is functional.” Closing down the lightsaber and attaching it to a clip on her belt, Armiena took a few wobbly steps towards McShipface’s mess. The scent of something processed and peppery was guiding her to the promise of sustenance, and she found her mother closing the clamshell casing around yet another programming spike. Armiena wearily took a place at her mother’s side at the plasteel table and waited for the dehydration-induced shakiness to subside. Her mother wordlessly offered a mug of caf and a bowl of some unidentifiable porridge. Armiena glanced down skeptically--some pitiful green vegetables and chunks of processed meat were floating around in the cream-colored slurry. It looked like something that the worst of the supply-starved mess hauls in the Rebel Alliance would have served--not this new Rebel Alliance, but from the bad old days when the entire operation seemed to be held together by hope and duct tape. Still, the sensation of warmth and the peppery smell were vaguely comforting, and constructing a lightsaber was draining work, so she dug in. “It’s something I learned to make during a stint on Taanab. Quite invigorating after pulling a night watch.” As though prying classified information from her daughter was casual breakfast conversation, she sipped at a mug and continued. “What will you do next?” “Back…” Armiena swallowed back an indecently large spoonful of porridge. “Back into the field. Recruitment, insurgency, sabotage, fieldcraft; just like old times. Wherever Genesis is now, I won’t be able to help him.” “He’s a decent young man. But he’s not you.” “No. He’s not a soldier. Never will be. I need to accept that.” There was an uncomfortable pause as Armiena reflected for a moment on a potential failing in her teaching. “There’s… something that I’ve been getting nervous about. I’ve been feeling a… quickening in The Force. Something is coming, something big. I”m sure you’ve felt it?” “Something has indeed escalated. I’ve been asked to consult on a matter in the Rim.” The Draygo matriarch sipped at her tea with a casual air. “I felt that it would be advisable to visit for a few days before I embark. I have a peculiar feeling about this mission.” Draygo’s set down her spoon and stared. Had her mouth not been stuffed with half-chewed porridge and a massed of minced meat, her mouth would have been agape in horror. The ancient Miraluka was actually smiling at what seemed to be her encroaching mortality. Reading her daughter’s eyes, Misal’s smile faded and her expression grew more serious. “No. I’d prefer not to think about it. I’ll find out when the moment arrives. For now, I’d like to spend a short time with my admirable daughter, and perhaps embarrass my adorable grandson if those creatures don’t whisk him off to another engagement in your war. We so rarely have a chance to enjoy a normal moment.” For a moment, Armiena’s pale-green gaze shifted past the midnight robes to view a collection of data-spikes dangling from a chain, almost like the keys to an expensive landspeeder. She tore her eyes away. Something about the moment--something about every moment, in the last several months felt irrevocable, as though precious moments were slipping away. There were few enough people from her past as well. “This is good, isn’t it?” Asked the black-clad Miraluka. The younger Draygo just looked at her mother for a second. The cloth, as usual, betrayed little expression, but she understood her mother well enough. It was not a peaceful death that she would have preferred. For her, it would be out in the field, her feet in boots, her enemies wasting their final breaths to curse her name. Quietly wasting in a sterile medcenter bubble would have been undignified, and more importantly, contrary to her wishes. “Yes, It is.” _______ Armiena had had few private moments alone since elevating to the rank of Jedi Grandmaster. It was an unwelcome aspect to the task with which she was familiar; the time of the Grandmaster was so valuable that it could rarely be spent on family or personal trivialities. In this case, the time had been wholly wasted. Armiena and her mother discussed nothing of significant importance. No great mysteries of The Force were unraveled. No crucial strategies were discussed. It was two women sitting with warm, caffeinated beverages, chatting about worthless gossip and personal relations, occasionally dipping into technical minutiae. It was one of the most rewarding conversations that she had ever had with her mother. But it was soon over and Draygo was faced with her duties as Jedi Grandmaster. There was a revolution to fight. Armiena re-entered the Rebel Headquarters, making her way to the marine proving grounds. This was a noisy, utilitarian sector of the base, constructed almost entirely of spartan steel and plastoid alloys. It needed to be, as this sector housed the base’s firing ranges, Its portable corridors were continually rearranged, based on the needs of the marines using it, to simulate a variety of potential facilities that they might assault; from planetary barracks to light cruisers to the engineering spaces aboard Kyber-class Star Destroyers and larger ships. Draygo watched from an overhead balcony as a platoon of Imperial stormtroopers--or whatever the grey-clad, plastoid-armored shock troopers called themselves now--breached the corridors of a Carrack-class Light Cruiser and assaulted the bridge. To most, the continual whine of blaster fire, grenades, alarm klaxons, glaring lights, and muffled commands was an assault on the senses. Armiena had the trigger-calluses on her fingers and the scars from blaster creases to hint at her experience in these matters, however. To her, the din was just tactical data. The course’s current configuration was of little importance. More important was the noise, activity--and the distraction that they might pose to a novice Jedi Padawan. Tobias Vos was busy preparing for their mission, but to her recollection the Kiffar had two Padawans: that massive Trandoshan she had briefly seen and a Zabrak that had passed her notice. One of the Jedi clerics had been shadowing Armiena’s footsteps ever since the veteran Jedi had disembarked from her freighter. Waving the cream-colored Caamasi over, the Jedi Grandmaster asked him to locate Vos’ Padawans, and to guide the two to her location if they were not otherwise preoccupied.

There was no time in the present emergency to make a visit to Ilum or Dantooine. At the moment, Armiena would have to rely on the kindness of strangers for her equipment. From McShipface’s armory, the veteran Jedi had retrieved a small metal box and placed its contents in front of her as she sat cross-legged in the workshop. She unrolled a length of soft microfiber towel, revealing a fire-scarred lightsaber hilt. This one once had ornate, almost feminine engravings wrapping around the hilt, but the oxidation and fire of the detonation of its own battery had scarred them beyond repair. It was a pity that the damage seemed permanent. She had been given that lightsaber by a Sith during a desperate moment, during the failed attempt to halt the fall of Hesperidium and prevent the ruin of the capital of the Galactic Alliance. The two had never met before. There was no conceivable reason for a Sith to loan a stranger--and a Jedi stranger--a weapon. Armiena thought of that day frequently. Even if the weapon was irrevocably damaged, its destruction had at least been in the course of saving billions. Armiena took another gulp of water and breathed deeply. She laid her space-pale hands on both ends of the weapon and gently turned it over in her fingers. Crystalline deposits had built up around the clasps and welds that held the weapon together--probably residue from its battery, highly toxic. Restoring this weapon was likely to require a full day of work, if not more. “Mother. Shut the boarding ramp. Don’t let anyone interrupt me… unless… the Sith fleet is in orbit or the sun is exploding or something of that nature. Imminent death and destruction, that kind of crisis.” She called out into her ship. She closed her eyes and just felt the weapon--not the grimy deposits of battery waste and the ragged scarring of oxidation around the blade emitter, but really felt the weapon. Almost immediately she gasped and doubled over, tears leaking from her eyes in shared pain. This woman had known horrible trauma, recent tragedy--something so horrible that touching it threatened to tear at scars within herself. Was she healing from that trauma? Was it even possible to heal from an experience that had left an impression like this on her weapon? Armiena pushed herself away from that pain and forced her attention into the innards of the weapon. Ruined. All that remained was a mass of melted plastic, metal, and smoke. The solitary crystal, however… was intact. Its heart was at least functional. “‘m alright,” she heard herself croaking. “Need parts, scouring brush. Oxy-Aurek torch--the little one, the one with the adjustable head. Right. Never built one. Let you know.” The handheld torch soon arrived and the younger Draygo began making a delicate pass over the surface of the weapon with the scouring brush. To her relief, much of the carbon buildup simply fell away from the weapon in ashen clouds--and with a curious sense of prickling that travelled up her right arm, Armiena realized that she was scraping away at the charred remains of her own right hand, from another body and another life. The plasticky, oily grime simply fell away, revealing the curved engravings. Her fingers travelled over the length of the hilt--there was no detectable seam between smooth metal and the etchings. They had been etched into the hilt with acid. She smiled--that was technical, delicate, and dangerous work. Gripping the weapon with The Force like a vise, Armiena pulled the hilt apart at its seams. A melted mass of batteries, insulation, circuitry, and wiring fell out and landed with a thud on the deckplates. Armiena gave it a nudge with her finger. It did not move--it had stuck to the metal. It also stuck to her finger, and the veteran Jedi had to grip the wad of material with a rag and fling it into the unseen distance. She heard only one impact. She made another pass on the inside of the hollowed hilt with the scouring brush and a second with the oxy-aurek torch. Something liquefied and spilled out in a black sludge. A single crystal shone out from that puddle. Armiena called out for parts. Circuit boards. Superconducting fiber. Insulator strips. Capacitors. Magnetic stabilizers. plasma focus matrix. Power cell. Flux aperture. Field energizer. Hands moving in well-practiced motions, she gradually assembled the parts into a shape resembling a lightsaber. She breathed in the fumes of the oxy-aurek torch as greedily as though they were the scent of a pleasant tea.That single crystal fit neatly into the focusing chamber. Curiously, she felt no hesitation in building this weapon, unlike Dantooine--restoring it didn’t feel merely instinctive to her, it felt right. All that was left was the microfusing of the hilt. Armiena took another long sip of water. The cup of caf--when had it become caf?--refreshed the dryness in her throat after days of delicate work. Armiena lifted the weapon with her hands and took a long look at its entirely in The Force. Again, she had made… minor errors in its construction, requiring a longer trance than was typically necessary. The focusing crystal was perhaps a micrometer out of alignment and the insulating strips had not been perfectly sealed--an easy error to make, but one that would turn the weapon into a fireball in her hand upon its first ignition. Armiena took the weapon to her breastbone and let herself lose her awareness into the study of the weapon. The woman who had given her this weapon had known agony unlike anything she had ever felt, and hopefully would never feel. The veteran Jedi had known the death of her friends, the vaporization of her home, torture at the hands of the Sith, and the ruin of everything she had built, and this was still a new pain. She could not even identify its source. Despite the freshness of the pain, despite the fact that Armiena was a complete stranger to her, despite the fact that she had every right to remain as armed as possible during an emergency of historical proportions, she had given her that weapon… almost without hesitation. Armiena decided that she would cherish that memory and carry it with her. There was a microscopic shift, one that could not be detected with the naked eye. There was a brief sensation of warmth against her breastbone. And then it was done. Armiena rose from the deckplates. She gave a few weak coughs and blinked slowly, rolling the tension out of her shoulders knees. The veteran Jedi lifted the silvery-grey hilt to her gaze and pushed sweaty black hair out of her face. It was no longer stained with oxidation and burned carbon, but as polished and smoothed as though it had just been constructed by its first owner. No, not its first owner. Its only owner, Armiena decided. She would merely safe-keep the weapon and return it at first opportunity. Until then… Her finger found the ignition switch, a little round protrusion on the side of the hilt, and pressed it to give life to a brilliant bronze blade. Armiena regarded the white-hot core of the blade and held her left hand close to the edge of the unshrouded emitter. “I hope you understand,” she whispered to The Force alone. “Emily Zsahra.”

“Grandmaster! Grandmaster! I’ve been looking for you all day. ” Only seconds from setting foot on the boarding ramp of her freighter--no longer stained with rust, she noted--Draygo sighed and cast an irritated glance at one of the many clerical workers hired by the Jedi Order for the myriad beancounting duties that the Order generated. She silently grumbled; these paperpushers were hired for the specific purpose of keeping paperwork from requiring the attention of the higher ranks. The Togruta paused and her satisfied smile faltered for a moment before the bureaucrat remembered to present a dataslate for Armiena’s attention. “Sorry, Master Draygo, but no one else was authorized to sign for this one. It was supposed to go to Alluyen directly…” Draygo didn’t waste time reading the paperwork. She just stabbed her finger into the screen of the dataslate and made a jerky motion in vague facsimile of a signature--any signature. As she turned in a slow swirl of brown robes turned and began to board her ship, something niggled at her attention that the moment called for something more than a thoughtless scrawl… “What did I just sign?” “Order of droids from Mechis III, Master. It was a custom contract--and large enough that it required a Master’s signature, Master. There were some irregularities with the delivery…” “Oh. I’ll… have one of the kids look at it.” Draygo mused as the unpleasantly warm air of Nar Shaddaa’s upper levels was replaced by the cool, but stagnant climate control of her ship. “Some bright, eager Knight with too much time on their hands. Wait, irregularities?” But she had already gone out of earshot of the clerical worker. ____________________ “‘Lo, Mother.” “Grandmaster.” Armiena sighed as she spilled a duffel bag filled with circuitry and far more volatile components out onto one of the workbenches on the lower deck of the McShipface. It didn’t surprise her that the ancient Miraluka had somehow learned of her seizure of the leadership of the Jedi Order--she had long ceased to question how deeply her sources had penetrated the Order--but the uncharacteristic coldness was a distinction from her customary support. This promised to be a difficult conversation, and a second sigh escaped her lips as she idly sorted out the pile of explosive components and wiring. “It’s the cloning, isn’t it?” Draygo removed a thin plastic glove that covered her right hand, revealing not the coppery metal of a prosthetic, but space-pale flesh and bone. “I think this is the first time that your sources are out of date. This isn’t even my first time getting popped out of a cylinder, though they exercised some artistic interpretation this time. It’s been… five times? Six? I’m not sure about one of them. “The first was Tatooine. Stupid mistake of a young Jedi Knight, I got ambushed and shot down like a kath in a miserable cantina. Second: Borleias. Head exploded by Kakuto Ryu. Three: Butchered like a nerf by Ar-Pharazon. Was not pleasant. Fourth: buried under a tower on Coruscant by Trowa Barton. The fifth… I will never speak of again. Mistake of a stupid, idealistic idiot, never try that again. And the sixth you see before you.” My difficulties with the decision of the Jedi Order to clone its casualties has never been from a superstitious belief in the nature of some indelible soul, Grandmaster.” The grey-clad Miraluka limped heavily from one side of the workshop to the other. Despite Armiena’s close observation of her mother’s physical condition, the Miraluka never made “eye” contact with her daughter. “No. You’re still my daughter. The flesh is of no concern. I’ve always feared that by granting this immortality to its agents, your Order is teaching itself to become… cavalier with life. That you hoard and spend lives like credits. And you--” “Mother, that’s a load of nerfshit and you know it. I earned of those deaths and I made some Sith assholes on my way out. That first time--” “I don’t care what--” “Jedi on the run from the Empire managed to get away. As I understand, she’s living on a farm somewhere in the Mid Rim. Second? The old Dojo was being overrun by a horde of drones that SEED sicced on us. Folks were literally getting eaten alive. I was so effective in culling their numbers that the Dark Lord decided to deal with me personally. Third? Leth-Aurek-Peth is now rotting in a prison designed specifically for bastards like him. Four was in the process of saving billions from a planetwide bombing attack--fair trade, if you ask me. And the sixth… “I gave Ryu a choice. something that he hasn’t enjoyed in decades. Keep killing as a Sith, continue as a murderer without a cause, or be someone new. I had no idea who that person would be, doubt he did either. He chose… poorly. I will see to it that he never forgets his choice.” Misal’s arms crossed, and for the first time she “looked” her daughter in the eye. “Did that speech make you feel any better?” “What?” “You ‘survived’ the last war barely a person.” Those frail arms hugged around the body of the Miraluka more tightly. “We found you suffering horribly at the bottom of a bottle. It took months of therapy before you were prepared to face the Jedi again. What will happen this time? Slaughter is still alive--hasn’t even faced justice for his crimes. Vos--” “I never saw to it that Starlisk faced justice, either. I won’t make that mistake again. “And as for myself, I don’t care how many times I need to get cloned. I’d hoped that Aidan would be able to live his life in peace. I won’t make him face this war alone.” ____________________ After that, the two Draygo women fell silent. There was a lingering sense that anything that could be said had already been aired and that neither person’s opinion would change. Rather than simmer and resent, the two got to work. Misal had always been far better than her daughter at programming and quietly sat at one of McShipface’s terminals, constructing a rudimentary consulary worm into a data spike that could be stabbed into a standard scomp port. Armiena’s talents had always been more mechanical. Idly humming to herself, she began to assemble circuitry and wiring--and a nergon-14 warhead with a generous payload--into a satchel charge. Contrary to what some in explosive ordinance disposal believed, assembling bombs was not the work of amateurs. Amateurs routinely made critical errors that caused their charges to misfire, or fail to respond to a detonation code… or improperly construct their fuses and blow themselves up in karmic fashion. Bombmaking was the work of professionals, and the younger Draygo soon found herself in a familiar state of focus, oblivious even to the return of two Jedi Masters to Nar Shaddaa. Her thin, space-pale fingers carefully soldered and welded proximity and lifesign sensors, speakers, a multitude of electronic parts and comlink components, and an extremely complicated holographic fuse into a charge that would fit tidily into a small satchel, barely even breathing for fear of an errant twitch. Some hours later, the device was stuffed with protective packing and she finally trusted herself to step away from the workbench. Gratefully accepting a glass of water from her mother, Armiena shoved a mop of sweaty black hair from her face and coughed and wheezed away several hours of irritation from breathing caustic fumes. The next piece of kit to overhaul was a lightsaber that she had been loaned nearly a year ago.

Fleet Task Forces Element Cicatrix (Destroyer Group [Turbolasers]) Cicatrix Ship Class: MC95B Star Cruiser Ship History: Cicatrix is a relatively new Star Cruiser, one of the few of a new class before Mon Calamari was attacked by the Sith Empire. It was designed to successfully engage and destroy one of the new Kyber Star Destroyers or withstand an outnumbered assault by a pair of them. Although lacking the close-range brawling power of the Sith vessels, the fire control systems of the MC95B are far superior and allow it to engage targets at considerable range. Cicatrix was barely completed before the Sith attack and was just taking on crew. Rather than fruitlessly fight to the death with a green crew in a ship that had yet to even undergo a shake-down cruise, its captain determined to deliver the ship directly to Nar Shaddaa intact. Idea: Mon Cal prototype developed in secret. Element Morningstar (Covert Strike Force: Silent Hunters) Morningstar Ship Class: Bothan Assault Cruiser Ship History: Morningstar is a nearly brand-new ship, one of a new class of cruisers being developed by the Bothans after the raid on Bothawui made it clear that the Bothans would need to monitor their own space instead of relying on the Galactic Alliance. Unusually for an Assault Cruiser, Morningstar is an exceptionally stealthy ship, emitting almost no signals. Also unusual is the design of its armament: nearly all of it faces forward. It was designed to maneuver into an advantageous position and cripple its target with a devastating first strike. Morningstar’s design was recently put to the test against the Sith Empire in Corellia, where the ship repeatedly ambushed and destroyed transports en route to Centerpoint Station. Task Force 67 (“Taffy 67” Rapid Intervention Escort: Timely Response) Elan Ship Class: Bothan Assault Cruiser Ship History: Elan is a more conventionally designed Bothan Assault Cruiser, though its paint job and external features are nearly identical to Morningstar. She and her sister ship Schadenfreude recently distinguished themselves in the Corellian campaign, where the two frequently ran interference for Morningstar by engaging Sith vessels in minor skirmishes while the stealth cruiser wreaked havoc behind enemy lines. Schadenfreude Ship Class: Bothan Assault Cruiser Ship History: Schadenfreude is a more conventionally designed Bothan Assault Cruiser, though its paint job and external features are nearly identical to Morningstar. She and her sister ship Elan recently distinguished themselves in the Corellian campaign, where the two frequently ran interference for Morningstar by engaging Sith vessels in minor skirmishes while the stealth cruiser wreaked havoc behind enemy lines. Darklighter Carrier Strike Group (Precision Strike Carrier Group) Darklighter Ship Class: Ton-Falk-class escort carrier Ship History: Darklighter is a very old ship. She was captured by the Rebel Alliance back in the command of Forn Dodonna, somehow managing to survive combat at Coruscant, Sullust, Mon Calamari, Ilum, and Haruun Kal despite suffering significant damage at each battle. Her reputation for sustaining damage, limping back to drydock, then returning to service just in time for the next climactic battle has given her something of a reputation for being an unlucky ship--or an extraordinarily lucky one to the veterans that have held the ship together when it should have been destroyed. Escorting Ships: DP20 Frigate Kaadu DP20 Frigate Varactyl Warrior-class Frigate Vanguard Warrior-class Frigate Gloire Marauder-class Frigate Velites Marauder-class Frigate Asawira

Fleet Asset Units Missile Destroyer Group One Experience Status: Green (1XP) L’Ouverture Ship Class: Victory-II class Star Destroyer Ship Length: 900 meters Gerrera Ship Class: Victory-II class Star Destroyer Ship Length: 900 meters Asset Denial Force Three Experience Status: Green (1XP) Kalidor Ship Class: Majestic-class Heavy Cruiser Ship Length: 700 meters Supporting ships: Task Force 82 (“Taffy 82”) Taffy 82 is composed of Hesperidium Ship Class: Nebulon-B Escort Frigate Ship Length: 300 meters DP20 Frigate Bloodhound DP20 Frigate Lancet Warrior-class Frigate Chir’daki Warrior-class Frigate Strill Marauder-class Frigate Racowie Marauder-class Frigate Sipahi The remainder of Taffy 82 is composed of a mixture of six DP20 Frigates (“Corellian Gunships”), Warrior-class Frigates, and Marauder-class Frigates. Element Fidelity (Heavy Brawler Escort): Experience Status: Green (1 XP) Fidelity Ship Class: MC90c Star Cruiser Ship Length: 1255 meters Precision Strike Carrier Group Seven (Taffy-14) Experience Status: Green (1 XP) Benediction Ship Class: Nebula-class Star Destroyer Ship Length: 1040 meters Supporting ships: Task Force 13 (“Taffy 13”) Taffy 82 is composed of Adun-Lilianna Ship Class: MC30c frigate Ship Length: 300 meters DP20 Frigate Elmo’s Fire DP20 Frigate Solo Warrior-class Frigate Incisor Warrior-class Frigate Constellation Marauder-class Frigate Equites Marauder-class Frigate Cataphract

“Dirty tricks squad. Ungentlemanly warfare,” Draygo grinned at the Jedi Master. “Fireworks. Not the traditional Jedi bowing and brandishing lightsabers and making clean stabs through the heart. I do want to win this war.” The smile fell away and the veteran Jedi’s expression grew serious. The overall effect on her appearance was to give her the air of an overgrown hawk. “You have a few days. I have some preparations to make. Messages to record, repairs to make, programming spikes to prep, explosives to pack. I’ll be… somewhere on this base, trying to not blow myself up.” Armiena gave Vos a quick nod and departed. A familiar presence had just arrived at the Rebel base. As she descended into the landing bays that surrounded The Red and Black and the presence resolved itself into a familiar identity, Draygo made out the lines of her Barloz­­-class Freighter and steadied herself for the task of meeting her mother.

Draygo wasn’t so novice that she still wore her heart on her sleeve and readily displayed every emotion on her expression, but her presence fairly recoiled in The Force. Intense emotions rallied for dominance--a sudden craving for a strong drink, a temptation to physically strike Vos, the burning of an intense ego--but what won out was driving, ruthless purpose. The muscles in her jaw worked silently and her fingers rapped nervously on the table between them. "I'll concede that winning this war is going to require a degree of bastardry. That's the nature of the business. But it will be targeted and there will be clear contrast between us and our enemies. If things look like they’re about to get really bad… let me know in advance so I can alert the Survivor’s Foundation. Just try to not let things escalate to the point where we need to mobilize a hospital ship.” That craving for a forbidden drink grew stronger. These were decisions that Grandmaster Darkfire would have made many years ago, relying on her political instincts rather than sticking to the ideals she claimed to cleave to. It might win the war, but it would make her miserable in the process. "As for the Imperial Knights, driving away those people through his lack of pragmatism was the worst mistake that Darex ever made. He had very specific ideas about what a Jedi is and isn’t… and if there is anything that I have learned it’s that the Order does not belong to me." There was a certain edge in her voice as Draygo wrestled the concept of her closest friend into the past tense. "That schism might take decades to repair, might never get repaired. If that's the case, I'd like them to remember us as old friends who they disagreed with than a bunch of old bastards who drove them away. I might regret the decision to trust them later down the line. If that happens, then that'll be it. Eleison will be gone. For that matter, if Sarna or Kil end up disappointing me, I'll ask them to step aside for someone else. The war is bigger than any one of us. “So, Borleias. It’s a doorstop to Anaxes, Chandrila, Coruscant, and some of the Deep Core. I suspect that the Sith will respond in force if we attempt invasion and we can’t manage a second front at this time. But I want to make that planet ours. I’ll be going down with a team of engineers to establish a foothold--long-range sensors, hangars, that sort of thing. Then we’ll make the rounds to infiltrate the local refugee camps and take on recruits. Last and most importantly, there’s a Holonet relay station in Juanthir. It serves the entire Namadii Delta leading up to Coruscant and tapping it will give us a clear idea of Sith operations throughout the Pyrian system and the colonies.” These details were rattled off by memory--Borleias was practically home to Draygo and she was intimately familiar with the world’s infrastructure. “If you have any local… ne’er-do-well friends, we can make use of their services in smuggling personnel and materiel throughout the Core. As for your Padawans, if you trust them… I have always fervently believed in giving our junior members experience in the field.”

“Thanks for the spar,” Draygo smiled and handed over the hilt of the borrowed lightsaber. After having faced down both Kirlocca and Vos, she had broken out into an admirable sweat and she wiped at her eyes. “You’re pretty good. A tenth of a second faster, and that wouldn’t have worked.” She glanced to one side. A number of Rebel soldiers and Jedi had gathered to watch the spar; a Gotal passed a credit chit of a small denomination to one of his counterparts on the Imperial side of the Alliance. Draygo had hoped to conduct this conversation in some privacy, but a Rebel sergeant broke up the gawking crowd with an faux-angry bark: “Back to work, you loafers! This is a sparring hall, not the fiddler’s green!” Draygo had no idea who or what a fiddler was and just stared at the Weequay for a second. Eventually she remembered herself and drew closer to the Kiffar. “The Galactic Core is in a state of chaos. Yeah, the Sith managed to break the Galactic Alliance and occupy Coruscant, but I suspect that they are currently finding themselves burdened with an embarrassment of territory that they cannot possibly control--cannot possibly police or secure. Matters will be even worse after Outremer kicked them off of Coruscant. I intend to turn the Core into an ulcer that will bleed the Sith Empire white.” “Borleias got hit shortly after Coruscant fell. It was never strongly defended, but it’s on the doorstep of… everyone: Corellia, Coruscant, Chandrila, Anaxes, even some of the planets in the deep Core. We don’t have the resources for a full-on invasion at this point, but what we can do is turn it into a perpetual nuisance for the Sith--sensor relays, tapping the local Holonet grid, local snubfighter wings, recruitment--one of the largest refugee camps is in the galaxy is just a few klicks from the old praxeum. “Problem is, of course, most Jedi are not particularly good guerrillas. It’s not we’re supposed to be, but you and I…” Draygo paused, realizing that she was about to confess something that could potentially give the Kiffar some power over her. “I’ve always found it easier to identify as a common soldier. For me, the Rebellion was--is--home, and the robes never quite fit me very well.” ______ High above the Rebel base, a battered Barloz-class Medium Freighter began to descend to Nar Shaddaa. Somehow, its pilot--an old woman of indeterminable but undeniably humanoid heritage--knew the Rebellion's most recent clearance codes and began a descent to The Red and Black.

This time it was silence that was Vos’ response to her remarks--not even one of the glib comments that had irked her in the past. Draygo supposed that she had touched something of a nerve with her observation. That wasn’t entirely surprising, considering that she had all but accused him of being a killer, much like her. Vos managed to break away from the bind and dart away from the retaliatory swipe from towards his back, but being somewhat slower than usual with her inexpert command of that jerky slashes of Juyo, she was just slightly out of range and the tip of her blade was picked away by a defensive flourish as the Kiffar withdrew. The veteran Jedi fell back on her left leg and raised her guard in anticipation of Vos’ counterattack. Her borrowed blade slashed upwards at the thrown lightsaber in an attempt to throw it upwards into the ceiling, only for the viridian to swipe through air. Feeling the persistent tug of The Force behind her, Armiena lowered into a fighting crouch. Rather than simply bracing herself against the telekinetic pull and swatting away the rushing lightsaber with a defensive slash, the veteran Jedi leaped towards her opponent in a swirl of brown robes and a green blade. Spinning like an oversized top so that anything within half a meter of her blade was in danger of being slashed, her body raced with even greater speed towards Vos than the Kiffar’s pulled lightsaber.

She saw the leap coming. Armiena had used a similar flip on her Padawan only a few days ago as a demonstration of Ataru acrobatics. While it worked Draygo had come to this meeting with a plan. She’d even had a few minutes to come up with the faint outline of a plan, to try and empathize with the Kiffar Jedi--maybe even make an attempt at flattering him--but she detected the faintest hint of distraction. It would have been an insult to the Jedi to trace that emotion deeper, but she decided that her characteristic awkward attempts at tact were likely to result in disaster. What mattered here, she decided, was the fight--and blunt, open words. She didn’t try to disguise her enjoyment at the fight, displaying it openly in a wide grin and a light in her eyes as she met each blow to her torso and legs with ease. Her lips twitching in concentration at the unfamiliar staccato rhythm of Juyo, she pressed upon Vos’ position--and immediately took a step backwards upon sensing the characteristic tension within The Force that signaled a Force-fueled leap over her head. Armiena saw that stereotypical acrobatic of Ataru coming--she had only demonstrated it to her Padawan a few days ago--and swept away any preemptive overhead slash as she fell back in order to intrude upon Vos’ landing position. Draygo allowed the Kiffar a moment to adjust the sling around his neck, then it was back to the duel. It would have quickly become clear that this was an unfavored lightsaber Form to the veteran Jedi and that she had yet to pick up on its finer points of maneuver and footwork. What she did know, however, was to attack relentlessly--hips, ribcage, fingers, kneecaps, armpits, neck, no part of Vos’ anatomy was safe from the assault. The seemingly random slashes and thrusts, however, were inexpertly delivered and were overrun by her own footwork, causing her to stumble into a clash of their blades that resulted in her pressing ineffectually against the guard of his orange lightsaber. Her eyes were suddenly wide, the veteran Jedi clearly not quite understanding how to extract herself from the bind of the orange and viridian blades towards an advantageous position. Even as their blades sparked and hissed against each other and the duelists attempted to work out a parry that would place them in a position of lethal advantage, Armiena had Vos’ full attention for the moment. “Don’t I know... it. It’s a lousy trade, learning how to kill your fellow sapients… and… unlike vibroknives or blasters, we can’t conveniently put ourselves in a holster.” Armiena had never been much for talking while in combat, and the strain was evident in her grimace and the bead of sweat that was only centimeters from dripping into her right eye. “But people like us are useful.”

“Thank you, Kirlocca. I’ll be in touch.” Even as Draygo began to unclip another of the miniature holoprojectors from her belt, the Wookiee turned heel and left. “I hope.” A small crowd of sapients had begun to gather around the Jedi, a mixture of Rebel soldiers and a pair of robe-wearing Jedi from the clerical ranks of the Order. A few of the soldiers were murmuring unheard, but presumably appreciative remarks under their breaths--a Weequay passed a credit chit to one of her counterparts in the Imperial units of the Alliance. Extinguishing her blade, Draygo sighed and rolled the tension out of her shoulders. Now there was just her and the Kiffar. The veteran Jedi bounced on the balls of her feet and twirled the lightsaber hilt in her fingers as through it was a stylus. Again, her hands moved towards the familiar double-handed guard of Ataru, but drifted to an uncertain overhand grip with the hilt directly over her head, the emitter pointed towards her back. An exceptionally learned practitioner of the lightsaber arts would have recognized it as a modification of a Juyo opening stance, albeit an emulation by a novice of the form. Still, what Draygo lacked in experience with that form she made up with enthusiasm, and she ignited her viridian blade and brought the weapon crashing down onto Vos’ guard. A twist of her wrists brought the blade dangerously close to his ears, rather than the landing harmlessly against his own weapon. Even as the duel opened up again, Armiena kept a smile on her face and continued in a conversational tone. “I wanted to speak to you because you have unusual skills for a Jedi, the kind that make life miserable for people like the Sith.”

Draygo accepted the hilt with a jerky nod. Her fingers played over the surface of the metal hilt in a quick familiarization with the weapon, running up and down the surface of the cool metal to find an ideal point of balance, feeling the grooved engravement that wrapped around its curvature. There was a bit more ornamentation than what this particularly pragmatic Jedi typically preferred in a weapon--she would have been perfectly content with high-grade durasteel and synthleather grips--but the purpose of this duel was conversation, not competition. She ignited the blade with the hilt held overhead in a double-handed stance, characteristic of Ataru, and noted with pleasure as a metallic hue entered the viridian blade with a flip of a switch. “An indicator hue,” she said, her stance widening for what promised to be a leap towards a chosen target. “Interesting. We’ll need to...” With a tremor of Force-assisted muscle power and a smile, Draygo leapt towards Kirlocca, the borrowed lightsaber in a flurry of motion. The slashes and shoves of her lightsaber were all noisy and visually pleasing to watch from the point of an unlearned spectator, but hardly technical and not truly threatening to an experienced duelist. But the veteran Jedi enjoyed the exertion and the joy was evident in her voice and face. “I’d like you to keep an eye on my Padawan. Genesis Stormhelm, the--eye patch, a bit unsure of himself during the briefing. He’s--” Draygo panted her way through a cadence of blows that was straight out of a beginner’s lightsaber kata. “Turning into a wonderful young man, but… Corellia was a horrible shock to him. I think he needs to make difficult decisions for himself, put in the hard work for himself, see… how very far he has come. The worst thing that I could do for him is to be watching over his shoulder every moment.” At this point the flurry of predictable blows ended and Draygo paused, taking a step back to catch her breath. She had never been much for conversation during a lightsaber bout. “I expect that he’ll come through just fine and be better for it, but… I’ll worry the entire time. You understand?”

Again, there was the stifling presence of the ysalamir that lingered on the very edge of the medical ward. Upon straying into its radius, Draygo stumbled and staggered into the side of the portal as it slid open to admit her passage…and once again into the sliding doors when they automatically closed after a few seconds. She glared towards a corner of the medical ward’s lobby where an armored harness rested, waiting for the metal doors to complete their closing cycle and then dutifully open once again to allow her to leave. What that marine had been thinking, bringing one of those inconvenient reptiles to a meeting of half the Order’s operational Jedi… As she jogged to chase down a remarkably fleet-of-foot Jedi Master and a three-meter tall Wookiee, Draygo passed innumerable Alliance personnel who darted to either side of the base’s corridors to make way for her passage. Draygo couldn’t avoid reflecting on the many times that she had visited similar military installations, either as Jedi Grandmaster or as a Jedi attache to support conventional military forces--one visit had resulted in her physically assaulting Starlisk for a catastrophic lapse in judgement. She would need to meet the leaders of some on the new factions within the Rebel Alliance--the Imperial Remnant and the Imperial Knights in particular--for a relapse of Starlisk’s misguided militancy could spell doom for the entire collaboration. At the same time, the Jedi couldn’t be allowed to slip back into their ecclesiastic tendencies--the previous war had shown the potential of close coordination between Republic marines and Jedi who had been trained for combat. “Kirlocca, Vos, good, I’d hoped to catch both of you,” Draygo breathed heavily as she gained the distance on the two Masters. The two had found a hall dedicated for hand-to-hand drills and Draygo felt the obliging spring of a training mat under her boots. Her pale-green gaze judged the distance across the training mat. Even if a few Rebel marines had begun to watch them hopefully, there would at least be enough range for a semi-confidential conversation. “Wonderful. It’s not quite privacy, but we’ll have some space while we speak. A matter--two matters--that I will be personally very grateful if you could pay some attention to.” She nodded to the Kiffar. Vos had a reputation for building lightsabers, not for any particular purpose but simply for the joy of the craft. “Hilt me.”

Draygo’s gaze shifted towards the back of the medical ward as she spoke, scanning the famliar face for a Kiffar that she had lambasted with some harsh words the last time they had spoken. That recollection--the last time she had seen Alluyen, now that she thought of it--failed to elicit embarrassment or regret, yet the expression on her face began to harden as she issued her orders and began to reflect on the prospect of using a fellow Jedi and sapient being for the skills that made them both useful and dangerous. Then her Padawan spoke, and the mask slipped away. The idea of sending Genesis to operate independently from her guidance--from her protection, more accurately--would wrack her nerves for weeks and months, but she had decided that it was necessary for the boy’s development as a Jedi and the excellent young man that he was becoming. He would be stronger for the experience if he made it through--and there would be other Jedi who could keep an eye on him--but Draygo would be on the verge of pulling her hair out for want of news of her apprentice. “It will hurt more than you know. But you’ll make it through… one terrible day at a time.” There was a vague, half-remembered pain in her eyes--something would have been useful to relate had she not been surrounded by half of the Order’s operational Jedi. “And then one difficult day, and then one day at a time. And if the Sith do make an attempt, I’ll be in range to reinforce--Kirlocca! I’ll need you in a moment.” Armiena seized her Padawan by the shoulders and drew him in for a hug. She could feel bones under the robes--he’d lost weight since Corellia. She murmured something into his ear, so that only he or someone who was very close would be able to hear her. The moment couldn’t last, however. Draygo had to stop indulging herself, had to pull away and accept the fact that there was a very good chance that she had probably ordered one or more of these fine sapients to their deaths. Anything less than her own full efforts would have been an insult to them. “Master, Exorcist--Force be with you,” Draygo said with a nod towards Sarna and Eleison. And to the towering yet speechless Rebel Talon, she added, “Captain, make their eyes water.” And then she left the ward, searching for a Wookiee Jedi Master and a Kiffar whose skillset she was likely to require for her chosen battlefield.

“Just… Master. I always disliked that title.” For a second, Armiena’s eyes widened and there was a glimmer of emotion in her face that resembled… fear? Apprehension? Or perhaps it was merely a sudden appreciation of the awesome burden that the veteran Jedi had just volunteered to bear. Whatever it was, the moment soon passed and she jostled a plastoid crate containing a set of small discs. The miniature divots of holoprojectors and sensors could be seen about their surface. “This is likely to be one of the very few moments that we are all in the same location. That's probably for the best. There’s a lot of work to do. I prepared something that we could use to coordinate our efforts. The comm unit is simple enough to operate once you have it calibrated to your Force signature, just place it on a flat surface and it will tap into an encrypted Holonet channel to maintain a virtual Council chamber.” She stared directly at Sandy Sarna. “I know about your mission to you-know-where, and as profoundly risky as it may be, it’s necessary. Force knows that we have so little on-the-ground intel there. We need to know everything you can give us--orbital infrastructure, interstellar traffic, planetary defenses, location of air traffic control towers, it's all needed. I suspect that ysalamir’s for the initial infiltration, get you into atmosphere without every Sith noticing you're there--just… kill the damned thing if there’s a hint of trouble,” she added unhappily to the towering marine behind her as she approached the younger Jedi Master. As she handed the smaller woman the communications unit, Draygo drew the smaller woman into an embrace that had to have been startling and whispered something into her ear. She repeated the same gesture for the half-Anzati, again handing her one of the communications units and murmuring a few words under her breath. Turning her back on the two Jedi Masters, Armiena faced the young Jedi Healer, her Padawan, and the Wookiee who loomed over every other sapient in the room. “Kil, Genesis, Kirlocca. Perhaps a less dangerous mission for you three, but still of critical importance. Chandrila was hit badly by the Mandalorians during their raid across the Core. The few remaining elements of their fleet were driven off by the Rebel Alliance, but the planet was damaged horribly by their attack. Mass casualty events in the cities, terrible damage to orbital and surface infrastructure, even failures of basic infrastructure like water purification. The Rebel Alliance is out of their depths when it comes to managing a reconstruction effort like this. We can’t allow a world this core to Coruscant to remain in such a vulnerable state. “The Survivor’s Foundation has dispatched a pair of their larger ships to take the lead, but… they’re borderline pacifistic. If the Mandos left stragglers behind, or Force forbid, the Sith show up in force, they won’t be in any position to resist. So, you have two objectives: assist the Survivor’s Foundation with their reconstruction and security wherever you’re needed; and reinforce the planet’s defenses wherever you can. The planet will need an early-warning system in the event that the Sith are eyeing it for takeover. We cannot simply allow the Sith to have complete domination of the Core, no matter what happens.” Draygo passed another of the communications discs to the young Mon Calamari Knight. Although her Padawan had nearly completed his own training, Armiena suspected that Genesis wasn’t quite in the mindset to operate on the doorstep of a Sith-controlled Coruscant, and would be relieved that know that there would be both a Jedi Healer as well as one of the Order’s most veteran Masters alongside him. “Now, questions? I can help you secure any resources you need, but I have a target that I want to tend to myself.”

Again, Draygo flashed that little smile. “The only thing that I’m guilty of is being a fool. I’ve been accused of much worse than that. I expect that if I didn’t believe in foolish things, then I wouldn’t be here. I have to believe that people can change their destinies and that they have free will. I have no choice.” At that moment, the barely-perceptible whine of a low-powered repulsorlift engine approached and a squat, cylindrical droid hovered in. Its chassis, not entirely unlike the utilitarian form of an Viper-class probe droid, bore the scorch marks of atmospheric re-entry and the smoke of a primitive rocket engine. Draygo made eye contact with the courier droid as its photoreceptors scanned her body. Apparently satisfied with its recognition scans, the droid deposited a little plastoid box on the railing surrounding the holoprojector pit. The veteran Jedi cracked the seal, revealing a set of five palm-sized metal discs. Armiena just nodded and clipped one to her belt “I think that your time as my Padawan will soon come to an end,” Armiena explained as she rose and began to leave the briefing room. She made her way to a concentration of Jedi within the Rebel headquarters. “There’s always more to learn, but at this point it would be unfair of me to keep you under my thumb and not allow you to operate and develop your skills independently. Speaking of which, there’s a job that I need handled by someone I trust implicitly. I’ll tell you when--” Draygo scowled as an unmistakable sensation of numbness fell over her entire body. The color fled from Draygo’s face as she pressed through the medical bay and to the other side of the numbing bubble cast by the ysalamir and to a private ward containing Sarna, Eleison, an unknown Rebel Talon, and a Mon Calamari Healer whose name she had only read a few minutes ago. “Sarna, Eleison, Kil,” Armiena began, nodding to each of them in their turn. “I’ll be brief. The Order is in a difficult spot. In the present emergency I am submitting myself as a replacement for Master Alluyen until our situation is normalized--and if you will have me, I would like the three of you to serve on my council.” Brief, indeed, but the veteran had no desire to waste the precious time of three Jedi with an unnecessary face-to-face meeting--not when she had a much better tool to replace that.

Draygo listened quietly, not saying a word, not even moving a muscle save the tightening of her lips and the occasional nod. She didn’t even glance to the side when her datapad buzzed and a rather lengthy message appeared on its screen. Whatever it was, it appeared to be composed largely of capital letters and what sensitive tactical data was visible was interjected with taunts and obscenities. The woman seemed to not even blink--at least, not until the muffled roar of a distant re-entry rocket managed to rattle its way through the reinforced ceiling of The Red and Black and the veteran Jedi was compelled to glance upwards. “You’re in fine company,” Armiena acknowledged after the rocket cut out. “That entire boarding action--my call--was a disaster. We encountered… he might have been the Dark Lord. I don’t know. I never saw his face, never heard his name. I was deafened for most of the fight, but Ryu seemed to know him. We incapped the Dark Lord, then Ryu turned on me. It did not go well, hence…” And Draygo held up her right hand for explanation--flesh and bone, rather than the bronze-like alloy she had been refitted with after Coruscant. “I knew that we would probably come to blows at some point when Ryu regained his memory, but this was far more quickly than I had thought possible. I suppose that I thought that if I gave him a choice, allowed him to go free and was able to process his memories at his own pace, he might have become something of a passably-decent person rather than a monster of historical proportions.” Armiena’s jaw clenched and something dark and bitter visited her expression. “There’s something to be said for lessons learned from failure, but what a failure.” She glanced down at her boots and let out a long sigh. “Alluyen is dead,” she said to her feet. “I’m going to ask the other Masters to let me take her place.”