#d4gangera

@d4gangera | continued from [ x ]

                ❝𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴  𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃.  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚃  𝙸𝚂  𝙶𝙾𝙽𝙴 ,  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙽𝙾𝙽𝙴  𝙾𝙵  𝚄𝚂  𝙰𝚁𝙴  𝚆𝙷𝙾  𝚆𝙴  𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴.❞      the purge had seen to that.  so had the years spent buried on bracca, hiding in plain sight, suffocating under the weight of forced anonymity.  five years of running.  five years of fighting, of clawing his way through the wreckage the empire had left behind.   cere junda had saved him, but in the process, the boy he’d been—the little padawan named cal kestis—had reduced to shadow, blurred and indistinct.

some days, he barely recognized the person he’d become.

memory unfurled in cal’s mind like a yawning abyss, dank with the stench of things long dead, pitch black encased in stone at the end of everything. yes, he had been here before, in that dark place where dagan now stood alone, trapped inside a blind circle of mistrust and old grief. cal knew the path all too well. he had walked it many a time, in waking dreams and nightmares, retracing the steps of his own failures, his own loss. he’d felt its pull since the moment he crawled over his master’s cooling body, the slow, dizzying descent spiraling down, down, down.   it would lead nowhere.  it had always led nowhere.

              ❝betrayal changed you.  the purge changed me.❞   another step forward, wading through the weight of years; another breath drawn deep.  cal held the man’s pale gaze, probing for something—anything—beyond the wounded resentment, beyond the ruin.   ❝but who are you now, dagan?❞

even as a youngling, cal had been aware of the crushing weight of time in which he existed. the awareness lived inside him like a shadow behind each thought, a constant, little hurt beating away at the back of his mind.  every minute of every hour, every hour of every day, spent wedging himself between unfamiliar faces on bracca, apart and exposed to the haunting margins of half-remembered truths that cut like rusted shrapnel. the cycle was endless, the waiting unbearable.   for that which never came.

for years, he had believed the past had robbed his future, that the loss of the jedi order had carved a hollow space in his heart, a gaping cavity to forever entomb his innermost despair.

                   grief had caged him.  fear had locked the door.

❝i know what it’s like to be angry, to have everything taken from you—❞  a gasp tore the words apart, cal’s hand snapping to his chest as searing pain erupted under his ribs.  it wasn’t his.  not entirely.  standing so close, dagan was a storm—a phantom blade pressing inward—aimless, unfocused anger and sorrow.

gritting his teeth, he lifted his other hand, his fingers trembling above the chasm between them.  if dagan wouldn’t reach back through the force, then maybe a physical connection could ground him, anchor him to something more than this endless spiral.

❝you don’t have to do this alone,❞ cal continued tightly, his voice carrying a measure of stark desperation beneath all that tenacity.  ❝i had people who pulled me back from the edge.  please.  let me do the same for you.❞

──✶adventure prompts/dialogue

"You know, I heard you speaking with Master Yoda the other day." His tone is just short of confident and, for a moment, he wonders if he was even heard at all against the raging monsoon. Castilon is a hostile planet and whatever lands aren't already consumed by ocean are at constant war against the rising tides and ever-present storm. Obi-Wan would think it beautiful had they not been caught in the crossfire and separated from their shuttle by an expansive field which might as well be an ocean in itself with two Jedi acting as lone islands. Tempting lightning rods standing out amongst a flat and open terrain.

Normally, Obi-Wan would be willing to throw his chances to the wind and run, but he's not going to risk the life of Dagan, who has only known freedom (if one could even call it that) for a few short months. Dagan, who has been betrayed by his people and treated like a weapon to be pointed and fired. Dagan, who has respectfully obeyed the Council's orders and dove head first into a war he had no part in creating. Dagan, who currently looks rather displeased as he is hurriedly dragged down into a crouch as Obi-Wan—in what he was sure his late Master would dub a frivolous use of the Force—erects a bubble of dry air around them and water hits the invisible barrier, spilling down the sides into shallow pools of mud.

"About relocating the Order." To many, it would be a treasonous thought and to Obi-Wan, it's a wistful fantasy. They should be able to and in theory they could, but their reality is just too entangled. The Jedi receive most of their funding from the Republic, the Republic shields the Jedi from public scrutiny, all their temples are within state borders, and even if the latter were all untrue, they are now the face of their war. There is no where safe for them to go, and certainly no where the Clones could follow.

"You're not going to convince him. You need to get Master Windu on your side first." Though the man is the second youngest member of the High Council, he holds quite a bit more power than Obi-Wan himself. At times, he wonders why he was invited at all if his opinions were to go unheard and if there were still secrets he was not privy to. Dagan's existence is testament enough to how much he still has to learn. About how much reformation their people are going to need.

              𝙷𝙸𝙶𝙷-𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙺,  𝙷𝙸𝙶𝙷-𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚂𝙸𝚃𝚈  𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚂  𝚁𝙴𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴  𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 and tactical assessment weren’t statistical anomalies.  serving as a companion to not one, but two jedi exhibiting a consistent pattern of behavior categorized as “recklessly curious” had resulted in an extensive, ever-growing emergency response log.  regarding cal kestis specifically, BD-1 had long since initiated a standing internal directive default: prepare for worst-case scenarios.  this wasn’t a negative reflection on his human companion, but a practical adaptation to cal’s behavior profile.  BD-1 understood, perhaps better than most, the impulse to seek answers.  it was a compulsion BD-1, himself, recognized—an algorithmic core function.

the difference, of course, lay in protocol structure.  BD-1 possessed embedded self-preservation subroutines within his directives, whereas cal kestis, by all observable metrics, did not.  no other entity was more acutely aware of this discrepancy than BD-1, who had a front-row seat to the many hazards his companion blundered into without hesitation. . .

today presented a recent anomaly that BD-1 struggled to categorize.  cal’s risk tolerance remained unchanged, as did his propensity for navigating koboh’s rugged terrain with minimal forethought.  all behavioral indicators aligned with baseline.  but something had changed.

cal had become distracted over the past several weeks, exhibiting an increase in dissociative behaviors: visual fixations on distant or non-existent focal points, delayed responses, and prolonged periods of silence.  BD-1 cross-referenced this behavioral shift with existing health records.  hormonal fluctuations: unlikely.  sleep cycle irregularities: persistent but stable.  non-invasive psychological scans revealed emotional metrics had elevated, but weren’t anomalous.  nutritional levels remained below optimal, but unchanged from standard.

results: inconclusive. before BD-1 could conduct further analysis to isolate the cause, the chain of events that followed their descent into koboh’s forest proceeded with unprecedented volatility.

initial contact: stormtrooper patrol.  secondary threat: reinforcement squad.  tertiary complication: two nesting mogu. 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙻: 𝙴𝚇𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝙷𝙸𝙶𝙷. escape route intersected with a bilemaw den. 𝙷𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈: 𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴. parental defense response triggered.  cal’s actions: evasive maneuvers, sustained combat. final phase: raider ambush.  heavy resistance.  extended combat duration.  environmental traversal attempt—cliff ascent.  cal’s grip failed. 𝙸𝙼𝙿𝙰𝙲𝚃 𝚅𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙸𝚃𝚈 𝙴𝚇𝙲𝙴𝙴𝙳𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳𝚂. result: unconscious state.

while waiting, BD-1 secured the perimeter, initiated a low-priority camouflage protocol ( sticks and leaf debris placed over cal’s prone form — insufficient, but better than nothing ), then departed to seek help. . . . \\ @d4gangera

he hadn’t stopped running calculations since. what if cal woke up to find BD-1 absent?  would he attempt to locate BD-1 despite injury?  would he perceive BD-1’s absence as abandonment?  anger and fear were frequent emotional responses in human trauma scenarios.  BD-1’s processors cycled faster, extrapolating scenarios: cal going after the raiders, wounded and alone; cal succumbing to internal and external injuries; cal dying in the interval between BD-1’s departure and return.

that possibility—destabilized his processing loop.

the little droid burst into pyloon’s saloon, his high-pitched beeps shrill with alarm, but with the din of shouting patrons, clinking glasses, and music thundering from the stage swallowed his cries whole, no one even looked up. undeterred, BD-1 launched himself onto the bar with a metallic clink, tiny legs knocking against a glass before he steadied himself.  bode: absent.  greez: absent.  monk: swamped behind the counter, arms full of steaming plates.

       BD-1’s head swiveled. there—dagan, settled on the couch against the back wall, partially obscured by a cluster of patrons.  BD-1’s optics flared. dagan gera could help cal kestis. he bounded off the bar, over heads, drinks, and one very confused twi’lek, landing with a thunk on the small round table in front of dagan.

<<BD=𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙! cal=𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎!>> the droid trilled, hopping frantically in place.  <<cal=𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞!>>  when dagan didn’t react quickly enough, BD-1 let out an impatient squeak, spinning in a tight, frustrated circle on the table before leaping directly into the jedi’s lap.

<<BD=𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙! cal=𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜!>> this time, his binary cracked at the edges, distorting almost into reedy whistles as he began butting his head into dagan’s chest.  <<cal=𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍!>>

@d4gangera 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 :: without the splendid nature of robes he recognized as a second skin, there is a nagging sensation of vulnerability. sleeve once neatly tucked is crudely tied, the ball of fabric swings uncomfortably, but he says little in regards to it. the nature of trying to remain tucked into the ebb and flow of midday traffic. the sheer number of bodies makes his skin crawl to some regard, and while dagan can sense the bristle of cal's existence like leering sunshine overhead, the (former ? reformed ? the white-crystal'd saber tucked under layers subtracts a certain level of clarity there) jedi opts to lay gloveless hand against the small of cal's back before fingers wrap loose in the fabric of jacket, icy stare set before them as jaw remains clenched. " i do not like this, " dagan's tone is low, his fingers tighten only slightly in fabric, " there are far too many bodies here, too much risk. "

                𝙲𝙾𝚁𝚄𝚂𝙲𝙰𝙽𝚃  𝙷𝙰𝙳  𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙳  𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴  𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙴  𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃  𝚅𝙸𝚂𝙸𝚃—𝙸𝙵  𝙸𝚃  𝙷𝙰𝙳  𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚃  𝙰𝙻𝙻. the ecumenopolis remained a layered maze of industry and excess, its lower levels smothered beneath the weight of those towering above.  the air was thick with sweat and exhaust, a dense haze of pollution settling into restless streets.  pedestrians hurried along, a faceless tide of movement, while speeders wove through the ordered chaos of the skylanes.  every few moments, a floating holoprojector paddled past, spewing imperial propaganda in stark, impersonal tones—warnings of law and order, of swift consequences for those who defied them.  

a burst of artificial light flared ahead, the garish glow of an oversized holoscreen drowning the street in neon colors.  kestis narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the aurebesh text when a sudden warmth pressed against his lower back.  the touch was firm, unexpected—and not BD-1, who knew to stay tucked inside the knapsack slung over his shoulder.  for a split second, his shoulders tensed, hand already hovering near his saber.

" i do not like this, " dagan's tone is low, his fingers tighten only slightly in fabric, " there are far too many bodies here, too much risk. "

the young knight exhaled, easing the reflexive coil in his limbs as recognition settled in.  turning slightly, he caught the older man’s expression—taut, wary.  there was something unreadable in his eyes, a glint of distress he had yet to voice.  was it the crowd?  the sheer press of bodies in every direction? the subsequent thought almost made cal scoff at himself.  of course, it was the crowd.

dagan gera had spent two centuries in isolation, trapped in bacta, lost to time.  even if coruscant’s skyline had remained unchanged, the experience of civilization—of sound, movement, and overwhelming presence—couldn’t be anything less than unnerving. for a man who had spent entire lifetimes in silence, the noise of the present was no doubt deafening at this point.

cal bit his lip and didn’t stop to analyze the moment.  he acted, guided by an instinct that was as familiar as breath and blood, and slowed his pace enough to ensure dagan wouldn’t have to grip him so tightly, and yield space without leaving the man adrift in the shifting currents of the street.  bodies surged around them, a chaotic undulation, and cal adjusted his position without a word, placing himself between dagan and the densest part of the swarm.  subtle but deliberate.

he cast a glance at the older jedi, tendering a heartening smile.  ❝just focus on me, alright?  we’ll get through this together.❞  an unexpected flutter tugged in his gut—an odd sensation—or a stupid one, really; he wasn’t the one struggling under the mental weight of two centuries of isolation.

                 ❝yeah, i’m not a fan of crowds, either.  too many people, too many chances for something to go wrong. . . ❞  a pause, long enough for the statement to settle.  then, with a teasing lilt, softer now: ❝didn’t think you’d be the one clinging to me, though.❞

@d4gangera | continued from [ x ]

                𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝚆𝙰𝚂𝙽’𝚃  𝙷𝙾𝚆  𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚂  𝙴𝙽𝚅𝙸𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙳  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙾𝚄𝚃.    he’d imagined approaching dagan with the same unassuming charm that so often invited conversation, presenting a broad opening—casual yet inquisitive, interwoven with just enough intrigue.  a deliberate balance, intended to reach beneath the surface without giving the impression of an interloper prying into the life of a jedi long removed from his time.

instead, cal had stumbled over his own question, lost his footing in the exchange, and continued to trip over words as though he hadn’t thought about this moment countless times before. because he had. days of idle thought, devoted to precisely this scenario. granted, most of that thinking happened while bored out of his mind in hyperspace, trapped in the monotony of a supply run from jedha to koboh to tanalorr, so maybe the absence of more pressing concerns had left him too much time to contemplate.  to envision.  to script, again and again, the way it should have gone.

and yet, despite it all, cal’s face brightened with sudden enthusiasm.

             ❝you do?  that’s great!  that’s. . . that’s really great.  because i—uh. . .❞   the young knight hesitated, glancing over his shoulder just as BD-1 whistled excitedly and launched from his perch. the droid’s thrusters sputtered in bursts, then stabilized, guiding him down to tanalorr’s pale soil in a controlled descent.  cal murmured his usual thanks—an absent, familiar habit—and shrugged off his old, well-worn rucksack, dropping it to the ground.

inside, an assortment of seed jars and flowers spilled into view—fresh and dried, vivid and fragile—along with neatly bundled roots, gently cleaned and preserved for planting.

it had taken years to gather. a slow accumulation from distant worlds, collected in moments of reverence amid surrounding chaos, each discovery carefully tucked into the rucksack’s ever-filling pockets.  cal never considered it a possession in the conventional sense, and certainly not something valuable.  yet as he looked down at the years of travel laid out before him, a wave of quiet contentment settled in his chest.  every one of these plants, found by chance—sometimes in wild, untouched places, though more often in the charred remains left behind by the empire—would one day have a new home.   somewhere better.  somewhere safer.

                ❝i guess it’s just. . . i like plants.❞  his voice, softer now, carried no less sincerity as he cradled a clump of damp roots in his hands, his thumb tracing over yellow hairs as if memorizing their delicate form.  ❝i know that probably sounds kind of dumb, but. . .  i’ve seen whole worlds lost.  people, cultures, entire histories—just. . . gone.  it’s easy to feel like nothing good lasts.  but plants. . . they’re stubborn. they grow in the ruins, in the cracks, in the ash.  it’s proof that life doesn’t give up.  and that keeps me grounded.  gives me hope.❞

for a moment, only the hush of tanalorr filled the space between them. BD-1, evidently less patient, hopped in place, then whistled in confusion. cal only rubbed the back of his neck, apprehensive—uncertain. no, he hadn’t decided which one to give dagan. would dagan favor the inisa, an elegant flower with soft, delicate colors?  or would he gravitate toward something wilder, something untamed and defiant, like the sficca with its riotous colors and thorn-laced stems?

❝i thought. . . maybe you’d appreciate that too.❞   the words came quietly, but with less hesitation.  cal exhaled, then extended a cluster of firethorn blossoms—freshly picked from the garden on koboh—toward dagan.  ❝i wanted you to have these.  if you want.  if not, BD-1 and i can always find a nice spot to plant them instead.  i don’t know.  or maybe we could. . . plant some together?❞

no amount of training could have prepared him for the things he saw. by no fault of his master or other jedi masters, paul was left to see things beyond the council’s understanding & when he turned to them for advice they merely listened and pointed him in the ways of meditation. the force would provide him with the answers he needed, but the force was loud. the way it spoke to him often made the things he saw feel more real than they were while it felt as if the force was pushing them deeper into his subconscious. there was a reason for everything he saw.

paul found himself standing in the training room, where younglings & young padawans alike gathered to learn. while no longer a boy, he was still a padawan, he was still welcome in that space. which was why he had sought that room, in particular, to meditate away from the noise of the temple & during a time when no one would be using the room, but in the silence, he heard the force. It grew louder. Images flashed before his eyes, clouding his sight with a haze as he drifted into the darkness of the abyss. it was pulling him under, taking him to another time, another place.

he felt like he was suffocating, but he could still breathe. somehow.

⋆.ೃ ▎@d4gangera sent a prompt. » is there something i should know, padawan?

paul had been lost in the abyss. he failed to notice his master’s approaching footsteps until his voice shattered the darkness around him. 

he swallowed, causing his jaw to tense. his head lowered as his eyes focused on the ground. “ no, master. ”

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