#redemption arc! reader

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE COUNTERATTACK

Many travelers would call Pevera as Felucia’s near twin—due to the vibrant, unusual, and colorful flora, the formidable yet fascinating fauna, and the great lakes that stretched and blotched across the continent. However, it colors begin to fade as the Empire devours it with its shroud.

All of you have gathered in one of the temple ruins that make up for the rebel cell’s meeting halls. Beneb and the fighters settled in the jungle that’s miles away from the capital Ulfin’s boundary. You and Cal listen in on the exchange of the soldiers and Beneb regarding their plan of their counterattack.

The main target? The Imperial outpost that’s been erected at the city.

The operation was quite elaborate for a rebel cell, nevertheless, Beeneb was confident that it was manageable—since he had put his faith on his soldiers to be the good ones, albeit being an interesting medley of misfits.

“We will strike at night—when they are most vulnerable, they’ll be under the impression that nobody will be outside due to the curfew,” Beneb interjects, he raises a finger at you. “[Y/N] will be part of the small division who’s in charge of planting the explosions at the very foundation of the building. The explosion will divert the Imps’ attention to their outpost while we free the captives and our men in their holding camps.”

And the former admiral moves his finger to Cal, “You, on the other hand, will go with the assault division. You’re one of the best fighters I’ve seen, my boy, and we’re gonna need all the brawn we can get until the captives have been freed.”

He never liked this idea not one bit—since its conception, he wasn’t really keen on the thought of having you take on one of the most dangerous tasks of this mission: explosives. You had to talk it out of him just so he’s convinced and reassured that this plan will come through.

At the end of the briefing, Cal pulled you to a secluded spot in the camp: at the side of a tent, which is still slightly in sight of other people around the camp.

“You’ve been uneasy since the start of the briefing,” you point out.

He reasons out his exact sentiments on the plan—he doesn’t like how Jax Beneb planned this whole counterattack.

“It seems risky,”

“Cal, in these times, everything is risky,” you argue. “I was hoping you’d have some trust in me—given that they put me in the explosives team.”

“I do trust you. It’s… It’s the plan I don’t trust,” Cal muttered, strictly within your earshot.

“They’re gonna have to do better if they wanted to kill me off,”

“Don’t joke like that,” he clicked his tongue, apparently ticked.

“I’m not joking,” you shrug your shoulders. “I meant it—I’m not that easy to get rid of, and neither are you.”

Cal fell silent. You had him back to a corner on that one. His eyes were wary of the partisans that passed you by, those pair of green irises shifted from one person to another, avoiding eye contact or greeting them with curt nods and mumbled hey’s and hi’s.

You bring your hand to his cheek, gingerly turning him to face you.

“I know it’s scary, but it’s gonna be okay,” you caress his cheek with the knuckle of your forefinger, he nuzzled his lip to the cushion of your thumb.

That same night, you were restless.

You’re haunted by the vision of red and orange burning blindingly behind your eyes, the rumble felt so surreal you feel the vibration at the soles of your feet, and whatever tension it brought you it was suffocating. Later on, in your nightmare, you’re greeted with the sight of Cal lying flat on the floor, facing up, his face is covered in ash and soot, red marks signify fresh yet minor burns, a streak of blood paints along the side of his face. Meanwhile, you can feel yourself lying right beside Cal’s unconscious—and seemingly dead—body. You want to scream, but you’re mute, with only the sound of a hundred, faceless screams, explosions, and the flaring inferno wrapping around the two of you.

“Cal, please get up…!” you hear your subconscious self beg, your voice cracking as you choke on your own words. You couldn’t even hoist your hand to nudge him, let alone touch.

He doesn’t budge. Embers continue to flutter over a plume of black smoke wafting in your direction.

You jolt up, awake in a cold sweat. Your eyes adjust to the dimness of your tent, lit by a single power lamp, your ears prick up and listen to the cacophony of insects chirping in the sparse vegetation of the outskirts. The bioluminescent sap of the trees flowing underneath the bark glowed around the camp in place of the bonfire that’s been put out for tonight.

Cal shuffled in his bed, he was woken up by your exclamation and shallow, rapid breathing.

“[Y/N], is something wrong?”

“I… Yeah…” you stammered, massaging both sides of your head as you hunched your back. “Bad dream is all… Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep, Cal.”

He hesitated, but did so shortly afterwards. He didn’t close his eyes yet when he laid his back flat on his bed, he tossed to his side facing you, but you returned to your own bed with your back turned to him. Cal watched the steady by labored rise and fall of your shoulders as you coax yourself back to sleep, although you struggled in doing so.

It was a restless night. You literally fought it off by having a quick sparring session with one of the partisans.

Cal approached and leaned against the banister of the pen where you and spar buddy fought. He noticed the sleight of your hand is still intact—the grip around the hilt is firm and secure—but your ankles when buckling seemed flimsy; it’s not that he wanted you to fail, rather he anticipated the likeliness of you fumbling once the opponent lands a blow against your practice rod—which is nothing short of a typical electrostaff with a dead circuit.

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” asked Cal as soon as your sparring was over.

“I’ve caught enough winks. Why?”

“Your form looked off, that’s what,”

“Did I now?”

“Looks like you’re not as confident as you were yesterday,”

“Cal, my nightmare had nothing to do with the counterattack,”

He dismisses it by mouthing the word “Sure” and then the two of continued to talk with the banister between you. Seeing that he is the only person you can confide to with these kinds of dreams, you eventually caved in and narrated everything to him—even the macabre part where you find him lying lifeless next to you and he doesn’t budge.

“Okay, I won’t lie: that is scary.”

“It’s only a dream, Cal, don’t take it so seriously,”

“For a while there, you sounded like you did,”

“Well, it felt real—but that doesn’t mean I believe it,”

The bickering ended before the tension would even rise. Even if neither of you are talking about it, there’s always something that reminds you of it—anything was a potential stimulus: the campfire evoked the images of the burning light that seared your eyes, the collective voices of the fighters gradually melding together into one indistinct voice reminded you of the faceless screams.

This went on for the rest of the day, even during a recap meeting with Jax and the partisans. After that short meeting, you were led by one of the partisans who will handle the explosives with you on the day of the operation.

“Come on, we’ll teach you how the detonators work,”

“O-Okay…”

The partisan sensed the warble in your tone, she chuckled, although not to offend. The adult woman clapped your shoulder and slung her arm around it, hauling you to her side.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, little spark! You’ve got enough time to run away from it before the Imps could even realize it exists!”

The inferno had died down, sated of the metal and flesh that it had devoured upon its blistering wake.

In the rubble, you lay there half-dead, perhaps half-awake. Though in this case, did it even matter which half is which?

Your eyelids slowly opened, particles of dirt that seated along the lining of your eyes made it hard for you to open them. You can’t make of your current location, though the last thing you remember is the heat boiling under your feet while the fire catches up to the elevator while you recovered your strength, the speed of the turbolift cell in a nerve-racking race against the cascading flame, and throwing yourself out of the elevator the very split second the door opened.

“Am I dead…?” your voice was dead quiet that it’s almost as if your subconscious was the one speaking. You asked yourself, still as a stone in where you lie. “Is there something broken?”

The former’s answer was no. Air still entered your lungs.

A few more blinks and the dust had cleared off of your lashes; your field of vision is filled with the monotonous shade of brown, gray, and black mingling together, with specs of glowing red embers floating about the clouds of smoke wafting over you. No heavy debris fell on you, but bodily movement is limited, the only thing you can move is your head. The dust and smoke constantly pricked your eyes that you couldn’t keep them open for long.

You hear footsteps, heavy and slow, you search the person only to find a silhouette closing in on you. When it got close enough, he bent down but you still couldn’t recognize whoever this was.

“C-Cal…?”

The shadow didn’t speak, except a baritone growl rumbled out of him. He stands back up and vanished from your line of sight. The next thing you know, you feel two arms hooking under your shoulders, dragging you out of the debris, bumping into a slab of concrete or metal here and there. He didn’t notice that the bracelet you wore, now scorched to the point that the thread has split and fell to the ground as he towed you.

A few inches of being dragged across the floor later, the hulking figure adjusted himself and lifted you up to his shoulder, carrying you like a sack. It didn’t last long though, the stranger had settled you in a hovering gurney, you felt it sink as it accepted your weight and then rise again to its default level; while you’re still clinging onto the last string of consciousness, a pair of voices—distinguishably female and male, the latter being the one who pulled you out of the rubble. You didn’t know that these were the other Inquisitors who were sent to the scene.

As they conversed, their words faintly trailed in your head to the walls of your skull. You could only hear and listen, but you’re too weak to bob your head slightly to the side to look at them. Their words echoed as you stare into the charred ceiling of the stronghold.

“…Sure she’s alive? The… will have to… about…” the female voice echoed.

“Found her… utility lobby… Can’t find him…” the male replied.

“Alive too… from the fire…”

Their butchered conversation—at least in your own perspective—eventually blocked off as you slowly lose consciousness. The gurney hovers and then pushes forward, following the trail of the female and male Inquisitors—namely the Seventh Sister, a skinny Mirialan—and the Fifth Brother who’s a tall humanoid with gray skin.

They escort you, along with the Second Brother who barely escaped the fire but still managed to maintain a pulse, out of the site and into the transport waiting for them in the far southern side of the stronghold.

The Mirialan examined your comatose-like state. Past through the soot and grime smeared across your cheeks, the streak of dried blood from your forehead to your temples, the reddening of your face due to the extreme heat—she thought it’s actually a miracle that you even survived.

“You sure look though,” the Mirialan female commented.

“Let’s see if the Master is just as impressed as we are,” the Fifth Brother added.

-----

Cal, Larki, and Morzen arrived to the site. Unbeknownst to the boys, the Inquisitors have beat them to it in their endeavor. The fires have lessened in size, not as bad as the initial blast. Some areas of the stronghold were accessible and can be safely traversed. Cal hopped off of his speeder, followed by Larki and Morzen, and the boys hindered the reckless, eager ginger by calling out his name—stopping him in his tracks to give him his own set of protective gear: a breathing mask with a filter tube and a complementary pair of goggles.

“Ready?” Larki confirms the other two as they all donned the gear.

They enter the stronghold through a gaping hole created by the explosion. Prior to going any further, Cal divided the areas per person—taking into consideration your last known location, according to his radar, the path that you took in and apparently out. But since the building has been partially obliterated, the three boys had to think of another way in certain areas.

“Larki, see if you can find your way to the reactor chamber. Morzen, check if there are any other paths created by the blast for survivors to pass through,” Cal instructed. “I’ll head to the annex, or whatever’s left of it.”

The trio split, Cal had masterfully distributed the areas per man; Larki was a tad bit leaner and smaller—give that he’s the youngest among them—so it gives him an advantage to slip through gaps and crawlspaces, on the other hand, Morzen was heavily-built young man. Whether or not it was by coincidence or by pure observation, Cal had tact in dividing the party.

Cal trekked through the remains of the annex, the floor and a good portion of the walls remained intact—although charred and torn open by the impact of the bomb—and the heat from the nearby fires was enough to make him sweat. Fortunately for him, the mask protected his lungs from the dangerously-thick smoke.

“Mind your head, BD-1,” Cal warned.

Cal squeezed his way through the gap between a wall and a fallen metal ceiling beam leaning against it. He ducked and crawled, then landed on fours for a safe landing. He was feeling goof, albeit a little out of place to be so, because he’s hopeful that you’re still alive; rather, he convinced himself that you were, for he could still feel a trace of your presence even though it was gradually getting fainter by the minute.

“Bee-woo…” BD-1 suddenly hopped down from Cal’s shoulder and skittered towards the debris, flashing his light and peeking over small to see if you were in the other side.

There was nothing much Cal could find, so he decided to further investigate in another spot. He navigated the ruins, he followed his instincts to go to the reactor chamber where Larki ought to be; as he ran along the way, his comm rang.

“Cal, do you copy? It’s Larki,”

“I copy, Larki. Did you find anything?”

Cal detected the hesitation in Larki’s voice. He demanded Larki to respond.

“I’m gonna send you my coordinates, meet me there,”

“Where are you right now?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of utility lobby. Just come through, I’ve already radioed Morzen. He’s on his way too,”

Cal had a bad feeling about this. BD-1 received Larki’s coordinates after popping out his little satellite dish, promptly, he flashed the holomap in front of Cal. The young Jedi’s eyes trailed from his current location to a portion of the map colored in yellow, there was a significant, vertical gap between him and his destination—he would have to find a way down.

“Not too far away,” he mumbled under his breath.

Without a moment’s hesitation he sprinted through the corridor, navigating through the ruins to find the quickest way down. At the end of the corridor, the edge of it had been bombed off and torn apart, but Cal looked around to see if he can use anything to his advantage. Hanging on another set of beams over his head is a cable coiled around it, he pulled it out using the Force and rappelled down.

He checked the map again and saw that the distance had shrunk. He struggled to remain optimistic, he could still feel your trace, but it’s becoming nothing more than a wafting swirl of smoke. Cal and Morzen arrived nearly at the same time, but the latter came from the eastern side and circled his way to Larki’s meeting point.

“Look at this place,” Larki gasped in full disbelief of the sheer damage that their bombs have wrought. He gestured at his surroundings with open arms.

The three of them investigated the entire area. Morzen climbed a mountain of rock and metal only to find the chunky remains of the structure. Had there been more bombs planted here, then this structure wouldn’t last for a search party to even go through—that’s what the young man thought. Larki, on the other hand, surveyed the fallen columns that once were the great energy reactors; he dared to step closer to the banister and peek over it, he saw the ground level of the chamber—he couldn’t see anything that would resemble life.

“Looks like we’re not finding anything down there,” Larki commented.

“I sense something, though I can’t explain it,” Cal said to no one in particular.

“You think [Y/N] could still be here?”

“Like I said, Larki, it’s difficult to explain. It’s like… she’s here but she’s not… I know I felt her…”

As Cal continued to ponder and muse about your faint trail that he’s picked up ever since he got here, Morzen continued to search in the rubble; nothing caught his eye—save for a single bracelet lying around. The silvery finish had been dirtied by the grime, the cord had been charred in the middle for it to tear—leaving the torn ends of it as black as coal, contrast to its original beige.

Morzen couldn’t make of the bracelet, but he still considered it a clue.

“Look,” he uttered, catching the two’s attention. He nestled the bracelet gently on the flat of his palm as he approached the two standing by the banister that overlooks the pillars.

Cal almost didn’t want to see what was in Morzen’s hand, because a part of him already knew what it was—he just didn’t make peace with it yet—and when the boy’s hand angled to show the trinket resting on his palm, Cal’s eyes widened.

“Oh Cal… Isn’t that…?” Larki sighed, he felt his heart sink when the only clean spot of the silver pendant shone against the firelight.

He hovered his hand towards the bracelet, Morzen patiently waited for Cal to take it—what neither of these two boys understand is Cal’s Psychometry: if he touches that bracelet of yours, he will never be ready to accept what he will see, hear, and feel.

“Beee…” BD cooed sadly, worried of Cal’s anxiety.

Cal sucked it in, then snatched the bracelet off of Morzen’s hand—a tad bit harshly rather—and the wave of the Force Echo was overwhelming, coming from a tiny trinket such as this.

The blazing inferno roared in his eardrums, he could almost feel the searing heat burning through his sleeves. The sounds of your labored breathing as you struggled to haul yourself out of harm’s way—while being severely injured at that—matched with Cal’s breathing, his body has mimicked the exhaustion taking its toll on your body. His ankles buckled and then failed, he submits to the floor while trapping your bracelet in his fist—this reaction startled Larki and Morzen, they took a step closer but stopped by Cal himself as he continues to absorb the Force Echo—and the last thing he saw was the debris falling over you as the fire caught on. He saw the last few images in your eyes—he felt you lying flat on your back as the rubble shrouded your vision in pure darkness and the bracelet slipping off of your hand.

The singular twanging of the silver pendant against the metal floor was the stimulus that snapped Cal back to reality. The exact same trace of you that he’s been desperately holding on had suddenly disappeared. When he opened his eyes, he saw Larki and Morzen gawking at him, both confused and expecting an answer from the Jedi.

“Cal…?” Morzen softly murmured, sensing the overwhelming stress within his companion.

Cal’s next action further confused the two: he frantically searched the utility lobby, past Larki and Morzen’s shoulders, and took big breaths in a rapid pace that his breathing mask fogged in between sobs. The embers twinkled red against the tears appearing along the rim of his eyes.

“No, she… SHE WAS ALIVE!! I FELT IT!” Cal growled ferociously.

He stared back at the little bracelet resting on his tremoring hand, the tears that had been welling up in his eyes while being stuck in his Psychometry trance eventually wetted the bracelet and his open palm. They continuously fell like rain. He couldn’t believe it. He refused to.

The plan's going swimmingly. Cal hasn't been caught yet.

He had sensed that Cere prayed he needn't to use his saber prior to his inevitable stand-off with you. So far, he's keeping true to that prayer. He carves a path to the nearest entrance he can find, from there, he discovers the southern exit; taking the posted Stormtroopers by surprise, he incapacitated them quickly befire they even realize what's standing in front of them.

"Cere, I'm in the building—I went through the southern entrance," Cal softly spoke through his comm.

"Copy, I found my way in the eastern wing," Cere explains that she managed to get her hands on one of the computers, splice it and fish out a lot of info. "I'm patching in the map to you, BD should've picked up the file by now."

Instinctively, BD-1 flashes the holomap in the air as soon as he received the data; it shows the locations of Cere, Cal, and their two respective destinations—the medical bay where the child is kept and the hangar where the presumed transport ship should be parked. There's a large, empty gap between where Cal stood and the hangar itself.

"I'm looking at the map now. There's a bit of distance to the hangar, it's on the upper levels too," he softly trailed off at the last word.

Cere noted the fading out of his voice, afraid that she's lost contact, "Cal?"

The boy blinked several times to return to reality. He stutters in his apology for spacing out.

"What's wrong?"

Finally, he opens up about his theory about the transport ship, he adds the lone TIE Fighter he spotted earlier and the underlying possibility that the pilot is you—not knowing that you really are. Cere considers the theory but preferred to go with the original plan; if the transport is truly a decoy, then they'll have to move fast in catching up to you before you even hop into the TIE Fighter with the child—assuming that your TIE Fighter is in a completely different hangar.

The silence of their conversation's conclusion was followed by the gloomy, ominous humming of the corridor that laid in front of Cal's eyes. The stale air that entered his lungs put a tugging weight on him, this place carries a certain degree of corruption that it's simply foreboding to anybody—most especially the Jedi. The sole thought of rescuing you is what kept Cal going; he stalked through the corridor, feeling for any activity in the intersections before going around the next corner.

Eventually, he's halfway into his destination but it seems Cere still hasn't put her diversion in motion. 

Cal peeks over the corner to find a cluster of Stormtroopers—a mix of regulars and scouts—in his path. Two scouts block the path midway while the rest of them stay by the door at the end. He hugs the wall, tugs the saber off of his belt, he stares at the weapons around his clammy fingers; after one deep breath, he bolted out of nowhere and rammed his way through, the dazed troopers barely made a proper aim—some cut close to Cal, others he banked right away. 

"It's a Jedi!" One trooper yelped the obvious.

The redheaded Jedi spotted one of the troopers making a run for a button on the wall. Outstretching his arm with his open palm, he hauled that particular trooper away from the button and then towards him, within a saber's reach he was cut down.

"I can't do this by myself!" The surviving scout trooper whimpered out loud, the warble in his voice huffing through his helmet.

The poor scout braved in charging towards Cal, charging up the electric current on his baton, but was denied a shot by a single, successful parry and then the Jedi followed up with an attack—cutting the enemy down instantly. He now stands before a large, sealed door, he checks the map once more and sees the distance between him and the hangar has shrunken. In the next second, a blaring alarm howling across the complex startled him.

"That ought to be Cere, I hope she has the kid."

Upon opening the door, Cal discovers the elevator lobby—which also serves as a control room. Two troopers had their backs turned to him, manning the computers, while a single KX security droid paces back and forth but its scanners immediately detect Cal's presence—causing its head to jerk to the boy's direction, while its emotionless eyes lit up the moment it saw Cal, the troopers felt the abrupt rise of tension and were alerted by the sight of a Jedi in the room.

"Inferior Jedi!" The KX droid monotonously groaned as it raises a pair of fists, ready to swing it down and bash the Jedi's skull.

Fortunately, Cal evaded the clobber and singes the droid's leg joints, literally bringing it to its knees. Shielding itself with its arms proved useless as the Jedi slices the torso in half, leaving only himself and the troopers. The skirmish was done in five minutes, the boy scrambles to the elevator and slams the button of the hangar's floor number. As the turbolift ascends, Cal takes the time to check on Cere, he kept calling, but there was no answer and he gives up when the elevator gradually slowed down.

The rumble signaled that he's reached his destination, the narrow door retracted into the frame, revealing Cal the vast space of the hangar—each wall was lined with light to medium ships, sitting at the center of the hangar is a transport ship, his ears prick up at the faint wailing of a child.

"Oh no…" he thought. "Cere's too late!"

He ran to the ship, the wailing got louder, then his eyes widened at the discovery: a comlink lies on the floor of the entry ramp, a prerecorded soundbite of the cry plays on loop.

It's a trap!

Behind his head, the baritone humming of a spinning saber flings itself towards him, he spun and deflected it at the nick of time—returning it to the sender: you, perched atop the hangar platform, waiting for your prey to take the bait and then strike. You catch your saber in mid-air while descending from the upper platform with a feathery grace. Striding closer to him, he sees you completely without the helmet for the first time: hair fashioned into an elaborate braid, the tail rests on one shoulder, and loose, wispy fringes frame your face.

"I see you've set off my trap," you pointed out, holding the saber close to your face.

"I knew you'd pull a stunt like that!"

Your eyes lit up, impressed with Cal, "Well, you've become quite smarter than I expected!"

Both Inquisitor and Jedi circled slowly against one another, not knowing who's chasing whom, gentle threats exchange with pleas of coming home only to be received with a hard "no," the tension grows in this wide, open space. Cal decides it's now or never, he attempts to talk it out of you.

"[Y/N], let's come home,"

"This is my home."

He hints at the somber tone of your sentence, almost as if you don't mean it at all, and he believed the insincerity of those words. You mask the denial by making the first move in the fight. The swirl of blades caught Cal off-guard, resulting to a flimsy block on his end; he moved away from the ship, luring you into the wider space for a better fight,  not that it changes much on each other's chances of winning this skirmish.

You barely paused from moving—a tireless lightning rod in human form—the swordfight pressed on in the hangar. For each time Cal struggled to put some distance between you so he can take a second to breathe, you always caught up to him—your frenzied eyes were always the first thing he notices the moment you start to dart towards him, with your arm prepped for an overhead strike and ready to attack. The strike lands, you withdrew and quickly follow up with another—thrusting your saber, he parried it with a subpar flourish and you staggered him with a strong Force push.

The boy flies to the farther side of the room, in your peripheral vision his lightsaber clatters away from him, his hand desperately pats the floor in search of the weapon while he had his eyes glued to you—closing the space at a fast rate. Still lying on his back, he affords a split second to catch a glimpse of his saber and pull it towards him; his own blade hovers mere inches above his neck when your strike landed as you crouch on top of him, bearing your weight on him while you've got him pinned down.

"I almost kind of like this position!" You crowed mischievously.

"[Y/N], please!" He pleaded again.

Without your helmet, Cal saw the life in your eyes better—if he saw wrath the first time, now he sees the misplaced anger and sorrow, the exact same feeling he found during his meditation. He even spots a hint of pink swelling beneath the rims of your eyes.

Has she been… crying? He pondered in that small window of time.

"You don't have to do this—your pain isn't strength!"

Your eyes flared again, but with denial you bellowed, "You don't understand the power that the Dark Side has given me!"

Generously, you withdrew, flipping away from him and landing in the same cat-like grace, giving him a chance to scramble back up on his feet. There was a time for a breather, enough for both. Again, the two of you slowly circle one another while a hostile air hangs over your heads, you point your saber at him.

"I didn't want to be as weak as I was before," you gesture your arms wide open. "And here I am."

"The [Y/N] I know was never weak to begin with,"

You paused in your tracks, slowly angled your head to face Cal, absorbing the empathetic gentleness in his voice. He could make his way through your heart faster than you could build a wall between the two of you. Unconsciously, the atmosphere seems to turn docile.

"I hate it when you patronize me!"

As quick as lightning, you attempt to execute a dashed strike but this time, Cal was prepared for it and he had been anticipating such an attack—he's been reading your every move up until you paused to banter with him. You strike again.

One.

Two.

Slash.

And another.

You jab, but he blocks. Another, and he prevails.

Eventually, he gathered enough strength and momentum, and became at par with the pace and dexterity of your technique. The clashing of sabers became more violent and heavier as the moves from both Jedi and Inquisitor became more pronounced—a contest of brute force. This sudden burst of strength wasn't much of a surprise, you keep up the assault and Cal surely isn't backing down—nor does he plan to.

A single beep of his comlink rings, "Cal, the child is secure! I'm coming for you!"

Cal saw your wide, aghast eyes glimmering with fear and panic, and perhaps a desperation that translates to "I need that child back!" which he felt all at once in that piercing glare when you shot him a look—with your bared teeth and furrowed eyebrows. Heeding to your lessons you, weaponized your emotions against the Jedi, you became a dagger in the wind—amplifying the heaviness of your strikes when it lands and the litheness of your body when eluding his saber.

Cere comes rushing into the hangar, saber and blaster in each hand, reassuring Cal in mere seconds that the child has been brought home.

"The Mantis should be on its way here by now," Cere whispered, her voice shuddered at the words.

She glanced to her side and then fixated her eyes to you—dressed in Inquisitor's garments from the neck down. In your periphery, you saw her blaster hand tremble with fearful disbelief; a secretive smirk played on the corner of your lip, as if to ridicule her shock, her first-time reaction amused you.

"Long time, no see, Cere." You crooned.

"[Y/N], good gods…"

"Oh come now, don't act so surprised. This is your second time anyway!"

A second Jedi wasn't any difficult, thought it's a fresh challenge instead of the typical one-on-one.

"Amazing, I get the privilege of seeing a cut-off Jedi fight firsthand!"

During Cere's attack that you held in a block, you examined Trilla's hilt up close—she had likened it with her old hilt by covering the sleeve with leather wrappings—you glanced at yours in its original form: blood red beams gleaming menacingly on either end, mingling with the purified, ice white blades.

You had to give Cere some credit, even after all these years of being voluntarily cut off from the Force, her muscle memory of combat is intact, incorporating her rugged style with a blaster.

"Impressive," you hummed after a parrying strike, and then another. She quickly switched to her blaster and shot twice, much to her dismay you've banked them seamlessly. "Most impressive."

Cere comes charging at you, ready for a jab, and you'd parry; just when Cal thought you have your attention to her, he attacks—more or less, attempt to—from behind but you duck and twirl, evading his lightsaber and planting a kick on his shin. This dynamic of alternating between the two Jedis lasted for more than a minute, a medley of attack patterns used against you—a handful of which have dealt damage on you, some missed you, but you enjoyed this death-defying thrill, it livened you up in this dull hangar.

Your mischievous, insidious grin stretched across your face melted when the entire hangar rumbled under your boots, explosions roared behind your ears; while holding your ground, you turned to find the source of the sound and found portions of the building are being reduced to shrapnel and inferno. Cere steals your smile and paints it with triumph on; you're not even that mad, you shoot her with a snarl of your lip, catching on with her little game, all the while impressed.

"Oh joy, you'll experience how I actually nearly died!"

You pulled away violently from the tangle of blades, pommeled Cere across the jaw with your own hilt, and pushed her at a certain distance.

"[Y/N]!!"

As the ceiling above your heads crumbled and rained dust, your lightning-fast flurry of the lightsaber did not waive; the boy didn't want to be outmatched—he cannot afford to, now that they're all standing inside a building on the verge of collapse—his dexterity and nimbleness spiked, adapting to your own caliber. Cal wanted to finish this as soon as possible, and he had to think fast; in his peripheral vision, he sees Cere bringing herself back up on her feet, dazed from your hit across her face, and then understood the gravity of her damage.

The garrison begins to collapse, any moment the entire roof will fall over your heads if neither Jedi nor Inquisitor shall stand victorious in this duel. In a final, colossal clash of lightsabers, both youngsters were encased in the sheen of their luminous weapons.

“[Y/N], come on, let’s go home,” Cal pleads once more.

“I can’t—” you choked, tears didn’t hide themselves from Cal, they streamed down your cheek as the stability of your grip fluctuated—influenced by the medley of emotions storming every fiber of your being. “I don’t belong there anymore!”

Despite the sheer intensity, Cal’s voice remained soft and gentle to you, as it always has. In a last-minute resort, he encourages, “You always have belonged with us, and we’re waiting for you to come home.”

Another tear streaks your face, your eyelids drooped, and then spoke in the most defeated, somber tone.

“It’s too late for me now, Cal.”

The crumbling ceiling groans, your eyes roll up and saw the reinforcement beam give way to two colossal chunks of debris plummet in a 50-foot drop from the ceiling straight down to a docked TIE Fighter.

“CAL, LOOK OUT!”

He didn’t fully see your reaction at the last minute; you pull him in and then push him away, but in turn,you got yourself closer to the blast radius. The hot wind picked you up into the air and flung your to the floor like a ragdoll, hitting your head upon landing, rendering you unconscious.

“[Y/N], NO!”

A sharp, piercing noise shrilled in Cal’s ears—all the other noises and voices are reduced to echoing gibberish, even Cere’s calling of your names—straight ahead, he saw you lying unconscious on the floor, covered in debris. He desperately crawled towards you, blatantly ignoring the hollow calls ringing behind his ears; he cradled you in his arms, ignoring the crackling heat flaring near his cheeks.

“[Y/N], come on…” he stuttered. “[Y/N], stay with me… I’m not leaving you a second time!”

He shakes you to coax you into waking up, he could’ve sworn he felt your body shuffle in reaction, he placed his forefinger and middle finger on your neck and found a pulse. He snaps his fingers and BD pops out a stim, he injects it straight into the flesh of your upper arm—you jolted and sucked in a lot of air at the same time, as if emerging into the surface from underwater.

Indeed, you were alive, but relatively weakened by the blast. Your voice saying Cal’s name was drowned out by the roaring flames and the thundering collapse of the garrison.

“Cal, we have to go now!”

Bursting with adrenaline, he scoops you up into his arms and followed Cere to the escape route; evading all the explosions as much as possible and keeping the enemy encounters to a minimum. Although, the evacuees are confused whether to engage the intruders—and presumably, in their heads, rescue the Inquisitor from the Jedi, but they’re felled by either the blasts or Cere’s blaster.

Speeding through the corridors, Cere led Cal to an open docking platform. The Mantis waits at the edge of the catwalk in a fly-by, lightly swerving to dodge blaster fire from the ground, and the entry ramp hangs open.

“Come on, you guys!” shrieked Greez.

Merrin waited by the frame of the entry ramp, the strong wind of the ship and the environment whip her fringes as she feels for balance while getting farther out. On the other hand, Cere and Cal—with you still in his arms—are almost to the edge of the catwalk.

“Come on, you have to jump!” cried out Merrin from the ramp.

Cal assessed the gap between the platform and the ship, it was a risky jump—one miscalculated step equaled to a hundred-foot doom.

“They’re gaining on us!” Cal screeched.

“You go on ahead, I’ll cover you and catch up!”

The boy paced back for momentum, buckled his knees when he slightly crouched, he fixed his grip tighter on you, and trusted his heels as he propelled the balls of his feet off the floor. The Mantis hovers at a considerable height by the edge of the catwalk that won’t send anyone hanging onto the edge of the ramp for dear life.

The soles of his boots planted flat on the metal floor and briskly trotted inside, settling you down gently on the couch, and then he joins Merrin by the ramp, watching Cere blast at the incoming Stormtroopers.

“Cere, let’s go!”

The woman produced a detonator out of her belt pouch and set it off. As a finisher, she gathered all the strength in her throwing arm, the bomb rolled towards the Stormtroopers’ feet and encased them in a cloud of fire and smoke. She quickly turned tail and made the jump, she scrambled on fours to get inside the ship and Cal slams the door button once she’s in.

“Punch it, Greez!”

The forgers at the Imperial armory fashioned your mask with a hybrid of square and triangular accents. Meanwhile, you donned the ash-gray ensemble that goes underneath your armor plates. In the set, you’re granted a pair of pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves to go with the calves of your pants, and a breastplate with a red stripe along at the hem. They all fitted like a glove.

The piece de resistance is all that’s left.

You watched the Imperial armor technician weld and solder the helmet until it morphed into their ideal, desired shape. Sparks flew, shimmered to light the room, and then die out almost instantly. Bit by bit, you’re starting to see his artistic vision realized.

“I do not discriminate. Newcomer or otherwise, I put a lot of attention to detail in all of my crafts,” the technician thought out loud, perhaps sensing your curiosity and worry that it might not look as good as the others.

“I’m sure you do, considering how many we are right now,”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether there’s dozens of you. I can make one unlike the other—always.”

He harrumphed a scoffing laugh as a response, taking pride in his declaration before continuing.

The armor technician has finished the shaping phase, next he lets it sit for a minutes before cooling it with vapor. You watched the whole process with great intent and curiosity, at the same time, it’s as though you’re watching your new face being created right in front of your very eyes.

He gingerly took the helmet in both of his hands, cradling it with an esteemed carefulness—treating it with royalty and high regard, for crafting an Inquisitor’s mask was a heavy yet rewarding task to complete. This particular forger was an expert crafter, he hand-designed and sculpted most if not all Inquisitors’ helmets and masks. Feeling the weight of yours in his hands, he carefully stepped away from his smelter and toward you; like a monarch’s crown, he presented it to you and inched it closer for you to take it.

“Twelfth Sister,” addressed the armorer.

The gloss of the duraplast once cooled distorted your reflection on its convex surface. A part of you doesn’t recognize this face, the other acknowledges it but doesn’t accept the reality—at least not yet.

From the armorer’s hand to yours, the helmet rests in its rightful owner’s grasp. You hoist it to the top of your head and then lowered it once you’ve aligned it. One moment, your eyes were shrouded by black, and then the next thing you know you’re seeing red—literally—through the visor of your helmet, though you see things as clearly as you’d normally do.

“It’s a perfect fit,” you said blankly, although the comment delighted the armorer very much.

He bowed and returned to the front of his smelter, he’d afford small glimpses of you getting used to the helmet. From your end, there were functions that you’re new to—such as infrared scanning—and there were buttons disguised as accents on the side of the mask that respond to these features.

“Interesting,” you mouthed to yourself, not caring whether the armorer heard it or not.

You tried breathing through the mask, fortunately for you, this won’t hinder the strenuousness of your fighting style—let alone movements in general—as well as catching your breath. For a moment, it’s as though the same world was unraveled before you with brand new eyes—ones that stopped fighting the hatred and used it as strength, rage that blinds yet helps you see with great clarity, the intoxication to power was a permanent leech on your skin and you relished it.

Now completely outfitted in your Inquisitor’s garbs, you make your exit out of the armorer’s chamber and head out to join your “brothers and sisters” in conference. Being the newest, therefore the lowest in rank, the crew and Stormtroopers have mixed feelings about you—though you could care less.

They looked at you with curious yet skeptical eyes as you strode past them. You arrived in the conference hall, heads turned to the door at the sound of the sharp, metallic buzz and then revealed you standing on the other side.

“Ah, the newbie, right on time!” the male Twi’lek Inquisitor chirped, his pointed porcelain white teeth standing out of his glistening, obsidian-black skin.

You stepped in, took that one gap in the line and seemed to have closed the circle surrounding the holotable. You didn’t miss much of the briefing, though they picked up where they left, you intently studied all the holographs that are flashed on the table: battle tactics, ship routes, and person profiles. You listened to the Second Brother explain everything down to the last detail; you saw what kind of person  he is when the two of you aren’t swinging your sabers at each other’s neck, trying to kill one another.

The next part of his presentation included a whole collection of head shots. He explains that they are the current, surviving Jedi across the galaxy. The images of unnamed faces encircled the holotable and slowly rotated for each and every one to see. Below their portraits are short, bulleted write-ups of the latest reports about them: be it last known locations, current agendas, potential accomplices, and recent activities.

After the one you’re looking at, the next one made you quiver in your armor—you can spot that splash of red hair, a naïve freckled face, that boyish charm and a scrapper’s roguishness from a parsec away.

Cal’s head shot rotated and froze right in front of you; blank, jade eyes blending in with the fluorescent blue of the holograph as it stared through your helmet’s visor.

The most crucial part of your past life stares back at you.

The male Twi’lek, namely the Fourth Brother, noticed you in the corner of his eye, sensed your uneasiness and discovered your intrepidity replaced with a sudden, dramatic loss of self-confidence. The Second Brother continued his exposition.

“According to our latest intel, these are the Jedi currently in hiding. Some of them are so bold enough to join factions, such as the traitor—the former admiral Jax Beneb who made with a faction in Ulfin,”

“This one, Cal Kestis, joined them not too long ago. He travels with the Mantis crew comprised of its pilot, a Lateron named Greez Dritus, the right-hand and former Jedi Cere Junda, and… er… a witch. We don’t know the latter’s background, we can only confirm she’s Dathomirian.”

“She’s called a Nightsister,” you corrected the Second Brother.

“He and his crew got themselves involved with the uprising in Ulfin,” the Fifth Brother continued.

“Until the Imperial fortification was bombed—no thanks to Twelfth Sister right here.” The Seventh Sister finished with a voice of chagrin and sarcasm.

There were soft gasps and quiet murmurs amongst the other Inquisitors who apparently had no prior knowledge.

“In my defense, I wasn’t one of you that time,” you dryly chuckled before adding. “Took a few good voltages before you broke me, eh Seventh Sister?”

Feeling outclassed, Seventh Sister rolled her eyes and avoided eye contact from you. The sight of her furrowed eyebrows and the crease on the side of her nose warranted a satisfied, mischievous smirk. You bobbed your head at an angle while the next head shot proceeded, and then Cal’s image rotated to the female red-skinned humanoid with cropped brown hair on your left—this one is known as the Eighth Sister.

Second Brother continued with his plan, catching everyone’s attention by clearing his throat and getting back to the objective at hand. The point was to fan out to selected planets and systems where the Jedi stragglers ought to be and hunt them down—which is their original prerogative ever since the Inquisitorius was formed. Before anyone else could call it, you pressed a button which prompted the ring of head shots to spin wildly until the picture of Cal glows right in front of you.

“I’ll find him, along with Cere Junda,”

“Pheh! Hey, who says you get to have first dibs?!” the Eighth Sister screeched.

“Do you know them like I do?” you raised your voice against her and you were met with a stifled silence due to the lack of a good answer. “You’d be more productive in recovering junk parts salvaged by Jawas than finding the Mantis crew and the Jedi boy!”

The same silence hung around the holotable. You seem to have a knack in making anyone who spoke against you to hold their tongues. It seems everyone was waiting for you to elaborate on your rationale.

“I know the pilot’s flying tactics as well as Cere Junda’s technical tinkering that go hand-in-hand. The Nightsister is not to be underestimated lest you won’t be meeting her good side; and her powers exceed urban legend—she can cloak a ship like a normal cloaking device would, she can raise the dead, she can bury you alive six feet under without even touching a hair on you. That’s how potent her magick is. The boy, on the other hand, I know the most—his fighting, his emotions. Point is: I’m the best chance in finding them.”

You glanced left and right, searching for an objecting reaction from the Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, and then looked straight into Second Brother’s eyes.

“And you can’t deny that, Second Brother. So do the two right beside you.”

The rest of the Inquisitors turn to the Second Brother for his reply, he gave in and he cannot deny that cold, hard fact—that you were once in connivance with these people. And so, you’re granted with your chosen targets; the others followed suit in selecting which Jedi to go after.

—–

Cal wakes up in a cold sweat again. It has become a frequent occurrence, an unwanted habit that he’s trying so hard to kill.

The weeks turned into months, he’s honestly lost count that he had to ask someone else.

They’ve moved on from Jax Beneb’s rebel faction and went off-world. At first, it was difficult convincing the boy that they had to go and leave the planet, as there’s nothing coming back to him as much as he hoped, and whatever he’s waiting for is just dead air. He had developed a destructive habit of drowning himself in trances—he’s practically returned to where he was before: where he loses control in meditation, doing so has distorted his subconscious vision; he eats only once a day—sometimes not at all—and locks himself up in his room. BD-1 is his only companion through and through, but not even the tiny droid can get a word out of the Jedi boy.

The bracelet, your bracelet, is now worn around his wrist; but in the first time he’s secured it on his arm, the leather cord felt like it was burning and searing through his skin, but when others would take a look at it there’s nothing out of the ordinary. The metal pendant, with the scorch marks obscuring the finish, felt like a red-hot branding iron on his arm, his hand twitched and jerked, yet he couldn’t bring himself to swat away or rip the trinket off.

He hated the pain, but it was the only comfort he knew of remembering you by.

A self-imposed penance.

He blames himself for not coming sooner to get you out.

“[Y/N] would hate to see you like this, Cal,” Merrin started to scold.

There was nothing the Nightsister got out of the Jedi.

When he looked at her straight in the eye, she flinched; and then she got a closer look of the sorry state he’s in—there were dark circles around his eyes, the swelling and the redness of the lining of his eyes suggested restless nights whiled away with crying, untreated cuts and bruises spotted his knuckles and the damning evidence is the small yet noticeable streaks of blood on the gray walls.

“Merrin, I can’t crawl out of the grave that I’ve dug for myself,” Cal shuddered, his voice muffled as his mouth was blocked by his knees folded and drawn to his chest. “I know she’s still here. And I’m talking like the sentimental kind, no, I really know. You have to believe me. You all must think I’m crazy.”

“You don’t see or hear any of us saying so,”

“I know, I just… I don’t know if I’m imagining overthinking it but I just feel like you guys are only humoring me,”

“I don’t do that kind of thing, Cal, it’s not in my nature,” Merrin shook her head. “But I miss [Y/N] too. More than you’d like to know.”

Cal sighed and didn’t speak further. Merrin dismissed herself out of his bedroom and reminded him that Cere had left a plate of dinner for him before closing the door. When he was left alone again, he hung his head low and ran his fingers through his loose, unkempt hair.

He had been alone for most of his life, but this was a different kind of loneliness—one that he isn’t entirely used to. The emptiness, the silence, and the depression bore an alien, coldly terrifying air that hung heavily around his bedroom. The engine hum drowned out his sobbing as he tucks himself away in bed, deliberately forgetting his meal outside.

Cere feels all of that grim emotion pooling inside that room, she wonders how much of those feelings will she pick up if she opens that door—could she take it? Will she be overwhelmed? These were the questions she asked herself.

“Give him some more time. I don’t think he needs us right now, Cere,” Greez glumly said, stopping her in her tracks in any attempt of consoling Cal.

Cal could not sleep—another problem he’s dealing with. He lies with his back flat on the bed, tears trickle down his temples and pools on his pillow just below his ears, he feels like he’s nestled in his deathbed. He can close his eyes, but he cannot catch a wink of sleep. Sometimes, he mistakes dreaming for meditation—of the other way around.

As the meeting pronounced adjourned, they scrambled out of the conference hall while you’re left alone. Arms crossed with one another, you stared at the set of head shots you projected on the table—Cal and Cere. Even though you know them so well, you wondered what kind of information the spies have written about them in their reports.

Your eyes trailed to the write-ups for each profile.

CAL KESTIS

Last known location: Ulfin City in Pevera, Goltan System

Potential accomplices: Cere Junda, Greez Dritus (shipmate), unidentified Dathomirian female

Recent activity: Involvement in rebel-initiated terrorist assault

Charges: Conspiracy and acts of terrorism against the Empire

CERE JUNDA

Last known location: Ulfin City in Pevera, Goltan System

Potential accomplices: Cal Kestis, Greez Dritus (shipmate), unidentified Dathomirian female

Recent activity: Involvement in rebel-initiated terrorist assault

Charges: Conspiracy and acts of terrorism against the Empire

You sighed as you finished reading through the facts of their profiles. You turn away from the holotable and stand in front of the mirror that oversees the operations happening outside the Fortress in Mons Golotha. It’s originally a spice mine owned by a crime syndicate who capitalized in the illegal spice trade, but since the occupation and establishment of the Fortress Inquisitorius, the propriety was handed over to the Empire.

Through the window you watch the moving specks that are the people slaving away to harvest the raw, unprocessed spice, loading them into crates and then into freighters. But the turmoil of these pitiful workers weren’t your focus, you’re channeling it to finding Cal’s connection in the Force and through the Force. The storm in your mind has calmed for a time, allowing you to think and meditate clearly; even in the darkness, you see a light at the end of the path. You pursue it, as you run towards it like an excited, curious child you utter his name.

Cal…

His eyes shot up, he was on the verge of falling asleep already until he heard his name in the distance. He sat up, surveyed the bedroom and found nothing. He shrugged it off as nothing and decided to lie back down… but the voice called again.

Cal...

Now this time, he recognizes the voice. He bolted up.

“[Y/N]?!” he gasped.

Where are you?

“Where are you?”

You didn’t answer, one question led to another.

I need to find you. Tell me where you are.

“I… I’m in—”

“So, Twelfth Sister! How’s the hunt coming along?”

The boisterous Fourth Brother interrupted you and deprived you of the most vital part of your plan. He barges right into your personal space; before he could utter another word, you grabbed him in a chokehold using the Force and slammed him against the window wall. The impact was so hard that a crack appeared right behind his head almost like an icy halo.

The grit of your teeth hissed out the words, “What. Do you. Want?”

He gurgled his words but turned out into frothy noises, you saw him tap for submission on the glass and his ankles buckling.

“What is it that you have to say that is so important that you had to interrupt me and my meditation!?”

“I…. Guhhkk! Wanted to ask if… aagghhk! You plan to go alone!”

You released the Twi’lek, he fell to his knees coughing and clutching his neck.

“I work alone. Go.”

You turn away and wait for the Fourth Brother to leave your sight. Despite calling each other brother and sister, there was no filial connection amongst one another; simply put, it was only tolerance and putting up with each other’s bull. You, on the other hand, hate everyone. Some of them may have not played a part on your turning, but you can’t help but remain hostile towards them—the Eighth Sister deduced that it’s a normal feeling when you’re the fledgling of the Inquisitorius.

You leave the room and make for the hangar to your TIE Fighter.

Meanwhile, Cal was met again with silence and the ecstasy he felt in hearing your voice—even just in his head—died with his melting smile. He sighed and slipped under his sheets again, his heart ached as he coaxed himself to sleep.

“Hey, get up! It’s time for your daily exercise,” a Stormtrooper grumbled on the other side of the ray-shielded prison cell.

You sit there inside—eyes closed, in a meditation position on your knees, hands on top of them. Purposefully ignoring the guards, they tagged you as stubborn, dismissive, and ignorant. They can’t comprehend how you’re perfectly unmoved by the shouting and the banging of their weapons against the walls to draw your attention.

You can hear them, alright. You just chose not to listen.

A lie. Your mind spoke.

Ever since they saw your display against the Second Brother, the so-called “daily exercise” is a kind word they used for the gladiatorial training they throw you into. Everyday, they’d force you out of your cell—which, ironically, is the safest place you could ever be in this predicament—and each time you resisted, a strike on the head or the first body part they see is what you get in return. Once in the dojo, you face a wave of enemies; at first it was a batch of Scout Troopers—they were quite easy to fight—next they started mixing it up with Scout and Purge Troopers, and eventually they used Purge Troopers for your duels, the latter persisted for the rest of your days in the prison.

Sometimes no one knows who is whose training dummies—regardless, the fights went on and the Purge Troopers treated it like a breath of fresh air every time.

“HEY!” the Stormtrooper, impatient of your unresponsiveness, punched the wall at you. Your reaction defeated its purpose. “Do you hear me?! I said stand up!”

“Hey, don’t cause such a ruckus. It’s just one kid,”

“Are Jedi always this stubborn?”

The second Stormtrooper made an incoherent, indifferent grumble as he shrugged his shoulders, wanting to end the small talk and just wait until your budged. When there was nothing but silence, spare the muttering complaints of the guards in the midst of the silence, you relished the peace again.

“Well, finally,” you quietly tell yourself and hung your head down.

There were worse things to worry about.

Visions revolving in hate, anger, and even death—these were the images that you cannot purge from your mind. Not even the purification of meditating proved to be of any help. Something was clouding your mind in the Force and bent them to their malignant will.

Much later, the ray shield died down at the push of a button. The same, irate Stormtrooper enters your cell, but you remained still as a stone. His boot harshly bumps into your knee.

“Hey,” he nudged. “Stand up!”

Nothing.

Again, he kicked your knee, hard enough for it to bruise in a few minutes.

When he’s had about enough, he kicked you in the stomach—he made it precise for the tip of his boot to rupture your gut. As you were weak—which he took advantage of—you curled up, hugging yourself with your arms coiled around your torso, you writhed in pain while supporting your entire weight with one hand planted on the floor.

“Don’t make me hit you again—though I wouldn’t even need a reason!“ he snarled.

You sharply, nasally inhaled; fingernails scratching against the dirty metal floor of the cell as you wait out for the pain to alleviate. Your eyes flicked open and your head jerked up, shooting the Stormtrooper an unwelcoming, hateful look in the eye—he didn’t want to admit it, but he flinched when he saw your bloodshot eyes: dark circles framing it, and the linings swelling in a burning pink hue.

“Come on, Jedi, we got a long ahead of—”

A soft rumble in the air hummed around the cell. Apathetic eyes stared at the Stormtrooper, watching him gag, desperately gasp for air through the barely-breathable helmet, and claw at his neck. He submitted to his knees, in the same level as you sitting down leisurely in the middle of the room, and it’s as though you two saw eye-to-eye—through that black tinted visor, he catches an arrogant smirk curling at the corner of your mouth, and he realizes too late that he’s crossed you.

You were neither a Jedi nor an Inquisitor. For now, you were something in between. Your madness is basically limbo.

You slowly raise your hand, your fingers are curled in a chokehold but there was still a gap around them, though it didn’t stay that long because with an abrupt closing motion of the hand—a popping sound came from the Stormtrooper, his head had twisted to an abnormal angle, and then his corpse made a loud thud that alarmed his companion.

“Hey, what’s going on over th—?”

Horrified, the Stormtrooper choked on the last words of his sentence. He stood there frozen in the hallway, contemplating whether to step inside to pull the dead Stormtrooper out of the cell; his course of action was to contact the maintenance assigned to the prison block to get you. The crew was equally afraid of you, but since they know in themselves that they’ve never crossed you, they’ve got nothing to fear—although it’s the way you look at people is what scares them, it’s rather more of an upward glare than a look.

Minutes later, the Second Brother strolls into the prison block as if it was some kind of leisurely pastime. At his command, the ray-shield disappeared and he let himself in your cell.

“Hello, little thorn, can’t be late for your daily exercise,”

“Says who?”

“Says me, the Seventh Sister, the Fifth Brother, and the Grand Inquisitor,”

“I’ve never seen the Grand Inquisitor. Though, none of you have autonomy over me.”

The Second Brother stood still for a brief second, his shoulders rose as he took in a big sigh. The hand behind his back hoisted to his helmet, the duraplast clicked and the mechanisms of the mask hissed as it loosened up. This was your first time seeing the bare face of the Inquisitor.

A human male, his fair skin was an open book written with scars and bruises—a few of which were by your own hand during the exercises—a pair of brown irises twinkled but you detect the apathy in them—the expression in them was a dramatic contrast to what you imagined him to be without that mask. He seems to be growing out his shaven head, there was a short yet noticeable length of hair.  From his complexion, you wagered he’d be in his thirties. He bent down while keeping his helmet in one hand and tried to parlay with you in getting out of your cell.

“While you sit in these sorry walls, we have perfect autonomy over you,” he raises his free hand, a single finger extended. For each word or two, he poked your forehead to make sure you got the point. “No matter what you think.”

“You’re still not going to make me,”

He did a series of facial expressions to highlight his mock pensiveness: rolling his eyes, bobbing his head as he made a squeaking noise with his tongue against his teeth.

“Well, we don’t have the time to be very difficult, little thorn,” he clicked. “Unless, of course, we can ask your sweet Cal Kestis to make some arrange—!”

In the blink of an eye, you repeated the same action with the Second Brother, only this time you’re using two hands to choke him using the Force. They’ve exploited your mind by using Cal and whatever predicate they can come up with to trigger you—and they loved it when you’re easily stimulated by the mere mention of his name.

They’ve fashioned you into their personal time bomb and plaything altogether, saying the “magic word” to make a puppet of you and your emotions.

“Provoke me again with his name and what you plan to do with him—it’s your neck I’m snapping next!” you angrily growled.

The Second Brother tried to fight your chokehold, but he did it with more grace and dignity that he can afford. It was never your intention to instill fear, but your aggression is what cements it to everyone in this fortress. You expected him to gag, but you heard hints of snickering while he claws at his neck; regardless, you continued choking him.

A few more minutes lapsed before you decided to let him go out of your own volition. He coughed as he fell lower to your level, you’re practically looking down on him right now as he catches his breath.

Look how pathetic… you thought.

Over the Second Brother’s shoulder, you spotted the Fifth Brother standing in front of the door, unamused and grumbling like a freighter’s engine. You shot him the same bitter look you gave to the Stormtrooper and the Second Brother.

“One last time, [Y/N], I personally don’t like repeating myself—or anyone else, for that matter.”

The Second Brother regained his composure, dusted off his armor, and stood by. When you didn’t obey the Fifth Brother, he took matters to his own hands—literally. Shoving past the Second Brother, the other Inquisitor dragged you out of your cell.

“Get up and follow.”

The Second Brother hooked his arm around yours and followed the Fifth Brother.

“Where are you taking me?”

“No questions. Just follow.”

They escorted you to the dojo again. Waiting at the center of the room is the Seventh Sister, this time she wasn’t wielding an electrobaton, she was holding her own red haloed saber. The Second Brother shoved you away to face her; she raises her hand, in it was a weapon and she tossed it to you.

Your fingers trembled, you reluctantly wrapped them around the hilt. The steely coldness eventually warmed up around your palm. The glossy, dark grey finish distorted your reflection when you held it level to your face. The female Inquisitor stepped back—so did her two other companions—and ignited her saber. Your heart dropped to your feet when you heard two more buzz in succession. All of a sudden, your knees felt wobbly, you spun around, looking at the crimson rods of light glowering over their sinister faces.

“Go on and fight us,” the Seventh Sister initiated.

She didn’t want to hear anything from you. She immediately put herself in a stance, and then the two other followed. Having no choice, you did the same—one push of a button ignited a single beam, until you spotted the second switch and the latter half emitted out of its cylinder.

The three of them ganged up on you, but it was the Second Brother and Sixth Sister who were more aggressive with you. The Fifth Brother fought with great calculation and precision, conserving his strength for the next attack only to overwhelm you while assisting the other two. Lost in the thrill of the fight, the same burst of energy returned to you.

It was addictive. You didn’t know it was poisonous, and yet you kept on using it to your advantage. You know it to be wrong, but you cannot will yourself to break away from it. Like a leech, you’ve bitten into it.

And you liked it.

“Raaarrgh!!” the Seventh Sister roared as she swings down her saber.

You deflected the two with both ends of your given saber and pushed them back. You recompose yourself into a much more proper stance, then fixate on the Seventh Sister; you’re able to match her strength—if not her caliber—and equal your odds in this duel. However, you still have the Second Brother to deal with.

“Whoa, look at her go, Sister!!” the Second Brother cackled.

The Seventh Sister comes charging right towards you, but she was blocked at the last second, and before she could even pull away to afford an attack—you planted your sole of your shoe flat onto your stomach. She staggered and clutched her torso with one hand; quickly, you turn your attention to the Second Brother, who was evidently much feistier than Seventh Sister. He took most of your time—a pair of dual-ended sabers cutting through the air, their lights curving as they’re swung by the wielders, and sparks flew to light up the rest of the room.

“I guess the tough girl is back now, huh, little thorn!? Cal Kestis would be so impressed! You could practically kill him for abandoning you!”

That did it. Relying again once more on that intoxicating energy that granted you the strength of five Jedi Masters at best, a massive push of the Force sent everyone flying—even the hulking, six-feet-or-so Fifth Brother wasn’t spared by that immense wave of energy!

Only you remained standing in the circle, you looked around—there were so many targets to choose from! You had a vendetta for each one of them. You strode towards the one who gave out the taunt first—the Second Brother—while he was still shaking off the nausea, he reacted at the last minute and lousily deflected your hits.

Left end, right end… they all flung to his direction and he could not keep up with the speed of your wielding while suppressed of fighting space. He could only block you for so long.

When you sensed his sword arm becoming weak, his jawbone met the hard sole of your shoe and rendered him incapacitated. Next was the Seventh Sister, she was just about to hoist herself up back on her feet until she saw you sprinting toward her—she had time, albeit little of it, to evade you but your sabers still clashed. She kept up with your pace—all the twirls and flashy footwork, she matched it all—but she was overwhelmed by how heavy your attacks dealt. You bore your weight on her as she deflected you and never has she ever felt so intimidated in all her life! Your eyes—now devoid of empathy and flooded with rage—blended perfectly with the redness of the saber. You were satisfied when you saw the Seventh Sister struggling, it’s plastered all over her face!

“Oh, look at you, the shrewd sister is overtaken,” you taunted, basically parroting the Second Brother’s trademark singsong. “By a damn prisoner! Hah! How does it feel to have your pride stabbed right into its gut, huh?”

Before she could even react and respond, you staggered the female Mirialan again and this time she stayed down—your fist to her cheek made sure of it. The third and final enemy: the Fifth Brother. It was brawn against brains. Strength versus dexterity. After all, what good is brute strength if you can’t even utilize it efficiently?

“Come on, big guy—I’m wide open!”

The Fifth Brother wasn’t a fan of being taunted. He charges on like a deranged Reek, his saber brandished up in the air, ready for an overhead strike but you slipped away in the blink of an eye and slashed him from behind. All three of them exchanged glances with one another and then nodded in agreement, as if they’ve had a Plan Z all along; three Inquisitors come charging towards you, but before they could lay a finger on your hair, you planted your fist hard into the tiled floor—your knuckles swelled and then bled the same time the tiles cracked.

At first, the cracks stayed only within the radius of your fist, until they multiplied and spread. From thin crosshairs to actual breakages along the surface, the marble broke into shards and was sent flying with the current of the Force energy that sourced from your punch—like seashells tugged by the waves as they’re beached to the shoreline. The shards cut through the Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother’s cheeks, they had to shield themselves with their hands—consequentially getting their palms and fingers nicked as well.

It was too strong for them to fight, rendering you untouchable until the wind died down. The loaned lightsaber which you used so skillfully fell from your grasp and clattered to the floor.

Silence. Soft, tired gasping of air. And then a single, slow series of applause followed.

Everyone searched for the applauder.

The Grand Inquisitor.

He was hauntingly terrifying, alright. Ashen as bone, blood-red streaks painted on parts of his face, and a pair of topaz-gold eyes. He walked past the felled Inquisitors and stood in front of you—his height obviously lumbered over you that you had to step back to fully acknowledge him and look him in the eyes without breaking your back.

“Well, well,” he cooed, bringing his hands behind his back. “It seems that we have a new face among us.”

You panted one last time, and used the Force to bring the haloed saber back to your hand. You poised your demeanor in front of the Pau’an, and with a dark, sinister grace—you bend your knee, the black, weathered saber is presented in your hand to the Grand Inquisitor. A smirk curled along his ribbed skin, showing a corner of his jagged, pointed teeth.

THE DAY OF THE COUNTERATTACK

The operation proceeded as planned.

All of you have been preparing for this since the fall of dusk that night.

You had help in hitching a ride from the temple ruins in the jungle to Ulfin. Some rebels drove landspeeders, but only until you got to the city walls that shielded it from the wilderness. Cal caught you by the arm before you regrouped with the detonations team.

“Hey, see you later?”

You smirked, “Yeah, like always.”

Despite your recurring nightmares and anxiety, Cal aided in keeping those inhibitions at bay and encouraged you enough that everything will go as planned. It was worth pondering why his worries were transferred to you ever since you had those nightmares—but you swore to yourself that it wouldn’t happen, you will not allow it.

You and your group were equipped with live trackers—your signatures will appear as blips to the assault division’s, including Cal’s, radars. The redhead constantly stared at your signature marked with your name’s initial, it moved at a natural pace on the radar but something troubled him as they crept through the fortress like scrap rats.

“They’re close to the reactor chamber,” Cal reported to his team.

“Good, they should be going down there and sticking those claymores in a matter of minutes,”

“Come on, [Y/N]…” Cal mumbled through the grit of his teeth.

The destination was the base—the location of the main reactor chamber—and you were carrying your share of the explosives. The leader made it transparently clear of who goes where and which goes to whom. You had to navigate your way through a metal maze—and while doing so, you’re memorizing your path in which will also be your way out—until you found the enormous pillar brimming with electricity and energy.

Your eyes were filled with the light of the energy at the very base of the reactor. You could only imagine just how catastrophic the explosion will be and how far the blast radius can reach. You could’ve sworn you felt your heart drop to your stomach upon the sight of the reactor pillar.

“Don’t be intimidated, little spark! Once you paste those bad boys up, this reactor will pale in comparison to their punch!”

“It’s not that…” you mutter, supposedly to the boisterous female partisan, but you kept it to yourself as she would not comprehend what you’re sensing.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” You thought to yourself, and it’s got something to do with the plan.

The rest of the fighters approached their designated pillars, producing the explosives from their packs and then adhering them to the metal surface. Meanwhile, the adult rebel noticed you hesitating.

“Well, come on, kid, we don’t have all day!” the older lady coaxed.

Eventually, you took your own claymore and attached it on the pillar’s base. You set off the timer for 30 minutes, enough for everyone to get out of the chamber safely and regroup with the ones in the surface. In the middle of your configuration, the weird feeling you detected became stronger—only you had their senses spiked. Your abrupt turn caught the woman’s attention, she shot you a quizzical look, your eyes surveyed the entire reactor chamber… until you spotted a shadow perched on the beam above her head.

“Kid, are you okay?”

“LOOK OUT!!” you screeched but it was too late.

The shadow had made its presence known—the watcher descended from the high beam with ease and drove his crimson saber straight into your companion’s spine, killing her instantly.

“NO!!!”

All of your other companions were on high alert as soon as they heard your first cry. They set their blasters to kill, all barrels pointing at the enemy fully clad in jet black armor. Without a doubt, this was an Inquisitor—everything about him was a dead giveaway from the helmet down to the saber. You brandished your own while the rebels surrounded the Inquisitor, inept to comprehend the sheer power of one individual.

“Well, hello,” the Inquisitor cooed in a singsong manner, tilting his head as he spoke. It appeared that he had his eye on you, for you were the only one standing out amongst these rebels.

“You’ll pay for what you did!” you growled.

“Oh, this?” he nudged the body with his boot. “Sorry, but we all have our accidents once in a while, eh?”

You found his remark revolting. Not once, not even in a single inch, did you remove your eyes from him. From what you can tell, you sensed that he is elusive—he’s made a good example of that before he made your fellow rebel a landing cushion for himself and the other end of his lightsaber.

“You’re quite young for a Jedi, a youngling during the Purge no doubt,”

“What do you know about me?”

A throaty chuckle was your reply; he positioned himself in a stance, as well as his saber, in the offensive.

“Perhaps, you could show me,” invited the Inquisitor.

It was he who made the first move. He cut through the wind like a dart, swift and sure, until you broke his lunge with a block. You prepared yourself for impact, but you didn’t expect it to be this heavy! You’ve found yourself caught in a frenzied dance of blades, waving and swinging your saber at the Inquisitor who’s keenly refusing you a chance of a jab at all.

This new enemy in the lines, the shadowy Second Brother, was a blade in the dark.

You’ve got to hand it to him—he is very stealthy and acrobatic, he almost makes it impossible to catch up to him. Not even the sharpshooter of your team can land a mark, let alone graze his armor, as the Second Brother leaps from one parapet to a platform and so on.

Spinning in place as you followed his movements was an old tactic to tire you down, that much you’re certain, and he was impressed that you read through his plan. He didn’t linger from his high ground too long; for someone of a heavy stock, he appeared and moved as light as a feather while he’s perched on the safety banister of the platform. Holding out his dual-edged saber in one hand, he tucked his knees and sprang off from his perch, darting through the wind again towards you.

You prepared yourself again for another heavy landing. Little by little, you determine his attack pattern: he prefers confusing his enemies visually by leaping from one surface to another—like a Kowakian monkey-lizard—and when he’s in an optimum position, he’ll buckle for a heavy, dart-like attack as he bolts through the air, propelled by the take-off caused by the balls of his feet.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” his voice rung muffled through his helmet as he strains his weight against yours, making you some sort of anchor.

Compared to him, you’re half his size and strength, but you didn’t let that intimidate you. You destroyed his stance by kicking him in the knee, straightening his leg from its tucked position, and follow it up with another foot to the stomach. The pain was tolerable, nonetheless, he wordlessly commended your courage and boldness.

“A thorny one, too!” he cackled.

You turned to the rebels.

This fight was obviously a trap for you and the rebels to lose time. Despite the compromise, you urged everyone that the plan must pull through.

“Switch on the timers now!” you ordered for everyone as you held fast against the Inquisitor.

As soon as you gave the order, one of the rebels sprinted towards his reactor, stretched out a hand as he ran so his fingers could at least touch the button…

Until the Inquisitor extended his arm, aimed at the scampering rebel, and essentially seized the man’s capability to move—leaving his fingertip just a mere inch away from the button to start the countdown.

“Ah-ah-ah!” the Inquisitor chirped in a mocking, singsong tune. “You wouldn’t wanna ruin the fun, now would you?”

Using the Force, you break off his connection with the man and drew his attention to you. Apparently so, ruining his own sick definition of fun is something one must not do—not even a Jedi.

You fixated your eyes on him, you watch him slowly crane his head from the rebel to you—obviously vexed by your interruption—and so he lowered his arm, subsequently releasing the rebel. His throaty growl prevailed the low-pitched machine hum of the reactors.

Bemused at you, he snarls, “Thorny one, indeed.”

“Careful not to prick yourself then!”

The Second Brother liked your snark. The two of you resumed the whirlwind of blades as the rebels took advantage of the preoccupied Inquisitor and made a run for the explosives already glued to the pillars.

“[Y/N], COME ON!” another rebel vigorously swung his arm in the air, repeating a beckoning gesture at you as he let the rest of the partisans scale the ladders and make their escape.

“JUST GO, I’LL FOLLOW!!” you cry while struggling in the block against the Second Brother.

“Are you sure about that!?” he shifts more of his weight against you, in an attempt to make you fumble and finally give him a window to attack.

The rebels make their way out of the reactor chamber with less than thirty minutes ticking behind them. Engaging the Second Brother has cost you ten minutes already. A shortcut was made, courtesy of the bombardment caused by the skirmish on the ground. They pass through the obliterated hallway with a hole in the wall, a few Stormtroopers’ bodies strewn across the floor, and a row of busted turrets.

Back on the ground, Cal is the singular crutch that gave the rebels the advantage they so desperately want and need. This is a large playing field, and so he had the equal amount of room to practice, experiment, enhance, or improve. Cal was confident as he deals more hits in the vanguard along with the rest of the rebels in the front; eventually, he had to fall back from the bulk of the action as he felt something wrong.

“Bee-boop?”

“I’m not hurt, BD… I sensed something… quite bad,” Cal panted, clutching his chest as he struggled to calm his breathing.

He shook it off and fished out his compact radar from his pocket. His eyes followed a cluster of red blips moving in the same direction—which is south in his perspective—though, he spotted your blip which remained in the reactor chamber. He stared at the red dot, your red dot, pondering why it has remained in the same location or only moving in what ought to be just paces in real life. He clenched his teeth hard enough for this molars to grind against each other. He puts away the radar and returns to battle.

Where are you, [Y/N]? What are you still doing there?! He thought to himself as he cuts down the trio of Stormtroopers aiming at him.

Meanwhile, you’re still busy with the Second Brother; there seems to be no end to his energy—still acrobatic and swift as the first time he made himself known. Another clash and long intertwine of your blades, he finally saw through you—in your eyes, lit by the contradicting colors of your weapons—and discovered the determination slowly transmogrifying into desperation.

“Ahh,” he purred, and then chuckled. “Now I see what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“You know nothing, you treacherous oaf! Nor will you ever!”

“There it is!” he voluntarily withdrew from the clash of blades, evading your overhead strike, and gestures with his arms thrown open to the sides as if he had an epiphany.

He pointed the end of his saber to you.

“There’s that darkness, you’ve buried it so deep within you… but now it has emerged,” he tauned.

“Keep quiet!”

Out of frustration, you charged and lunged at him. A reckless move in the heat of the moment.

The Inquisitor had no problem whatsoever in deflecting you; he’s confident that he has attained the upper hand of this duel—now that he’s spotted a weakness in you that you’ve unintentionally let out.

This collision of blades was the most intense than the ones that came before it. You could almost see his sinister grin through the plate of his mask as your sabers—a dramatic contrast of color and of virtue—illuminate your faces.

Cal reluctantly left the structure with his companions. Throughout the entire exit, the Jedi never spoke a word, Larki and Morzen could do nothing but glance at him every once in a while until they mounted their speeders again.

Not even BD-1 himself could get a response from his owner.

Throughout their exit from the structure, Cal spoke nothing. Larki and Morzen could only catch a glimpse of the Jedi, neither of them can say something of value to him—perhaps nothing at all. The three of them mounted their speeders and without even waiting for the two, Cal revs up the engine of his bike and sped out. Fortunately, Larki was able to catch up as soon as his own speeder sputtered to life.

The small search party returned to the temple ruins, as they were told by Cere via comlink in the middle of their drive. Cal’s entrance rattled some of the rebels loitering within the ruins’ vicinity, Cere included; when she saw that the headcount remained the same as they left, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

“Cal, where is [Y/N]?”

Silence. Cal’s eyes drooped, avoiding eye contact with Cere.

“Cal, where is [Y/N]?” Cere spoke through her clenched teeth while her fists shook with a confusion of anger, worry, and fear.

“T-This…” Cal stammered, unfolding his fingers to show the bracelet to Cere, which she instantly recognizes to be yours.

“That’s all they found?” the woman’s voice cracked.

Cere covered her gaping mouth with trembling hands, in full shock of the discovery, and her breathing became shaky. Her hands fell to her chest, as if her heart’s about to burst through her ribcage. Eventually, Merrin and Greez were drawn to the scene, quickly, the Nightsister spotted the trinket in Cal’s hand; she held her gasp and her eyebrows furrowed, she brought her hands to her mouth but they stopped at her chest.

Greez worriedly uttered your name.

Cal was given time to be alone. He stayed in one of the chambers of the temple that served as a sleeping quarters. For the rest of the day, Cal was exempted from strategy conferences by the grace of the empathetic Jax. The grief-stricken Jedi never let go of your bracelet, however, he was unresponsive even to the little boy staring at him as he sits on the floor in the far corner of the room.

BD-1 chirps and beeps from time to time, trying to fish a word out of Cal, but he would speak very little.

“She’s not gone, BD… I know it. So, why don’t they believe me? They look like they don’t,” Cal’s eyes trailed, aligning it with BD who’s nestled on the space between his crossed legs. “I’m not crazy, aren’t I?”

The little droid shook its head in reply, BD-1 nudged your bracelet with his head’s visor, followed by a sad, long beep that faded out. The hours felt like only minutes to the boy, he leaned his head against the cold, cobblestone wall and eventually dozed off.

That night, Cere personally went to the Cal’s room with a tray of food. Cal has lost track of the time that he didn’t wake in time for dinner. It was BD-1 who sensed Cere coming into the room, a quiet chirp emitted from the droid, and the woman carefully walked into his bedroom to set the tray down on a podium. Even upon her presence, Cal didn’t wake up; Cere’s eyes wandered to his open hand, one cord of the bracelet dangles out of his palm. She took a deep sigh and didn’t bother waking up to remind him to eat.

“Keep an eye out for him, BD, please…” she softly pleaded and then left. “And tell him to eat when he wakes.”

A good chunk of minutes passed after she left the room and Cal finally wakes. He blinks several times until his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room in the moonless night; the first thing he notices is the power lamp sitting next to his futon built from straw, animal hide, and mismatched pieces of cloth sewn together.

“Hey, BD… dozed for a long time, haven’t I?”

“Boo!” BD nodded and then gestured to the tray that Cere had left.

Cal’s stomach ferociously growled when his nostrils flared upon picking up the scent of the food—albeit having gone cold for a time. The rations weren’t exactly a culinary art, neither was it a cuisine, but it was enough to sate an empty stomach—the adrenaline from earlier had dulled Cal of his senses and awareness of the goings-on in his body, only then was he starting to realize just how hungry he is.

Cere had sneakily doubled the servings for each food type she’s prepared for Cal: three scoops of Lemus corn, a bowl of bone broth nearly filled to the brim, and two turkey drumsticks—instead of one as imposed by Jax to conserve rations per headcount.

“Looks like the fighters must’ve looted the Imps’ storehouse, huh?”

“Woo!”

The Jedi scrambled towards the food and helped himself, however, he didn’t exactly scarf down whatever’s on the platter. He only ate what he wanted and had some leftovers. He dismissed it and returned the tray on the podium.

—–

The Inquisitors, Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, charted a course to one of the Imperial medical outposts and also their satellite fortress—a smaller likeness of their stronghold like that of the one in Nur—in Mons Golotha, a moon situated in the Outer Rim.

“We are bound to Mons Golotha in T-Minus 35 minutes, Seventh Sister,” reported the command ship’s admiral.

“Good, have them prepare a medical capsule for the bodies we’ve recovered—for immediate transfer.”

The admiral bowed in compliance and returned to overseeing the cadets on their computers.

The pair strode in exit of the bridge and to the command ship’s cramped medical bay. The Fifth Brother sensed the Mirialan’s thoughts dwelling on you.

“What’s on your mind, Sister?”

“The girl’s an intriguing subject. She’s going to be very busy in her interrogation when she wakes,”

“If she wakes,” reiterated the Fifth Brother.

There was silence between them as they marched through the corridors. Crew members avoid eye contact as much as possible from the Inquisitors in any way doable—tipping the rims of their uniform caps downwards so their eyes are obscured, others would maintain eye contact while speaking even though they caught the Seventh Sister giving them a passing glance when she entered their periphery.

The pair didn’t mind their fear of them, it was insignificant of them to pick up every single thought and feeling flooding this corridor.

Upon their arrival to the moon, Mons Golotha, they were instantly given confirmation to land and instructed whoever’s capable to transfer the patients from the medical bay to the shuttle for their descent to the surface. A couple of medical specialists assigned in the medbay helped in settling both you and the Second Brother in your own medical capsules, the 2-1B medical droid meticulously configured the control panels of both pods to the optimum setting for each one’s survival from the descent until the complete transfer.

From one medical specialist to another, you and the Second Brother were handed over. While being escorted to your rooms, the doctors and nurses were performing their SOPs in bringing in emergency patients.

“Both of them are in a vegetative state, but he’s in a more critical state. I want an operating table prepped for him and a Bacta tank filled to the brim—infused with antibiotics for his second to third degree burns. This surgery is strongly required pre-Bacta treatment.” Barked one of the doctors who led the way while the Inquisitor pair flanked them.

“The girl’s vitals are stable. I have a heartbeat! Blood pressure is low though, she’s suffering from minor concussions and burns,” diagnosed a second doctor who stood close to your own gurney. “Prepare a Bacta tank for her as well, infuse it with a mild painkiller and antibiotics for her burns so they won’t infect and blister.”

The nurses rushed to comply with the doctors’ orders. Your doctor was astounded with your body’s physical resilience, he wagered it was your fight-or-flight response or your self-preservation instincts despite lying down on the brink of unconsciousness—seconds before the Fifth Brother picked you up and spotted you. He may have not seen what happened to you, but he was sure that you were a fighter—perhaps even more of a fighter than the Second Brother, dare he thinks!

“Alright now, you little darling, let’s get you patched up.”

The female nurses strip you off of your soiled and scorched clothes, washed off the grime and soot that stuck to your skin and face, and attached the apparatus necessary for your body before submerging you to the vat of Bacta.

“How long will they be submerged?” asked the Fifth Brother to the Second Brother’s attending physician.

“That depends on their case, really. In his case, since he’s the most severely injured, it may take him weeks to recover fully—better if he regains consciousness in the middle of his treatment,”

“And…” the gray humanoids jerks his head to you in the tank. “What of her?”

“Well, evidently, her wounds are less fatal compared to the other patient. However, we are detecting some signs of internal bleeding. Recovery may take weeks as well, but perhaps it’ll be shorter for her.”

“Will she have regained her strength when she wakes up?” the Mirialan interjected.

“All of that will be determined on the amount of time she’ll use for rest and recovery,”

The Mirialan hummed and dismissed herself to the doctors. She contacted the Grand Inquisitors in private, reporting the diagnoses of the doctors for both you and the Second Brother, and your involvement with the rebel cell that they’ve encountered in Pevera.

“We found one of the Jedi helping the rebels, m’lord,” reported the Seventh Sister. “But she’s still being taken care of here.”

“Good, let her body relish the remainder of her days where she will not yet feel any pain and anguish,” the Grand Inquisitor snarled through the small hologram projection on the Seventh Sister’s holodisk. “She will answer to us the moment she opens her eyes.”

“The girl is a survivor—a better one than the Second Brother, he didn’t have it easy. I sense something in her, something familiar,”

“Oh? How intriguing,” the Grand Inquisitor took the bait. “I should like to hear what you have to say about this girl, Seventh Sister.”

“Yes, m’lord,”

“See to it that she recovers in her treatment, she has a lot to answer for us,” the Grand Inquisitor added before his hologram fizzled out.

The doctors and their companion medical droids worked on the Second Brother’s surgery meticulously and tirelessly. They picked up a pulse from him and then began their procedure. It was a gruesome image, even for the droids.

For one, a large patch of burnt flesh stands out from the Second Brother’s scarred, olive skin. It covered his left shoulder down to the left half of his torso. Shards and portions of his clothing—both the undershirt and the armor plates—have melted and stuck to his skin, tools were required to separate debris from the flesh. A string of viscous pus connected the removed shrapnel and his blistering, black and red skin. Bodily fluids oozed out from every orifice conceivable on his wounds—throughout the operation, he’s partially conscious, flinching on particular moments where the droids would prod their syringes and quite-delicate mandibles on his skin.

“I sense his hate, even in his dormant state,” the Fifth Brother commented as they watch the operation.

“Likewise. Last I heard, these two were fighting. I’m certain he’ll be most hostile towards her,”

“I checked the database,” the Fifth Brother huffed, and a curious Seventh Sister craned her head to face him. “I found her in the records: [Y/N] [L/N]. Another Jedi survivor, in hiding until she apparently joined the rebels with the other Jedi—Cere Junda and Cal Kestis—and then the Second Brother engaged her while trying to infiltrate the stronghold with the rebels.”

“They’re all the same,” the Mirialan scoffed.

The Inquisitors watched the doctors do their work until the surgeons have finished their job on the Second Brothers and then he was dropped into the tank. The two of you were being observed by the Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, she watched the two of you bobbing in the liquid substance like apples in a bucket.

“Doctor, do whatever it takes to speed up the girl’s recovery period. We want her conscious as soon as possible,”

“B-But… Seventh Sister, we haven’t even carefully observed her wounds and their fatalities on her body!”

“Unless you want to be the one strapped to the Imperial torture chair, I suggest you do your job faster,”

“Y-Yes… m-madam.”

The Fifth Brother has gotten the hint of the Seventh Sister’s other plans for you. He’s been sensing it running in her mind ever since.

“Do you think she’ll get the Grand Inquisitor’s attention—even Lord Vader?”

The Mirialan girl turned to the gray humanoid, having to tilt her head back to emphasize their height difference, she smirked.

“I don’t doubt it,”

“And if she refuses?”

The smirked retained. Seventh Sister seemed to be amused to answer his question.

Relying on the spies’ intel didn’t cut it anymore, so getting out there was the best course of action. You perfectly knew that this is no race against the other Inquisitors, and each Jedi is just hunted game in the eyes of the Grand Inquisitor, Darth Vader, and the Emperor altogether.

You marched to the hangar with a graceful, poised stride. When you saw the hangar officers conversing by the entrance, they stiffened at the sight of you.

“Prepare my ship!” you barked.

The mechanics and engineers scrambled to your TIE Fighter—distinguishable by its black body, a red intercrossed stripe making the cockpit look like a rifle’s reticle from the outside—you watched them inspect, recalibrate, and refuel the vehicle before confirming that it’s safe for travel.

“All engines go for your TIE Fighter, Twelfth Sister,”

“Good,”

You climbed the ladder to the cockpit and made yourself comfortable. The mechanics scurried to detach the hooks and cables strapped to the vessel as you pump up the engines. The hangar attendant waved his signal rods in front of your cockpit as you slowly hover forward, following the path the attendant is carving for you, when you inched closer to the open air you cranked the throttle’s lever and accelerated. The rotors rippled out a ring of dust and air as it slowly gained some velocity, and then you zoom out of the hangar like a black comet and out of Mons Golotha.

In less than 20 minutes, the X1 TIE Fighter’s speed hindered as soon as it entered Mons Golotha’s exosphere. Staring back at you through that cockpit windshield is the star-dotted vacuum of space.

“Okay, Cal sweetheart, where could you be hiding?” you mutter to yourself as you fire up the nav computer.

You drive the TIE forward, farther and farther away from the orbiting moon, you weren’t trying to pick up a signal—you’re trying to find some peace, ironically, in the dead blankness of the galaxy in the hopes to pick up where you left in your meditation earlier. Your grip loosened, no more than a delicate, dainty hold of the steering wheel, you let go and let yourself get lost in concentration.

The heavy, gloomy hum of space helped you drown out all of the white noise in order for you to focus better. A silent call whose echo reaches as far as the system in the ten parsecs. You struggle to recall the image of the place where you saw Cal in—that’s your next best shot in finding him.

A blinding red hue—it’s either morning or afternoon wherever he is. You could even feel the prickling heat underneath your suit.

An arid wasteland. A single city perched atop one of the mesas erected across the sandy, barren expanse.

This planet is wholly new to you.

You see Cal standing atop a mesa whose surface has cracked, brought upon by intense drought, it overlooks the small city not larger than half a quadrant of Coruscant’s city block. The image sharply jabbed its way through your skull, causing you to flick your eyelids up, and return to reality.

“Jeddah!” you gasped its name.

The place is unheard of to you, going back to Mons Golotha to check the archives would prove to be inconvenient. The next plausible move is to follow your instincts. You crane the neck of the nav computer so it faces you, then your fingers tapped away with the buttons—it was strange, though you weren’t startled, you knew exactly what its coordinates are, and so you charted your course to Jeddah.

When the computer screen glowed green and showed a map of the destination, without reluctance, you punched it—pushing the steering forward and the TIE Fighter cuts through the empty space like an arrowhead.

—–

JEDDAH

Cal sits at the edge of the exact mesa where you saw him in your vision, taking under the stout branches of a dead tree. He’s lost count of the days you’ve been gone, he wagered it to be roughly a month now—and he still hasn’t moved on, he refuses to. Gradually, his new habits have become routine to him, not that he’s gotten any better; he remains stoic, almost unfeeling, and his fighting has lost its grace.

If only you could see him now—he’s riddled with sear marks either from his pastime tinkering or the miss-by-a-hair grazes from Stormtroopers’ blasts, bruises, and brand new scars. He refuses healing from Merrin’s magick and makes do with the stims BD-1 supplies for him; but truthfully, he prefers your Force Healing. He misses the warm touch of your palm flat on his skin, wherever his injury might be, the soothing sensation might as well be a thing of the past for him.

The humid wind blows over his cheeks, red sand pricks at his freckles. He sits there, eyes closed, feeling for something cannot name yet knows wholeheartedly.

“[Y/N]…” he mouthed. The utterance of your name is carried away by the wisp of sand.

Nothing.

He yearned to feel it again. He had hoped he would.

His meditation bore no fruit due to his desperation, impatience, and a directionless, bottled up anger.

“Come on…” he growled, squeezing his eyes shut as the rays of the sun blazed through the spaces between the tree branches.

Over several parsecs away, Cal’s voice saying your name—all but a whisper—and a deep humming rang altogether behind your ears. In the first few minutes, you’re unbothered by it, until it did reach you. Your eyes on the windshield wandered, searching the skies for the source, spotting planets and moons here and there.

Cal locked in on the connection, his furrowed eyebrows now relaxed, his breathing calmed and he maintained the ideal, tranquil stillness of his meditation.

The humming grew louder, it evolved into a deeper, more baritone rumbling—like a stampede in the distance—you kept looking for its origin, but neither a single planet nor moon in the system you’re in seem to have the answer. You lent a few more minutes of listening in, hoping you’d make sense of it until you picked up the same familiar sensation as earlier.

“[Y/N]…?” asked Cal, confirming your presence through the Force.

You didn’t speak, you exploited the connection to clear out the cloudiness surrounding your objective. The red mesa in the desert appeared before your eyes, a dead tree, and the city overlooking the city sitting atop a single, erect rock pillar large enough to cradle it.

[Y/N]…! Please…!

A wicked grin snaked on your face. Your jaw clenched and your eyes had a sinister glint.

“Found you!” you hissed.

According to your nav, you’re two systems away from Jeddah. You pulled the computer by its metal neck, your fingers flying all over the keyboard as you calculate the jump to lightspeed.

Never have you ever punched the buttons on the dashboard of your fighter, you were particularly fond and careful of this TIE Fighter, though the excitement of finally spotting your prey caused you to crank the steering wheel forward so hard that the cogs inside groaned, consequently making the thrusters roar with great enthusiasm and haul the vessel at its full speed.

You grinned as you put the pedal to the metal with your fighter, you licked your lips and smirked.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m coming for you.”

The young Jedi got out of the trance and he’s out of breath, exhilarated by the fact that you are alive after all this time—after all this time of defending that exact same point in every debate amongst the Mantis crew—but connecting with you felt different and eerie. BD-1 inched closer to his owner, his scanners picking up Cal’s stress levels and his increased heart rate. A single chirp caught the boy’s attention.

“It’s [Y/N], BD, but…”

“Bee…?”

“I have a bad feeling about her,”

The droid was in disbelief, BD never imagined—not even his processors and circuit board—that Cal would say that about you! He sent out a whole string of trills, questions that Cal couldn’t translate one at a time. He eased his little droid companion, gently gesturing at him to calm down.

“I think we need to tell this to Cere,”

The most concrete proof he could ever get a hold of was a connection from you through the Force. He questioned himself if Cere would believe him, considering she is the closest he can come to in terms of the ways of the Force.

Cal comes rushing back to the Mantis.

“Cere!” he started to call repeatedly when he was only a few meters away until he got into the ship.

The boy was a huffing and puffing mess when he threw himself into the ship, startling everyone and inadvertently interrupting their individual pastimes.

“Cal? What happened?” Cere had to lower her leather journal away from her face just to check on the boy.

“Are you alright?”

“Slow down, kid! It’s not like we’re leaving without you all of a sudden!”

“That’s not it!” he panted. He then turned to the older woman. “Cere, didn’t Cordova write something about having two Force-sensitive beings connecting or communicating through the Force?”

The more Cal rambled on with his queries, Cere had to put her book down on the lounge table to listen to the redheaded youngster. She knows he’s onto something—his excitement is just making slightly incoherent. Her lips parted as if to say something, but the boy is unconsciously unfurling new discoveries with the ways of the Force.

“Well, I just connected with [Y/N]!”

Greez cuts in as politely as he can. “Wai—Wait, how did you know it was [Y/N]? Moreover, what do you mean by ‘connect’?”

“Her voice!” he then remembers the eerie feeling that he put him off during the trance. “But… something doesn’t feel right.”

“About what? About [Y/N]?” Merrin joins in on the subject, curious and intrigued about your well-being, pausing from her tending of the terrarium and stepping down to the lounge table.

“So is it really her or just some random voice you heard that sounds just like her? My poor brain inside this gray head of mine can’t really grasp all of your Force mumbo-jumbo.”

“Cal, you don’t think—?”

Cal immediately refuses Cere’s theory without even letting her finish.

“No!” he bolts. “It can’t be. It’s impossible!”

“Cal, we can’t say for sure. But if you do have a bad feeling about it, then you best be prepared for what you’re about to see when she comes to you.”

There was a foreboding tone in Cere’s voice, consciously warning the boy of what’s to come. In his mind, Cal battled with himself and his inhibitions.

It’s not fair! In his mind, he whined like a child, on the verge of sobbing.

In what ought to be roughly a month and few weeks since you disappeared in Ulfin, his ecstasy in knowing that you truly are alive is instantly overridden by the fear that he cannot pinpoint yet—more like, he cannot accept yet should it be realized.

Coming out of hyperspace brought you to half a parsec away from Jeddah. In the nav, you can see the designated planet outlined in green amidst the others drawn in blue, blending in with the screen’s dark blue background.

You eased down to the regular flying speed as you close the distance between you and Jeddah. While the TIE Fighter cruises through space, passing by the neighboring planets, you cannot help but feel… bothered. Earlier, before you went to hyperspace, you were quite startled with how you behaved—you have never acted like this before. This was your very first solo campaign, as well.

Could it be excitement? For what, exactly? For doing something you want all alone—exactly how you want it? Perhaps.

Uncertainty? Because within the recesses of your being, the old you still lives albeit imprisoned?

“Enough!” you roared, leaning too hard and too fast to accidentally hit the back of your head. “Aaargh! Ow…”

You finally calmed down, for real this time, and your attention from the pain rippling across the back of your skull shifted to the repetitive bleeping of the nav computer. You leaned closer to the dashboard, peering on the screen; the radar indicates that you’re approaching the planet’s orbit. You buckle up and prepare the first phase of atmospheric entry.

Your arms flew in all directions, flicking switches and pressing buttons all over the ship—setting up the shields, applying the right amount of pressure on the steering wheel to counter the gravity, and finding the optimum speed. You close in on the bright, sunshine-gold sheen of Jeddah’s atmosphere.

The leather sank as you lean back, the turbulence made the ship rattle under your feet—the shields are doing its job to keeping the shaking to a minimum—and the TIE Fighter tore through the skies easily.

“Well, that turned out more effortlessly than I expected,” you sighed. “Now, to find you, Cal.”

The same feeling you had when you were still out in space returned, only this time, much louder and more prominent. There wasn’t a doubt that you’ve come to the right place; the connection has staled over time, perhaps Cal has given up in trying. The TIE Fighter circles in the skies in search for a specific city atop a mesa, at least a common signal belonging to it.

Along Cal’s trek, he spots your TIE Fighter—in perfect coincidence—zooming through Jeddah’s sky as a growing black speck. He squints his eyes and shades them with his hand over his brows.

“That can’t be good.”

“If this thing could hold a droid, things would’ve been much easier!” you grumbled as you manually optimized the transmitter. You sighed when no blips popped on the radar. “Might as well find someplace to land.”

At first, the ripple of the Force—barely a whisper again, drowned by the engine hum of the TIE—ran in the back of your mind. Unconsciously feeling it, you’re practically welcoming it; Cal gets the exact same feeling as he watches your TIE Fighter circle the horizon, curious what this lone fighter could be doing in some place as desolate as Jeddah.