Private The Edge of Nowhere

[Cale Gunderson]

Cadomai Prime | Some Unreasonable Hour of the Night | Your Typical Portside Divebar
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When the universe had been born, and whatever powers that were crafted each and every system, some being must've chosen to make so many worlds that would one day freeze over with ice and snow. The sights took one's breath away, majestic mountain ranges, pure white valleys, unfathomable formations of ice, glaciers so tall the breached the lower atmosphere. Whatever had seen fit to make those worlds must've had a vision for them, as an artist did for their work. Cale hoped whatever that being was, it was having an utterly horrible time.

From beneath the scarf he'd wrapped over his face, he exhaled, hot breath visible in the night air as he treaded over fresh fallen snow amidst a sea of faces all covered in some attempt to keep warm. He hadn't questioned what'd been in the containers he'd delivered into the hands of the Devaronian on the docks, so long as it wasn't slaves he'd long since stopped taking jobs with any care for his conscience. The galaxy would go on whether it was him who put weapons in the hands of malcontents or someone else, so he might as well have made some credits for it. He'd watched the galaxy go through once in a millennia changes nearly once a year since the time he was sixteen. Empires, Republics, and Alliances, he'd watched them rise and fall in less than a decade, and for a time he'd stood in their ranks, willingly or otherwise.

There was no point in it all though, anything one built would crumble in a short few years, and whoever replaced them would need to be made to understand him before they'd let him fight all over again. At first that had stopped him, and then it'd been the realization that none of it meant a thing. Any change with any substance to it, for good or evil, would be undone in a matter of years at absolute best. There was no point.

But harsh pink glow of a neon sign cast itself over him, the crowd, and the white of the snow, Cale knew he could wash galactic concerns from his mind. Nothing mattered when he was six shots deep in Corellian Whiskey, not even the force itself could find some way to bother him. He thumbed the access pad, and the door slid open. Stepping in Gunderson shook the snow from his boots and the heavy coat he wore over himself, and shut the door just as quickly.

Dozens of pairs of eyes darted to the door as he reached up and pulled the rough scarf down from the bridge of his nose then drew back the hood he'd worn over his head. Dark hair was still kept short, though it was an as untamed a mess as any, and his beard was rougher than most. His mind commanded he go for a stimstick, and light it quickly, but the hard look from the man tending the bar made it clear that if he meant to remain in the premises, he'd need to give him some kind of business. So he did.

Taking a lonely stool at the bar he gave the hulking Zabrak tending it a nod and lifed a single finger. "Corellian on the rocks, please." The formality felt out of place, but it was force of habit more than anything else.

"Credits up front, don't do no tabs here." The man grunted.

"That can't be great for business."

"Better than spacers like you running off without paying knowing you'll never be back to pay."

"Fair enough." He conceded, tossing the man a chit whilst he returned the courtesy by pouring out the drink over ice. Cale took it and began what he hoped to be an uneventful night of drinking. With any luck he'd be drunk for a few hours, and any unfortunate memories and heavy guilt would be gone from his life for a time. Then he'd drag himself back to the freighter he'd still yet to name, and go do the whole thing over again. A pitiful, meaningless existence, a far cry for once being a guardian of order, and enforcer of evil, or a simple pilot trying to find his redemption among the ranks those fighting for freedom.

But it was certainly safer, and survival more probable. If Tallia could see him now, and what he'd done after she'd helped him escape the gilded cage the Silver Jedi had intended to keep him in, he was sure she'd have regretted the choice. Perhaps he did too. But she wasn't here to see how far he'd fallen, only he was, and if he got himself drunk enough, he'd quit being so damn judgy for just a bit.

 

[Hector Vale]

Hector slouched back in his seat, having a drink at his empty table. Master Daven had not come back yet, and though he had told Hector not to stop, it had been two days and Hector had not seen an imperial since his separation from his master. He had elected to see if his master would find him in this bar. It was crowded, and the Imperials would have difficulties trying to capture him without being noticed.

A waitress came over to Hector’s table after he had finished his drink. He debated asking for another, but he needed to be on his toes, not distracted by alcohol. Instead, he gave the waitress half of the credits that Master Daven had made gambling on Muunilinst. “Would you be so kind as to keep half of these for yourself, and half for the band?” He asked with a smile. The waitress nodded enthusiastically, rushing off with the credits and looking at them as though they were a gift from a deity above.

Hector had enjoyed the band’s play, though it was far different to the music he was used to on Coruscant. Then again, almost everything here was different from Coruscant. He shivered a bit. The temperature inside was nothing compared to the sharp cold outside, though. He hoped that he’d be off this planet soon enough, off to some tropical place in the core, not deep in Imperial territory.

Hector scanned the bar for his master, and though he did not see Daven, he felt a presence in the force nonetheless.

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

It was beyond freezing this particular evening on Cadomai Prime, and Aleksandr found himself stumbling through the stark white snowfalls common to this Outer Rim oddity. Many of the native Snivvians wore a number of thermal heated layers despite their natural adaptations to the cold, but Aleksandr, as always, traveled light. A thief couldn't afford to be bogged down by cumbersome clothing or non essentials after all. The backwater dive he was visiting today bore the name "Five Quid Cantina" in ugly reddish-pink neon letters, an outdated design in any other business, but perfect for the kind of locale the bar owner intended to draw in here. Aleksandr was not exactly a regular at the establishment, but he had spent his fair few nights at the cantina when the snows were too heavy to traverse and he needed credits badly enough to steal from drunken miners and long retired gunslingers. This night was just like those many nights before, and Aleks needed a quick score, just enough to put a fire in his makeshift shelter on the east side of Brella and food on his dusty table. When the metallic door of the cantina slid open, Aleksandr entered without drawing much attention, his deep black hood pulled up over his face. Long ago it had been standard issue for the winter uniforms of the Atrisian Royal Academy of the Arts, now it was nothing more than a faded memory. At least it kept the snow off his head. He took a seat in one of the unoccupied corners of the bar, scanning the assorted faces that were calling the dive their place of shelter for the night. A pair of Rodian gamblers spoke in hushed voices nearby, rolling holographic dice and sliding credits across the table every play. Aleksandr noted a group of humans huddled on the bar, watching a fight of some kind. They all wore blasters on their hip, well used ones by the looks of things. They would not be the ones he messed with today.

Finally his eyes settled on a loner practically slumped over the bar, cradling a beverage that must've been refilled at least twice in the past hour, judging by the man's condition. He would be an easy score, the few credits Aleksandr needed to replace his spray cans and other assorted supplies. Once he was back to producing pieces he wouldn't have to borrow again, he could finally get to living an honest life on Cadomai. Aleksandr approached the bar slowly, keeping behind the human and feigning interest to the barkeep. He'd order the cheapest drink on the menu to divert any suspicion, and when he was sure no one was paying him any mind his hand shot out for the man's pockets. Anything at all would do, credit chips, nova crystals, even a pack of stimsticks. Aleksandr hoped that if he was quick enough the drunk wouldn't even notice he'd been stolen from until the next morning, and by then he would be long gone. He smirked. Just one score and he was back on the high road.

 

[Cale Gunderson]

Aleksandr Stirsea had fast hands, that Cale would admit, but he was used to prey that didn't see him coming. Gunderson kept the force quiet, buried under substance and guilt, but he was not numb to it. He could sense Hector Vale the moment he'd sat down, felt his presence on the streets too, but he'd paid the boy no mind. Wasn't his problem. The runt trying to take his credits was.

Cale's hand snapped back and caught the street rat by his wrist. Without missing a beat he yanked the boy's hand away from his pocket, and jerked him forwards into the bar. For a moment he locked eyes with the ruffian. Cold, tired eyes looking upon the pickpocket with more indifference then anything akin to annoyance. Without missing a beat he brought his hand back as a fist, and struck the boy square on the forehead.

"Better luck next time." Was all he gave in response.

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

Aleksandr had been so close to the credits when a sudden force pulled on his outstretched hand and tossed him forward. One stare-down later and a closed fist to the forehead caused the thief to flinch in pain, pulling away from the stranger and gripping the source of his discomfort. At the very least this one armed drifter wasn't further pursing him, and his spoken response to the attempted theft came off as little more than tired annoyance. Aleks should probably be running out the door of the cantina about now, but there was something about this man that annoyed him. Why wasn't he getting angrier? Why had he even let Aleks get that close in the first place?

"Hey! Hey you, drifter. What the hell was that for?" He hissed in an aggressive whisper. "You could've settled for throwing me into the bar, you know. Us street rats gotta eat too sometimes." He wasn't even sure if this drunk was listening to him. "What a waste of time..." He grumbled under his breath.

 

[Cale Gunderson]

"To teach you a lesson, don't see you trying to pickpocket any of the rest of the folk in here, nah they're big and scary, visibly armed too." Cale turned in his stool to face the boy, the same tired gaze settled on him as he brought a stimstick free from its pack and trapped it between his lips, triggering the self ignition and taking a long drag from it. Smoke went in, and smoke came out, exhaled in a cloud of swirling gray as he looked upon the boy. Orphan of some kind no doubt, gifted too. He couldn't use it properly, but Cale could sense the force in Aleksandr Stirsea the same he could the other boy, though the latter felt more trained. Almost like a Jedi, but they were on the wrong side of the galaxy for that.

"You went right for the schutta with one arm, 'cause you thought he'd be easy. You ain't the only one who's gotta eat, you kick cripples in alleys for credits too? Try and grow a pair kid, won't get far without having a spine." The spacer scolded, taking another drag as if the boy would listen to a word he was saying. Cale thought to scold him more, but something in the force screamed, and told him to hide. He suppressed himself and turned back to the bar as the door slid open once again,

----------------------

He had no name any longer beyond what they had given him. Twelfth Brother, that was all he was, all he would ever be. Never would he be any Dark Lord's apprentice, nor any true Sith. He was a tool, not a student. An Inquisitor of the Sith Empire. Clad in the black armor of his station, he peered out at the world from the crimson slit in his helm, stepping into the rancid cantina with two troopers at his back, armed for capture rather than a kill. The master had been a different story, but the student, well the Empire did need more just like the Twelfth Brother. Or perhaps some Sith Lord would take an interest in him, it was beyond Twelfth's mission to care.

"Hector Vale, surrender yourself now." The command came swiftly as he stepped into the bar, voice mechanized, eyes almost instantly finding Hector Vale where he sat. It was only then he took note of Aleksandr, sensed his potential, the power he might one day wield. "You...we can make something of you. Come with us."

It was not a request to the street rat, that much was clear as the two troopers turned their gaze to him whilst the inquisitor returned his gaze to Vale. He'd been like that once, huddled in some corner, afraid. In truth that fear had been justified, given what followed, but he was more powerful now then he had ever been then. Maybe the boy would be the same.

"Your master is dead. You've nowhere to go. This is over." The inquisitor declared, one hand resting on his saber, the other on that of Hector's fallen master.

 

[Hector Vale]

Hector cursed under his breath. “Damn it!” The Inquisitor had found him, it seemed. Daven must have been captured or... well, it was not a pleasant thought. Hector wiped it from his mind. There is no emotion, there is peace. The Jedi Code echoed in his head. He gave a defiant look, though he hid his fear poorly.

Hector’s composed defiance melted with one sentence.

Your master is dead.

Master Daven had not been wrong before, nor had Hector seen him lose in combat, and yet the inquisitor had his saber.

All of the exits were blocked by the Inquisitor and his two men, and even with Hector’s training in Form IV he would not be able to escape. That left fighting and surrendering.

Hector’s hand tightened around his broken lightsaber almost instinctively, before remembering the faulty emitter. He produced a vibroblade instead.

“Don’t make me do this. We can both leave now, go our separate ways. I have backup waiting for me.” He was bluffing, but it was the best he could do. There was a distinctively nervous edge in his voice.

Hector looked at the other boy, Aleksandr Stirsea , that the Inquisitor had noticed. A force sensitive, apparently, but he hardly looked trained. Not enough to fight an Inquisitor. He would need a miracle to get out of the cantina, never mind finding safety. Still, he and this kid had a common enemy, it looked like. “A little help here?” he asked with a grim smile.

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

Stormtroopers. Aleksandr hated stormtroopers. Worse yet, now some crazy wielding a lightsaber thought he could make demands regarding Aleks. Judging by the way he gave commands and his clear intent with the other boy, following along quietly would not go his way. He'd long since ceased listening to the rambling spacer lecturing him over a few credits. There was more than money on the line now, Aleksandr was playing with lives. Taking on some Dark Lord wasn't in the boys list of skills- but a gunfight, a gunfight he could win. His deft hands whipped down to his holster, slipping out his double barreled RSKF-44 with ease.

"I've got your back if you've got mine." Aleksandr called to the other teenager in the dive, kicking a table over for some makeshift cover. Taking aim at the man in the lead at the door, Aleks fired off a pair of red hot blaster bolts, then shooting plasma at his accompaniment of plastoid-clad companions. "So who exactly are these guys?" He called out over the bustling noise of the rousing cantina. "And why do they want you?" Another pair of red lasers flashes out of his heavy blaster.

"Better yet, why do they want me?" He asked hurriedly.

 

[Cale Gunderson]

“No, you don’t. You’re here alone, at best armed a blade you can hardly use and perhaps a broken lightsaber. Why else would you call on this street rat?” The Twelfth Brother nearly laughed, hand slipping his saber from his belt, the simple hilt coming to life in an instant as he thumbed the ignition with a snap-hiss. Crimson illuminated the room as the blade burned the hue of blood. Patrons and employees alike all shrung back, bar some one armed fool drunk at the counter.

He paid him no mind, a cripple was no threat.

“You speak boldly, like you are dangerous, and not a scared boy. Come quietly and the conversion will be more gentle, resist and you will suffer greatly. This is my last and only offer.” Cadomai Prime was not Sith territory legally, but resting just outside their borders, it may as well have been. No local law enforcement would be daring to cross the inquisitor.

Then he turned to the urchin, and laughed.

“I want to make you someone worth remembering, more than some stain on these streets. Put that gun away, before I take the hand holding it from you, boy.” The inquisitor hissed down at Aleksandr, suppressing a twisted smile behind his mask as he towered over the boy.

“I can let you be made into something, or I can make you nothing. Last chance.”


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He kept it suppressed, himself, his feelings, the fear. A cold sweat had run down his sign as the room was lit the shade of red, he watched the once towering barkeep’s eyes go wide with terror. Sith did not hesitate to butcher those who gave them trouble. Cale of all people knew, he’d watched himself do it, a prisoner in his own mind.

Then the street rat shot, and the Inquisitor’s blade moved like lightning, casting aside the blaster bolts into the walls, though one found its way into the chest of a trooper who cried out in agony as he fell. Even suppressed, he felt the Inquisitor’s anger run hot.

“You whelp, you’ll suffer for that-” The dark armored figured stepped forwards to close the gap between himself and Aleksandr, no doubt ready to take him apart. And once again even as he groaned, Cale’s body moved against his own command.

The Force let itself in and guided his hand as he slung his half full glass back at unnatural speed, the cup rocketing through the air and crashing over the saber wielding darksider in a shower of glass. Before he’d fully turned, Cale had spun himself around in the stool and produced a blaster, a singular shot rang out as a blaster bolt downed the other trooper.

He switched his aim to the inquisitor and fired without hesitation. It went as well as one might’ve expected. Bolts scattered across the room, and then the darksider tore the weapon from his grasp with the force, and sliced it in two. Cale knew what would come next, and he gave the Inquisitor no time to do it.

Launching from the stool he rammed his shoulder into the inquisitor, smashing against him, knocking the Jedi Hunter off balance whilst his hand went to the Twelfth Brother’s waist and tore free the saber of the targeted boy’s master. Cale knew he’d made a mistake, he hadn’t held one in years, much less fought with one, and he’d had two arms then, but something in him was on autopilot.

He thumbed the ignition, and a new light melded with the harsh red glow as a blue blade emerged. He gave no thought to his condition, no pause, he just went at the man. He swung wide and sloppy, coming at the inquisitor as if he was some untrained fool. The first of his strikes were batted away, and all at once the tables turned.

Crimson arced towards him and Cale staggered back, parrying away blow after blow, strong blocks now weak without a second arm to hold them, alcohol clouding whatever was left of his skills. A heavy strike took the saber from his grip, the cylinder spiraling away onto the floor, deactivating in a flash. Then a boot met his chest, and Cale found himself on the floor, looking up at a crimson blade pointed down towards him.

“If you wanna live, fight! If you don’t then come slow him down so I don’t have to!” He called back to the boys, in some kind of half plea. Part of him just wanted the blade to come down on him, and in the whole sorry affair. What happened next fell to Hector Vale and Aleksandr Stirsea .

 

[Hector Vale]

Hector watched as the one-armed man collided with the Inquisitor in a reckless charge akin to that of a Nexus. It was beautiful, the way he recovered Master Daven’s lightsaber and faced the Twelfth Brother. What was far less graceful was his form. Hector bit back an instinctive laugh as the drunk wildly swung the saber.

Hector exchanged a look with the other boy, Aleksandr Stirsea . “I’ll explain when we get out of this! I can take him, you just focus on staying alive!” It was a complete lie, but Hector did not want to bring two force sensitives into the Inquisitor’s grasp.

Hector rushed in at the Inquisitor, initially being repelled by a well aimed push. He got back up, his athleticism serving him well, though it had been some time since his last fight. This time, he advanced more carefully, letting his opponent strike first. He just barely saved his arm from being sliced off, dodging at the last moment.

Hector took his time, dodging many attacks but not finding an opportunity to strike. This was the best fighter he had ever faced. He allowed the fight to gain a certain rhythm, a strike and an evade, a strike and an evade, a strike and an evade. This went on for some time before Hector switched tactics. As the Inquisitor brought down his glowing red blade, Hector extended his hand, pushing the Inquisitor back.

Hector took the opportunity to rush in, slicing his opponent’s chest. A smile adorned his face for a moment. “Is that it?” he asked. The Inquisitor was quick to punish his mistake, sending a table towards him at high speeds with the force. Hector barely dodged, and whilst attempting to recover, was beset by a strike from the Inquisitor.

The vibroblade could not handle the power of the Twelfth Brother, and it split in two. A red lightsaber was pointed at Hector’s neck. This is it, then, he thought bitterly. He closed his eyes, preparing for the strike.

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

These two must be Jedi. Aleksandr thought to himself, his mind opening up to all kinds of new realities. Two of them in some Outer Rim resort world? And in the same dingy dive no less? This must've been fate. The older man showed an impressive display of skill collecting a weapon, but he was defeated as quickly as he had sprung into action. Still, Aleksandr had to be grateful, this man that he had tried to steal from was saving his life. The other Jedi drew a vibroblade and went toe to toe with the Sith Lord, constant evasions keeping him from deadly lightsaber strikes. Eventually he was disarmed, and the red blade of the lightsaber was poised to take his life, Aleks had to act quickly. Running forward shoulder first, Aleksandr smashed into the imposing dark figure, knocking him off balance and throwing him to the floor. The street rat fought like he had learned how against the bullies and older boys on Atrisia throwing punches on the masked Sith Lord over and over. The strikes proved to be less than effective, and Aleks quickly backpedaled cradling his knuckles. As he withdrew his right hand shot back to his blaster, and hot plasma shot out towards his opponent. The red lasers were deflected towards walls and the ceiling, but one managed to scorch a shoulder plate, earning a roar of anger from the Sith. A blast of force came from the lightsaber-wielding opponent, knocking Aleksandr into a table and sending him spinning to the floor. Hopefully he had bought time for his unlikely allies.

 

[Cale Gunderson]

It was when the Inquisitor had to step away that Cale found his strength again. The Force willed him, as deeply as he loathed it for it. His eyes found the inactive hilt on the floor, and his hand reached out. Amidst the chaos of Hector and Aleksandr’s confrontation of the darksider, Cale let the force flow, he pulled.

First it simply twitched, moved ever so slightly, then it came into his hand like similar ones had done a thousand times before. Cale sprung into a crouch and brought the blade back to life, slashing across the back of the Inquisitor’s leg as the patrons screamed and attempted to rush out amidst the chaos.

The Twelfth Brother let out a ferocious snarl, turning his attention back to the washed up spacer, rage boiling. Then a blaster bolt caught his side, the young street urchin rising once again to the fight, and the padawan found his footing again. The Inquisitor paused, then laughed. Pain only made him stronger, and these three were no match for him.

A half-trained padawan with no lightsaber, a force sensitive street rat, and what he could only suppose was some spacer keen on heroics. Lightly trained perhaps, maybe he’d been a padawn or the like some years ago, Cale certainly did not radiate the strength as anyone who had a modicum of training.

“At least this won’t be boring.” The inquisitor sighed. Aleksandr would be thrown back into a table as Hector charged him, a scavenged meat knife he had snatched up catching nothing but black plate as he gave the orphaned padawan a sharp knee to the stomach to knock him back. Then he met Cale as his strike came in.

Blue locked with red for but a moment, before the Inquisitor overpowered Cale with ease, forcing his blade down then slashing at his body, forcing him to leap back, but it kept his attention long enough for Hector and Aleksandr to find their footing.

Aleksandr’s blaster bolt was reflected, and meaning to make good on his threat, he lashed out and cut the RK-44 in two, narrowly missing the thief’s hand as Vale crashed into him, falling back on some baser instinct as he rammed the darksider against the bar with his shoulder, plunging the jagged blade deep into his side, slotting the blade between plates of armor. Then he did it again, and again, and again. Blood sprayed as the padawan’s flurry hit home, but the victory was short lived.

The inquisitor howled, and snatched Hector by the throat, ripping away the padawan with immense force and hoisting him in the air, blinded by his rage for just a moment. Cale might’ve been nearly drunk, but he was not blind to a golden opportunity.

“You damned worm, I’ll kill yo-!” His threat turned into a howl of pain as Cale brought his balde down on the Inquisitor’s outstretched arm, separating his forearm from anything above the elbow with a single stroke, a sloppy smirk across his face as Hector dropped to the floor, though the darksider’s hand still was wrapped around his throat, frozen in its last action.

The smirk vanished when the Inquisitor sprung onto him. A barrage of crimson strikes and a furious roar rained down on Cale, forcing him to backpedal as he tried in vein to hold off the barrage. He didn’t have the strength anymore, he was half the fighter he’d been, half at best. He just needed this, one last good thing. It wouldn’t save him, wouldn’t redeem him, but it was better to go out on a high note, wasn’t it?

Another strong bash took the saber from his hand again, sending it spiraling somewhere over the bar. A slash cut across his chest, biting through his thick coat, singing flesh beneath as it danced over it. Then the gap between them vanished, and the Inquisitor smashed him across the face with the hilt of his saber. Cale could almost feel his eye begin to swell instantly, but his nose broke on the second impact, his lip busted wide on the third. Then a knee to his abdomen rocketed him to the floor.

The world around him spun, red and blurry as the darksider went for the kill, but something roared even louder than him. From over the counter, Aleksandr launched towards the darksider, ignited lightsaber in hand.

The Twelfth Brother turned to him, catching the first two blows, humoring the enraged boy, hammering at him with a weapon he’d never used. The darksider laughed, feeling the hatred rise in the boy, practically tasting his future among the ranks of the dark side as his fury spilled forth. The street rat reigned blows down on him like thunderbolts, hammering away at the Inquisitor’s guard as the storm of clashes light the bar a brutal purple.

Then Aleksandr slipped through his guard, and cut a gash into his torso.

If he was stunned, or in greater pain, the Twelfth Brother did not show it, catching the following blow with ease, them with a single ripost he brought the crimson of his blade up across Aleksandr’s face, cutting an incision from chin to cheekbone, then kicking the boy to the floor. Then he seemed to pause, looking down at the singed stump of his arm, and the now inactive saber on the ground.

“Wretched animals, filthy damned resistors. I shall have my amusement from each of you, then you boys will be molded into tools of the mighty Empire, whilst this degenerate is roasted alive. You are nothing, no one. All of you are but failures desperate for a chance to ever match my power!” He declared, victorious, eyes set on Hector as the padawan struggled to rise again.

“It is over. I win, you lose.”

 

[Ronan Calore]

Pshoom

Ronan’s blaster echoed in the cantina, making the thud of the inquisitors body barely audible. The bounty hunter looked down on the man from behind his helmet, watching him twitch despite the hole that had taken a chunk out of his head. “No, I think I win.” With a boot he nudged the corpse in front of him, and once he was satisfied Ronan picked up the lightsaber, tossing it to the young Padawan.

“Here kid, this is yours.” Ronan looked to the remaining patrons as the hid under tables or behind each other. “Everyone, clear out!” Two more blaster bolts filled the air as Ronan shot the ceiling.


“Damn, he did a number on you all.” Ronan helped the older man into a chair and poured him a drink. “Corellian on the rocks right? That’s what you had before.” Taking out a canister of bacta and some bandages from his pack he handed them to the party.

“Now, what are three Jedi doing in Imperial space, I thought you lot were supposed to be wise enough to make better decisions.” He looked from the man, to the young boys, all of them hurt in some way shape or form; they’d need treatment better than bacta spray and bandages.

 

[Hector Vale]

Hector caught his master’s weapon gingerly, looking at it for a long moment. He recalled the first time Daven had shown it to him in full. “This is the weapon of a Jedi, young Padawan. One day, you will choose your own. This weapon is your last resort. A competent Jedi knows how to win a duel, a masterful Jedi knows how to avoid one.” Hector remembered the playful look on his master’s face. Could the man really be gone?

Hector realized he was lost in thought, and snapped himself out of it. He got to his feet, throat still aching from the Inquisitor’s grasp. He nodded to the soldier. “Good shot. He was a tough one, for sure.”

Hector gave a moment of consideration to the man’s words. How this man figured that the other two were Jedi was beyond him. The boy might have had force sensitivity, but he was far from a trained fighter, and the older man had the technique of the drunkard that he was. “They’re not Jedi,” Hector said, trying to keep a level head. “As for how I got here, it’s a long story. I need to get off of this system. Now.”

 

[Cale Gunderson]

“No one’s a Jedi here.” Cale answered, drinking the new glass of Corellian eagerly, too punch drunk to question who’d just shot dead the Imperial Inquisitor, why they’d overheard his drink order, or anything else he ought have questioned. He just drank, and focused on the cool liquid rather than the blood dripping from his face, or the pain pulsating through him.

“One over there might think he is, but ain’t no one here a Jedi.” Gunderson grunted, producing another stimstick to place between his bloodied lips. He brought it to them shakily, and hastily ignited it. Taking a long drag and puffing, his eye that wasn’t in the process of swelling darting to Aleksandr, then Hector.

“You all need to leave, now.” The barkeep ordered, trying to find his confidence again. Cale’s head lazily turned towards the Zabrak, and gave him a look that might’ve been disdain. He wasn’t wrong though, Inquisitors didn’t travel alone, and if he didn’t make it to his ship fast then he wouldn’t be leaving Cadomai at all.

The rags and bacta would suffice for now, but he’d need to reset his nose at some point. It would hurt like hell he imagined, so he’d be sure to get sufficiently drunk before doing it. Forcing himself up, he stooped down and took the Inquisitor’s now inactive lightsaber, though for what purpose he wasn’t sure. He could’ve easily taken a blaster off one of the dead troopers, he’d likely have been better with it in his state.

But old habits died hard, it seemed.

“Barkeep’s right. You’d all best scram offworld and fast. Empire won’t take kindly to this.” He should’ve left it there, maybe offer the merc a ride at best, but even though is vision was hazy, Cale knew full and well neither of the boys had a chance of escape.

And that isn’t your problem. You’ve done enough to screw yourself already.

“If you plan on living, stay close, ship isn’t far.” Less an offer, more a demand, though he wanted to kick himself all the same. Cale didn’t take time for questions, and as he staggered out into the streets where a crowd had gathered to watch might happen, he realized he’d need to thin it. So he pulled the inquisitor’s saber free, and ignited it.

Moving towards the crowd and waving the saber in the air, he made his demands simple.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” He screamed, beaten, bloody, and looking at least half mad.

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

"I- I can't just leave." Aleksandr groaned, looking to the two others still occupying the bar. "Cadomai was supposed to be my chance to start fresh." He complained, rushing out the door and trailing angrily behind Cale.

"Spacer. Hey, spacer!" Aleksandr called, for he still had not learned this mans name. "That Sith guy, he could've been wrong, right? I mean, I'm an orphan, son of a dead soldier and a dead barmaid, I'm not special." He was practically pleading at this point, Aleks wondered if he looked pathetic. "I don't have the Force."

And yet he knew it was a lie the moment he spoke it. He'd felt it on Atrisia when those agents had tried to kill him and he'd felt it again when he ignited that blue lightsaber and faced down a Lord of the Sith. He did have the Force, and this stranger was offering to help him after he had been wronged. Aleks grimaced at his own self-righteousness.

"How... how far is your ship from here?" He finally relented.

 

[Ronan Calore]

“Does it really matter? As long as it gets you offworld a ship is a ship.” In the distance he could here the sirens of Cadomai Security Force, and they were getting closer by the second.

“Blast! I’d hoped to make some decent credits in this stink hole before the CSF showed up.” As Ronan looked at the party, he couldn’t help but feel pity, the young boys almost reminded him of himself at their age, but stupider, and not as idealistic.

“Enough self-loathing kid, there’ll be plenty of time for that outside of Imperial space.” Ronan looked at the entire party and waved them towards him. “I can take you all to the Spaceport if you want, but be quick about it, I’m not trying to rot in an Imperial Military Prison.”

 

[Hector Vale]

Hector shot a glare at the drunk who said he was not a Jedi. What would he know about it? He could barely swing a lightsaber. Still, the man had been helpful, Hector could not deny it. It wasn’t the time for dealing with insults, anyways.

Hector did need a ship. His master’s starfighter was all but lost to him, and it was in poor condition after so many close calls on the Outer Rim. Master Daven wasn’t... well, he wasn’t with Hector anymore, either. He would need some companions to help him survive the Empire, and these people would have to do for now.

Hector just nodded. “Yes, we need to get to the Spaceport. The Inquisitor had backup, there was a fully crewed transport that got him here. I don’t want to wait and see if they stuck around. We should go, now. Do any of you guys know how to fly?” Piloting was never Hector’s forte, but he could do it if truly necessary.

 

[Cale Gunderson]

At first his eyes fell on Hector Vale and as he turned back from clearing a path through the crowd, the sting of cold air on his fresh wounds, the spacer gave the padawan a look of condescending confusion. His eyes practically begged the question 'did you really just ask that?' but his lips held back anything overtly harsh. At least in his mind.

"What part of my ship didn't you catch? Ship wouldn't be much good if I couldn't fly. Now stay close or stay behind, I don't care, but just pick." He called to the boy who now held his fallen master's blade, as well as the street urchin who'd insisted he could not leave Cadomai Prime. Cale wasn't sure why the padawan seemed so damned afraid of the lightsaber, it was almost strange, but it wasn't his concern. The freighter he'd taken as his own was no pretty thing, but she had enough to her that Cale's gifts could shine through. Even after his injury, Gunderson was still an ace.

They couldn't take that from him at least.

Then came their timely savior, Ronan Calore standing by them for reasons beyond Cale's understanding. He'd taken a massive risk by gunning down the Jedi Hunter, and was taking another by staying with them. Maybe he saw a payday coming from them, and in that regard he'd be disappointed, and any bounty he might've collected on them would be hard to cash in now that he'd made an enemy of the Sith Empire. Maybe he'd acted on instinct, and now he just needed a way out, Cale could clearly understand that, and he hoped that was all their situation was.

"Just stick with me, ship's at a third party landing platform, it isn't far." He assured the mercenary, though by third party he of course meant illegal, but that wasn't relevant. As they moved towards a large circular building, clearly one surrounding the docking pad housing his vessel, a cruel noise pierced the air. He knew it by sound before he knew it by sight, both the scream of its engines, and of the people it sent scattering. Two Sith Empire TIE Fighters streaked overhead, darting over rooftops leaving thin contrails in their wake. They were running out of time.

Gunderson wasn't entirely sure the Sith even fielded TIEs in their mainline fleets anymore, their inclusion in the ranks was an on-again, off-again kind of affair. That meant there was at least a solid chance that whatever hung in orbit waiting for them wouldn't be a battle group of Star Destroyers and Interdictors. More than like it would be a lone cruiser, old and retired from mainline fleets.

After all, the Empire hardly had its sights on Cadomai, and Inquisitors were arguably the lowest of the low in their power structure. The were converted, broken down, brainwashed prisoners more often than not, fully turned through a mixture of torture, manipulation, and force knew what kind of hellish drug cocktails. Even the lowest Sith Apprentice commanded more power and respect.

As the door to the building slid open before Cale, who ushered the group in to where the freighter which he reluctantly called home laid waiting. It was only then he responded to Aleksandr Stirsea . "If you couldn't touch the force, you'd have been cut down in a heartbeat back there. You really think some urchin with a gun can just pick up a saber and stand even a fourth the time you did against someone like that? No." Blunt in his delivery, but honest nonetheless.

"Force doesn't care who your family is or was, people are born with it at random all the time. Doesn't make you special either though, plenty have it, and plenty are stronger than you'll ever be from the start, don't let it get to your head. Now get on the ship." He commanded, stern, almost like a teacher speaking to an unruly student as he cocked his head towards the freighter's lowered ramp.

Cale thumbed the ignition, and the crimson blade in his hand died. He wasn't sure what he'd do with it, but that was for another time. He bolted for the ramp, and prayed that Tup Tup had kept the systems online like Cale had told him to.

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

This was the group Aleksandr had fallen among. A drunk spacer, a masterless Jedi, a mercenary, and an urchin, all outlaws, the whole lot of them. Imp's didn't even control Cadomai by galactic law, but he doubted planetary security forces would dare interfere with a squad of Sith-employed TIE fighters, lest they incur the wrath of the whole Empire for their heroics. Aleksandr listened to what the drifter told him. He wasn't special, but, he found a certain comfort in that fact. Perhaps after this was all over he could return to a quiet life of making art and dodging the law. That was where he felt at home, not on the run from manic Sith Lords and their faceless legions of enforcers.

Following Cale to the descending ramp of his freighter, Aleksandr finally realized the searing pain that pulsated on his face. The adrenaline and shock of the encounter had numbed him for a time, but no close brush with death was ever going to feel pleasant- especially not one inflicted by a lightsaber. A thin line of flesh had been slashed from his chin to his cheekbone, instantly cauterized by the unmatchable heat of a laser weapon, but still leaving a mark to be remembered by. It would scar, Aleksandr recognized, hopefully to his advantage on the street. The boy lifted the small cylinder of bacta that the mercenary had handed him, unscrewing the top of the container and pouring an amount into a wrap of bandage. Pressing the gauze to his face, Aleksandr instantly felt the sting of the healing properties, flinching reactively.

"Ow," Was all he said at first. "Bacta stings." He stated to no one in particular. This group would have to stick together for some small period of time at the very least, and he realized they would need each others name for that to go smoothly.

"I didn't catch everyone's name," Aleksandr said aloud, looking first to the spacer and then to the other teenager. "I'm Aleksandr." He said. "Aleksandr Stirsea."