Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

14 BBY: Corellia – HΛLO9

There’d been trouble all night—and there’d be trouble all week. That much was tradition by now. Every year, the lead-up to that day stirred unrest. After five years, Sera knew the pattern. The club would be packed, lines trailing down the back alley and wrapping the block long before the sun even dipped below the skyline. There’d already been fights in the queue. Pickpockets ran the line, some purposely ignored—part of deals she'd struck months in advance. The rest were pulled from the fray with force. There was muscle on the door, extra hired in.

A jammed dancefloor. Nameless strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder with regulars. The usual mix of smugglers, off-duty officers, drifters, dancers. Compounded now by Empire sympathizers pouring in for the city-wide parades and festivities—the kind the Empire called a celebration of peace. Liberation, they claimed. It was perhaps the only time of year she'd expect imps at the club. Those stationed regularly on Corellia knew better than to cross the docks into the North City. But the Empire brought their own extra muscle for the week. A show of strength, that turned Sera’s stomach to knots. Naive to the city’s unspoken deals, they tended to walk headfirst into trouble. Sera knew she'd be mopping blood off the floor by sunrise.

For all their talk of celebration, she didn’t see it. No—the air in HΛLO9 practically hummed with something else. Tension. Unease. A melting pot primed for trouble. It was in every raised voice at the bar, every tight jaw and twitchy glance on the dancefloor. A current running beneath the neon glow and synthetic bassline. Sera felt it in her bones. She always did, this time of year.

She stood now in the darkened office above the main floor, whiskey glass limp in one bloodied hand. Crimson trickled from her split knuckles, spattering slowly onto the polished wood beneath her heels. She didn’t bother cleaning it yet. Nor had she bothered to change from her blood-stained dress—the deep maroon somewhat hiding it.

Her gaze swept the floor below through the one-way glass of her office. Bodies blurred under strobing lights, shifting between brightness and shadow with each pulsing beat. Her dancers held court atop glass platforms that shimmered with light from below. They were tense—unnoticeable to the clientele, but she saw it.

Sera didn't run a brothel. That was a fact. They knew it—as did the regulars. But strange faces outnumbered them, even with extra security, both marked and unmarked, sweeping the crowds. She couldn’t guarantee their safety. Not this week. Though there’d been no major incident since she'd taken over—nothing beyond a wandering hand or a closed fist. 

It was the Imperials that worried her. Straight-backed, uniform-clad, and dripping with the delusion that their precious Empire had any say within the walls of her club. It was easier to let them believe it. Greet them with a smile. Usher them up the crystal stairs to the lounge. The glass platform level with the dancers. Luxurious velvet couches. Waitstaff in constant motion. Boosting egos so loud they'd barely notice the tight control Sera held over their every move.

Ma’ra, her former boss and now business partner, ruled the lounge. She spoke little of her past—and that suited Sera. An unspoken understanding lingered between the women, separated by decades. Ma’ra, well into her twilight years, showed little sign of slowing down. Elegantly dressed in a floor-length gown, adorned in jewels, she moved with a practiced grace in heels Sera would struggle to even stand in. Her age showed only in the soft wrinkles along her lekku. The Twi’lek, Sera had gathered, had once been a slave—though only a glimpse of her old brand had ever confirmed it. Sera knew nothing of how she’d escaped, but beneath the layers of makeup and fake smiles, she saw the sharp mind that had built a kingdom. Ma’ra hadn’t run a club this successfully for half a century on luck.

Sera’s eyes wandered back to the floor. Even in the office, the music was loud—a throbbing rhythm that cracked like thunder through the floorboards. But it barely made a dent in her thoughts. Still, she was grateful for it. The noise kept the ghosts quieter.

At the far wall, the bar was swamped—one long curve of wood backed by mirrored panels, reflecting the chaos in shards. T1P, the repurposed EV supervisor droid that predated her arrival, swept along behind the counter. Sera often wondered how his processors handled the onslaught, but he’d never failed her.

It was the gentle creak of the office door that finally drew her eyes from the floor. There were few people she trusted with the passcode. Kess was one of them. She watched as the Pantoran crossed the threshold the light of the hall outside spilling in with her. 

“Looking after yourself, I see,” Kess said, her gaze drifting to Sera’s hand. She wasn’t sure if the comment referred to the fact that she had done nothing to treat her bleeding knuckles—or to the whiskey glass. Neither was something Kess would likely approve of.

Sera scoffed, downing the last of the dark liquid as she made for her desk. Kess beat her there, grabbing the bottle before she got close. There was fire in her eyes that Sera couldn’t help but admire. Twenty-five, younger than Sera, but with a past just as jagged. Then again, every girl who crossed Ma’ra’s threshold had a story. The woman had a tendency toward collecting broken things.

Kess had been there a year before Sera arrived. Despite Sera’s best efforts to keep her distance, they’d been inseparable ever since.

“That’s not helpful,” Kess snapped, and Sera knew she’d already lost the fight. Kess planted her hands on her hips, that sassy tilt to her head screaming try me. She’d been working the floor, the silver of her low-cut dress now dulled in the office’s dim light.

Kess didn’t flinch under Sera’s glare—just raised a brow like she was daring her to try and take the bottle back. Sera didn’t. Not because she couldn’t, but because she didn’t have the energy to argue when Kess had that look.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” Kess asked, her voice light—too light. Dangerous territory.

Sera dropped into the chair behind her desk with a grunt, kicking her heels up onto the corner. “He had it—”

“You don’t think I know that?” Kess cut in with a snort. “But you’ve got security and two burly bouncers to deal with that kind of shit.”

Sera’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp. “So I should’ve waited? Just watched while he cornered her?”

“Pull him off her. Wait the fricking second it would’ve taken for security to catch up. Instead of breaking the bastard’s jaw in front of a dozen Imperial officers.”

She didn’t answer. There was no excuse. Any other time, she’d have done exactly that—held back, waited. But her blood had been boiling for a fight, and this time of year always seemed to offer her one.

“You always do this,” Kess said, echoing her thoughts, her voice cracking just slightly. “One shot of Corellian whiskey and suddenly you’re the damn enforcer.”

“I don’t need the whiskey for that,” Sera muttered, rubbing at her temple, trying—and failing—to diffuse the tension with humor.

“Then what do you need?” Kess fired back. “A bounty on your head? A personal invite from the nearest Inquisitor?”

“That’s not funny.”

Sera could feel the tightness rising in her chest that always happened when her past was dragged up. Kess was the only person she’d ever told. It had been forced, and vague overall, but she would’ve told her eventually. She was certain Ma’ra knew as well, but Ma’ra had a knack for knowing everything and saying nothing.

“No. But it’s true.” Kess stepped closer, her tone quieter now. “Sera… you had every Imperial in that lounge staring at you.”

“All they saw was the owner of a club sorting out a patron,” she said, though even she could hear the thinness in her voice. “Just another pretty face in a short dress and heels.”

Kess didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there, eyes still locked on Sera’s bruised hand. Then, without a word, she stepped away, feet trailing toward the chest on the back wall. She didn’t have to search long—too used to patching up Sera’s poor decisions.

Sera watched in silence as Kess returned, crouched beside her chair, and took her hand gently, like it might break if she wasn’t careful.

Sera didn’t resist. She never did, not with Kess.

The antiseptic stung, but Sera didn’t flinch. She stared past her, eyes fixed on the dust motes floating in the stale office light, mind too full to settle on anything. Too loud and too quiet all at once.

Kess started wrapping the knuckles. She didn’t speak, didn’t scold—not now. And that, somehow, was worse. When she was done, her fingers didn’t let go immediately. Instead, she traced lightly along the scar at Sera’s wrist—an old one, faded but unmistakable. One of a pair. Her touch lingered there for half a second too long, and Sera's stomach turned.

Sera pulled her hand back.

“I know what week it is,” Kess said softly. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Sera muttered, and hated how small her voice sounded as she ran her own fingers over the scar. Any attempt to hide it. “I’m sorry. For tonight.”

Kess stood, dusting off her hands. Sera could see the worry in her eyes, and she hated that she’d put it there.

“Yeah, well,” Kess said, a slight smile curling her lips, “next time, try not to punch your way through your trauma on my shift. It really messes with the vibe.”

Sera snorted, surprised by the sound of it. “What, broken bones aren’t sexy now?”

Kess chuckled, then leaned against the desk beside her. “You done being stupid for the night?”

Sera tilted her head, pretending to think. “...Maybe.”

For a while, neither girl spoke, the silence filled by the booming beat below.

It was Kess who pushed off the desk first with a sigh. “Come on. Let’s go see how bad the damage is before someone writes a complaint to the Empire about the violent ambiance.”

Sera rolled her eyes but stood, flexing her fingers against the fresh wrap. “They’ll survive. Ma’ra’s lacing them with drink and cheap dances.”

“Out of your paycheck, I assume,” Kess teased.

“Better than a lecture.”

“Brave of you to assume you won’t get both.” Kess winked, hand reaching for the door handle—

Then, suddenly, darkness. So sharp and immediate that Sera nearly stumbled backward. The music cut out with the lights, leaving behind the low murmur of the startled crowd and the residual ringing in her ears. 

A beat. Not long enough to process, let alone plan.

Then the lights slammed back on. The music blared like it had never stopped.

Kess, still beside her, shot her a look, but Sera was already sprinting toward the window. Her eyes scanned the floor below.

“What the frick was that?” Kess’s voice trailed behind her.

Sera didn’t reply. Her gaze moved swiftly across a sea of confused faces, all frozen uncertainty.

Ma’ra looked up toward the office. She wouldn’t be able to see Sera, but somehow she always knew when she was watching. Sera saw the older woman exhale, compose herself, and crack on a bright smile. Arms raised above the crowd, sleeves billowing around her, she lifted the mic with crimson-painted lips and announced something about technical difficulties.

Sera didn’t catch the words. She was still scanning—counting up the troublemakers she’d been tracking all night. Whatever Ma’ra said worked. The crowd reset, like nothing had happened.

“Something chewing the cables again,” Kess muttered beside her.

Sera knew she was doing the same—watching faces, remembering the ones you didn’t forget.

“Maybe,” Sera replied, fingers drumming the wooden sill. Nothing stood out. No shadows lingering too long, no panicked eyes. Nothing strange.

She was about to exhale when someone banged on the office door—loud, panicked. She knew before unlocking it that there’d been trouble.

Gia burst in, breathless, eyes wide—too wide for a seasoned dancer.

“They took her,” she gasped. “When the lights cut.”

She stumbled over her words, hands flailing, trying to act it out faster than her mouth could manage.

“Slow down.” Kess stepped in, grounding her hands on Gia’s shoulders. “Breathe.”

“Which girl?” Sera asked, voice sharp.

Gia took a breath, finally meeting her eye. “The new one. Trix. The Twi’lek. She started last month.”

“Anyone see who it was?” Sera was already moving, stripping off the remnants of her dress, tossing on her green vest without care for modesty. No time. It didn't matter anyway, not after years spend dressing together back stage to dance side by side in whisps of silk. 

“Trandoshan,” Gia said quickly. “We’d never seen him before. Kika took a slap trying to stop him.”

“Frick. Is she okay?” Kess’s voice went tight.

Sera clipped her twin blasters to her belt, yanked on her jacket. Her wrist comm flared to life, the AI’s voice crackling into her ear. Her mind was already spinning, old instincts firing into place.

“Kess, check on Kika. Gia, let Ma’ra know what happened.” Her boots were already headed for the door. 

The static hissed in her ear as her AI synced with the city feed. “Sera—” Kess’s voice stopped her in the doorway.

Sera turned slightly.

“Be careful.”

Sera just nodded—and vanished into the corridor.

Chapter Text

Tatooine – Three days since Trix vanished.

The wind was picking up again. There was heat even in that as it tore across the Dune Sea in gusts that lifted the sand into crashing waves, battering the glass of her goggles. The planet blurred into an endless haze of orange and gold, town after town dissolving into the desert.

She’d been chasing ghosts for days, following trails that barely existed, fragments of names, half-heard rumors. Until a slurred mention from a drunken Rodian on Nar Korga gave her something more. He’d muttered about a Trandoshan freighter, full to bursting, that had passed through just two days prior. A long shot.

But long shots were better than standing still.

And it made a kind of sense. Especially after Ma’ra had quietly let slip that Trix had once been a slave or that was the story she’d told, back when they’d first crossed paths. That rumor had been enough to drag her here. To Tatooine.

It had taken another full day, scouring the desert’s ragged edges for anything solid, before the trail led her to Kassh’ta a sun-bleached outpost twelve klicks from Mos Espa, held together by rust and sand. No different from any other Force-forsaken town she’d passed through to get here.

Her speeder groaned in protest as she eased it to a halt just outside the town. The engine coughed, then fell silent, heat shimmer rising from the hood. She swung a leg over and stood, brushing the worst of the dust from her cloak. A long, sand-stained thing coarse and faded beige. Hooded. Stitched and patched too many times to count. Beneath it, thin layers of fabric clung damply to her skin, sweat slick on her spine.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her face. It did little to stop the grit from sticking to her teeth as she moved into the main street. It was eerily silent.

Where the streets should’ve been packed with traders and vagrants, only desert weeds rolled aimlessly in the wind. A shutter banged softly against a windowframe. Here and there, curtains shifted, just enough to catch a glimpse of eyes watching from behind the glass. 

Her boots crunched over the sand as she approached the cantina.

“Nxy,” she muttered, squinting against the glare.

Her AI crackled to life in her ear, voice crisp despite the static. “Scanning the building for viable entry and exit points. Let me guess—you’re about to do something stupid.”

She snorted, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “Oi. That’s rude.”

“But accurate?”

“…Maybe.”

Her fingers ghosted over the twin blasters strapped into the folds of her cloak as she walked. She had a knife tucked close to her thigh. Extra power cells. Two flash charges. A trio of throwing knives, meticulously sharpened. She listed them in her head like a mantra trying desperately to remind herself she was more than capable. That she'd delt with worse. 

The cantina was a low-ceilinged dive, lit in flickering amber tones and thick with heat and smoke. The scent of sweat, engine grease, and cheap liquor clung to the air. Music screeched from a rusted sound system bolted high in the corner—some offworld track in a grating, upbeat rhythm that clashed with the murmur of voices and the occasional bark of laughter. It was packed. Unsurprisingly probably the only real source of entertainment in the town.

She slipped inside unnoticed, the crowd thick enough that no heads turned her way. She kept to the edges, hugging shadows where she could. Her goggles flicked through filters, scanning the room, until they landed on a hunched silhouette near the back. A ping confirmed it, Nyx marking the target with a small red glint in the corner of her lens.

She lowered the goggles and blinked against the change in light, her gaze adjusting as she weaved between chairs and sticky tables, counting her weapons again. One, two...

And then she saw him. Kriv Ralo. His reddish-brown skin dull under the cantina lights, a pair of small horns jutting from his brow just above his heavy-lidded eyes. He wore a worn flight vest over a sweat-stained shirt, his belt hanging loose with only one blaster. holstered at his hip. He was drunk. Leaning heavily on the shoulder of a bored-looking girl whose fascination with him had clearly faded. 

Intel had him pegged as a junior crew member working for the Trandoshan slaver Varrsk —the one who Sera was certain had taken Trix. If intel were accurate, he ran errands for Varrsk regularly. He was younger, less experienced, and Sera hoped, more easily pressed for information.

She stepped forward, her presence catching the attention of the girl first. Curiosity flickered across her features, and her movement stirred Kriv to turn awkwardly. His bleary eyes followed Sera until she stopped at the table.

“What do you want?” he snapped, not bothering to mask his irritation at being interrupted. The girl beside him took the opportunity to slide further down the booth, putting distance between them with a relieved shift of her shoulders.

“She doesn’t seem interested,” Sera teased, watching his face twist in anger. His white-knuckled grip threatened to shatter the empty glass in his hand. She clocked the twitch of his fingers, the slow burn behind his eyes. Tougher than she’d expected.

She smiled sweetly, asking no permission as she slid into the booth opposite him. The girl took the opportunity to slip away, vanishing into the crowd without a backward glance. Sera made a show of pulling off her heavy jacket, the heat clinging to her skin just enough to make the soft white cotton of her tank top damp and fitted. She saw the moment his eyes dropped, attention dragged away from his previous conquest without a second thought.

“Confident thing, aren’t you,” he rasped, leaning forward with a leer.

She didn’t flinch. She’d learned how to summon that look in a man’s eyes. Learned how to control it. How to use it. 

"Just used to getting what I want." She smiled, working to keep the true edge from her voice chin resting on her knuckles like she had all the time in the world.

He took the bait. Just as she’d hoped. That cocky, too-wide grin spread across his face. “Yeah?” 

It was easy to get him talking, easier yet when she'd offered to buy him a drink. A true gentlemen he didn't offer to pay. Instead opted to watch her walk to the bar. Eyes trailed lower where she made a show of moving her hips. She asked for doubles on his behalf just mixer in hers. 

“It must be so dangerous,” she said when she returned, sliding into the seat now beside him.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’m sure.” She smiled again, leaning in slightly, one hand resting lightly on his thigh. “Must get lonely, working by yourself.”

“I’ve got a crew,” he said quickly, puffing up a little. 

“Well, my boss does—I’m his second in command.” 

He took a gulp of his drink, then added with smug pride, “You might’ve heard of him. Varrsk.”

“Quite the reputation,” she said smoothly.

“Mmhmm. He likes pretty things.” He smirked, fingers trailing along the side of her neck.

Her skin crawled. She swallowed the rising nausea, forcing her expression to remain soft, interested. But the thought of Trix, trapped with a group of men like him, stirred something in her chest.

She leaned in closer, heart pounding—but not with fear. With purpose. “Pretty,” she echoed, like the compliment had done its work. He certainly seemed to think so. She leaned in closer, letting her breath ghost over his ear. “Are you staying here long?”

His hand slid around her waist, pulling her in.

“Not long. We just dropped a shipment off for the Hutts in Mos Espa.” He grinned, teeth yellow in the low light. “I leave tomorrow. But the night is young.”

The Hutts. Sera filed it away, even as her skin prickled under his touch.

“They’re dangerous people,” she murmured. “Do they like pretty things too?”

He didn’t notice the shift in her tone. Just let out a low chuckle, fingers tracing a slow, suggestive circle along her ribcage.

“Hmm. They’d pay good money for a girl like you.”

She smiled like it was a compliment.

“I don’t like cages,” she whispered, lips trailing near his neck. She could feel his pulse quicken beneath the sweat and stink of liquor that clinged to him.

“Hmm. We dropped off a few nice ones to his warehouse,” he mumbled “They don’t like cages either. Good work for us, though—we get to bring them back.”

His hand roamed too far. Sera cursed the feeling rising in her gut. She had what she needed. She should’ve pulled back, vanished into the smoke and bodies without a word. But then—

“Shame to have to give them back,” he said, smirking. “As you said, it gets lonely”

It took her a second to find the knife strapped to her thigh. Another to drive it down—hard—between his legs. He bellowed, a choked, wet scream as she sprang back. In a matter of moments she had cloak snapped around her shoulders. The familiar weight of her blasters replacing the security of the blade she'd used. 

“Oy!” a droid barked from the bar as she bolted through the crowd, all eyes on the bleeding man collapsing in the booth. “You forgot to pay!”

“It’s his round!” she shouted, not bothering to look back. She broke into a jog, boots hammering against the dust-slick floor as the cantina exploded into chaos behind her. Not breaking her pace till she reached her speeder that sparked to life beneath her.

"Ah yes, the subtle approach of gathering intel via genital stabbing. Bold choice" Nxy drooled in her ear. 

Chapter Text

The warehouse loomed at the edge of the city, its metal roof rusting beneath the blaring sun. Time and heat had eaten away at its structure, but it still looked formidable.

It hadn’t taken her long to find it. Intel came easier when you knew where to push. A few days of surveillance confirmed everything she feared. The ships arrived after dark, their engines quiet enough to avoid attention. Girls were dragged from their holds, some kicking, some silent, some so broken they barely blinked. All ages. All species. Herded like cattle. A blaster pressed to each back as they were marched inside.

It shouldn’t have felt strange to just watch.

Not after the last five years. Not when most of her life had been spent waiting until someone told her it was time to act. When the Force willed it. Or whatever sanctified bullshit passed for orders in the old days. She didn't believe in that anymore.

Now, it was just numbers. Cold math. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and utterly alone. Once, maybe she would’ve rushed in anyway. Saber in hand, the Force pulsing through her veins and made a difference. She liked to believe she would’ve. But belief was hard to hold onto after watching the galaxy burn. After fighting so hard for something that only made everything worse. Not that it mattered now.

The warehouse was packed with security—guards posted at every entrance, patrols sweeping the perimeter in relentless rotations. There were no windows that hadn’t been sealed shut, the vents welded into place. Harsh lights bathed the compound, making it impossible for her to reach a potential entry point without being seen.

She had no maps of the interior. No idea what he was storing in there. And judging by the level of protection, it was more than just girls. Hell, she didn’t even know if Trix was still inside. And if she was... She had no idea how the hell she was going to get her out.

As the days ticked by, so too did her patience for it all.

The thoughts of Trix—trapped with men like the one she’d stabbed in the cantina—put images in her head that turned her stomach. She’d failed her. Let her get snatched right out of her club, a place where Sera had promised she’d be safe. And now? Now she couldn’t even reach her.

She huffed, tipping the last bitter swig from her canteen. The warehouse was swarming tonight, same as every night. She wouldn’t be making a move. Not like this. 

So she turned and walked toward the town instead.

To do what Sera always found herself doing this time of year. Drowning out her failures.

The cantina was already heaving by the time she arrived, music pounding, strobe lights flashing in dizzy bursts of red and white. Bodies pressed wall to wall, shouting to be heard over the chaos, laughing too loud, spilling drinks that steamed on the hot, grit-covered floors. It was perfect.

Sera pushed her way to the bar, slipping between a Rodian in a feathered coat and a grizzled Devaronian who reeked of engine oil. No one looked twice at her. That was the point. In a place like this, anonymity came cheap. She threw back her first drink like a shot, tipping it the bartenders way for a refill before he'd even managed to set the bottle down.

By the fourth drink, the world had started to blur at the edges in a way that felt almost pleasant. The roar of the crowd melted into a dull, steady hum, like the constant familiar static over a comm. The alcohol dulled her mind just enough that she could simply be, without having to feel the shape of her body or the weight of her thoughts.

Then a glass shattered somewhere behind her.

She flinched, her nails biting into her palm anchoring herself with pain. Her stomach clenched. Her heart lurched into a sprint. But she forced her face to stay still. 

And then she let herself sink back into it. Dissociation was the closest thing she had to meditation.Music. Flash. Laughter. Sip. The lights above the bar pulsed like blaster fire, and for a brief moment, she could’ve sworn she heard the heavy clunk of a droid’s footfalls behind her. She didn’t turn around.It wasn’t real.

She threw another shot back, then another.

Until she couldn't count them, and the noises in her head stilled.

"Whiskey, double." Words slipped past the yellow teeth of a man standing all too close. She moved too slowly to avoid his glazed stare, and he seemed to take that as an invitation to sit down, eyeing her intently. Sera cursed herself, moving to stand haphazardly as he watched in amusement.

"Where you off to?" he smirked, reaching for her—but she stumbled back, shooting him a glare she knew looked pathetic. She stumbled again, shoulder connecting with another.

Soft brown eyes stared back at her. Brown hair falling over his forehead. And for a second, she saw Finch’s strong jaw, phased out into the faces of so many clones she’d fought beside, until it settled back into the eyes of a stranger with only a slight resemblance.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, her mind just catching up to the fact he’d asked if she was okay. She nodded, stumbling back. Hands shaking. Heart hammering.

The Rodian with the yellow teeth was suddenly back at her side. His eyes flickered red beneath the strobes of the dance floor. Hands clamped around her waist, until her fist cracked against his jaw, sending him reeling backward into the bar.

She pushed through the crowd. She should’ve kept going, should’ve run straight out the door and into the night. But something made her stop. Just for a second.

Her breath hitched as she glanced back, half-expecting those red eyes to still be glowing in the dark. But the Rodian sat hunched at the bar now, nursing his nose and sulking into his drink, more interested in the burn of cheap liquor than her.

She exhaled. Turned to leave.

And then her gaze snagged on someone else.

Across the room, tucked into the shadows of a booth, he hadn’t seen her. Not yet. One arm rested on the back of the seat, posture casual, but there was tension in the way his shoulders sat. A drink untouched in front of him. Brown hair longer than she remembered, threaded with streaks of grey that caught in the lights.

He turned slightly, just enough for the glow to brush across his face. Her stomach dropped. The lines were deeper now. Faint creases beneath tired eyes. 

It wasn’t her mind playing tricks this time. It was him. And then, like he sensed something, he shifted and looked up.

His blue eyes meeting hers. She saw his face move from confusion to recognition. She didn't wait to see his reaction. She didn’t wait for him to stand.

She didn’t wait to see what he’d say.

She turned and fired herself toward the door, shoving past bodies and noise and heat, until the cold night air hit her like a slap.

Chapter Text

It was risky to linger in Mos Espa after the second sun slipped below the horizon. Risky, but lately not out of character. Zyrrko’s Sprawl held an advantage over every other cantina in town. It sat on the town’s fringe, too obscure to draw the rowdy off-worlders who staggered out of the bars on the main street or the seedier dens on the western sand bank that offered more than drinks. But it wasn’t remote enough to serve only the locals, the ones born on Tatooine or those who had stood still too long and grown roots in the desert sands. The Sprawl held an even mix of both. For Ben, that meant he was neither outnumbered by strangers nor by locals. Blending in was easier among both, or so he told himself. That, and the whiskey here was the best in Mos Espa, a judgment he’d tested often enough to believe.

He was testing that theory tonight. He’d drunk enough that the burn no longer registered, enough that the haze behind his eyes had steadied and his hands had stopped shaking so mercilessly. Not enough, though, to drown the day’s memories or convince himself this wasn’t reckless. Maybe five years on Tatooine had made him careless. Though the fact he still flinched when a shadow shifted wrong in the twin-sun light, or when clipped footsteps or an unfamiliar face stirred dread in his chest proved otherwise. The truth was simpler: he felt he had little left to lose. Better to risk the Empire’s punishment than endure another moment of Owen Lars’s anger. 

Before you killed him. The words echoed in his head. He’d expected Owen to show up. He didn’t need his makeshift alarms or the Force to predict it. He’d stepped too close to Luke the day before. It was reckless, even for him, and the sleepless nights and pounding hangover hadn’t helped. He’d caught the boy’s eye among the market stalls beside Beru and, without thinking, greeted them both. Her eyes had widened in shock, and after a strained pause she’d muttered a reply and tugged Luke away by the sleeve. He’d never seen the child so close without the lenses of of his scoops. Not since the day he'd handed the little bundle over to her arms. 

That one careless interaction brought Owen raging to his door that evening. He’d struck the door so hard Rooh had cried out from where she was tethered for the night. Owen never dropped his clenched fist from Ben’s eyeline, never offered space for defense, not that Ben had one. He had promised to stay away, and Owen had threatened to skin him alive. Owen hadn’t kept his part of the bargain, but he had made it clear he wanted Ben to pay for more than a single slip with Luke. “Haven’t you killed enough Skywalkers?” The words wouldn’t leave his head. He had stood there and taken the verbal lashing, his knack for talking himself out of trouble gone. He didn’t speak to enough people anymore to prove otherwise. When Owen finally stormed off, red-faced, Ben had spiraled and found his way to town.

He toyed with the idea of one more glass than usual. Then another. And another still, until he did something reckless enough to earn a bounty and die the way Owen wished, some ugly, deserved end. At least then he could reject Yoda’s unproven theory that he had some greater purpose, some final training worth surviving for. Five years to the week and nothing hinted at that purpose. If the Emperor strung him up as one last spectacle of the Order’s fall, so be it. It was no less than he imagined he deserved. Yet the tipping-point glass of whiskey, now lukewarm in his hand, remained untouched. 

He swirled the it in his palm, knowing full well he wouldn’t follow through. Within the hour he’d be plodding back to his cot, reliving hell behind closed eyes until some nightmare dragged a scream from him before dawn. Because he'd made a promise and he'd broken too many already. 

That was the plan until the hum of the bar shifted and every head turned toward a tall Rodian, staggering back with his jaw cradled in long fingers. The crack of the punch alone sobered Ben. He caught a blurred beige shadow,a trench coat flashing across the floor, forcing its way through the crowd in a desperate rush for the door. A bounty hunter, he guessed. She was armed; the coat snagged at her hip, and light flashed off metal as the fabric billowed. But her stumble told another story. She clawed at shoulders for balance, drunken and unsteady. Lucky for her, the Rodian seemed too stunned or too humiliated to give chase. 

It wasn’t out of place in a place like the Sprawl, and he probably would have forgotten it soon enough. Just another poor soul bleeding into a glass. Tatooine either attracted that sort or drove people to it. He dropped his gaze to the whiskey and swirled it again, fully resigned to leaving it full when he left. But like an insect trapped between his flesh and the fabric of his clothes, a shiver crawled up the knobs of his spine. So uncomfortable he sat up ramrod straight in the booth, and there she was.

Stood at the edge of the exit, her beige jacket now perfectly still, she watched him. Dark hair was braided tightly from her face, exposing hollowed eyes rimmed with shadows. Her gaze searched him with a recognition he had avoided in every other face but the Lars’. He couldn’t pin her down, but the sinking in his stomach and the tremor returning to his bones told him all he needed to know about what she was or had been. Then she was gone, slamming through the doors and leaving the pub to its rhythm, oblivious to how his entire world, or what it had become over the last few years, shook beneath him.

He inhaled a shaky breath and pulled himself from the sweaty red leather. The world tilted slightly, then settled, and he moved toward the back of the bar, to the door that led into the alley. The route was his escape plan, if he ever had to tip the scales and get out fast, a route he had never intended to use. He pushed through into the dark, sand crunching familiar beneath his boots. The alley was little more than a narrow crevice between buildings, where he was alone except for desert rats scrabbling over scraps and the stench of urine from stained walls. The plan was simple turn left and away from the bar’s front-facing street, down the alleys, and out into the desert sands.

But he couldn’t, for the life of him, turn left. He moved toward the harsh amber streetlight, heart hammering against his ribs before he could question his motives. He had no plan for what he would do or say. He hadn’t considered that he might be wrong, that she was just a drunk who had stared a second too long. He wasn’t even sure what he would do if he was right and she was some ghost from the past. He didn’t think at all. He walked as fast as he dared beneath the glare, heading toward the town, into the noise and the faces. If he was her, a stranger to the planet as her dress suggested, she wouldn’t be forging a path into the desert. She would use the bustle to reach a docking bay. 

He pressed on, hood drawn tight, eyes pinned to the ground as he pushed past drunks and side-stepped the painted nails of girls calling after him from bar doors along alleys he avoided for that reason. He passed other cloaked figures offering packets of orange powder. He passed those lying gaunt and threadbare in the gutters, rattling tin cans. Hood up and cautious, he didn’t stand out. He pressed on until he reached the square, then pivoted toward the docking quarter where she would presumably keep her ship. He couldn’t imagine she’d leave herself so exposed as to arrive by freighter, but it was all a guess. She could have crashed out somewhere, or been smuggled in like so many others. It was all conjecture, but he had worked off less.

The cold crept into his bones again. In all five years on Tatooine, he had never felt a breeze bite like this. It crawled beneath his skin, raising goosebumps and pricking the hairs on his neck. A feeling he hadn’t known in years, not fear, he knew that well enough. It tingled at his fingertips, old and restless, as if invisible threads brushed them. He slammed it down, pressing against the nearest wall to shove it away. But it lingered, whispering along his skin, until a flicker caught his eye across the street. This part of town was deserted now, more residential and asleep. A shadow down an alley, and suddenly he was running toward its dark mouth.

His eyes had barely adjusted to the dim light when he saw her slammed back against the wall, driven by the red-fisted blow of a Devaronian. "Thought you could get away, didn’t you, slut?" he howled. She lurched forward, driving her knee between his legs, then slammed her head into his. He staggered back, hollering in pain.

"You had it coming," she yelled, barely steadying herself. "Just be thankful it wasn’t a knife this time."

Then another clawed hand shot out, yanking her back into the shadows from behind. She flailed, legs buckling and kicking wildly. The light caught her as her jacket shifted, exposing a blood-red top beneath his clawed grip digging into her wound, the other hand driving into her face and silencing her screams. A red, forked tongue flicked across her cheek, whispering something that earned him a sloppy elbow below the ribs, sending her stumbling out of his grasp. On unsteady feet, she spun, lashing out with fists and kicks in drunken desperation.

Ben couldn’t move. Every fiber of his body screamed to intervene. Stay hidden, you must, protect the boy you will. Fragments of Yoda’s instructions poured through his mind, all ignored the moment the two yanked her back and slammed her against the wall. The blaster she carried sat on the Devaronian’s belt, her own blade pressed to her throat by his hand. "Save your voice, girl," he sneered. She spat back, her spit smearing across his face.

He was there before he could talk himself out of it not that he could have, even given all the time in the galaxy. It wasn’t in him to turn and leave. His knuckles collided hard with the Devaronian’s jaw, sending him back off her, though not as far as he’d hoped. He drew his blaster as the Tradossian behind him did the same. The feeling surged through him, and he pulled the trigger without fear of reprisal. The bolt from the gun behind flew wide as he did, he didn’t need to turn to know she would throw the Tradossian off balance. He kept his focus on the Devaronian, stumbling back as the bolt hit him in the tight. He threw another punch, meeting a sloppy one in return. He stumbled back, slowed by drink and years out of practice. 

It was a blur from there. His back pressed against hers as she shoved him forward, leveling him toward the Tradossian, who had taken a beating himself. Ben kicked out, pushing forward, blaster raised at his opponent’s knee. The noise erupted before he could pull the trigger, no bolt left the chamber. The Tradossian’s eyes widened in shock, and behind him he heard the sickening slam of flesh against sand. He spun, meeting the lifeless gaze of the Devaronian, his flesh smoldering where the bolt had struck his forehead.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she hollered. Fear gone from her eyes or too well hidden as she stared him down like he’d killed the man. She pushed past him, staggering, one hand pressed hard against her stomach, blood seeping between her fingers, and lurched into the street. The Tradossian he realised too late. She pulled the trigger just as he dove forward to stop her. The bolt struck perfectly at the back of his skull, and he hit the ground, dead weight.

"We need to go," she said, far too calm for the chaos around them.

"Go?" he blurted, mind scrambled, still trying to process what had happened. "And leave the bodies in the street?"

"It’s Tatooine. Who gives a shit?" She spun, pale-faced, blood dripping softly into the sand. "There’s no law here. The only punishment I’ve got coming is from that pervert’s father, and he’ll rot the same." She choked out the words, blaster trained back toward the scaled lizard. Yet her eyes said different she did care. Then she laughed, a hollow sound. "I never saw you. Neither did they. So go."

He stepped back on instinct, then froze as she stumbled to hobble away. She made three steps before her knees gave out, and she collapsed, hunched on the ground. He ran to her side, kneeling beside her. His hand rested on her shoulder, but she flung out her own, pushing him back with the last of her strength. "Go." She offered him a perfect escape from the crime, and yet he couldn’t leave her. He hauled her up despite her weak struggles, then dragged her along the street, down the alley, following the route he had planned so carefully. Her muffled groans and protests came as much a protest at his help as from the pain wracking her body.

"I'm not leaving you, okay," he said, even as his head told him he should. Staying wouldn’t help Luke or him if whatever was coming hunted her down turned up at their door. The sickening weight in his chest settled too at the fact she’d killed two men so coldly, drawing up memories he didn’t want. Yet something in those cold brown eyes, and the way a shiver ran along his skin where her hands gripped him, made him pause in a way he couldn’t explain. Some silent whisper against his mind that he’d held away since Mustafar. The same whisper he'd been trying to find since. 

"It’s my mess," she said softly, all fight draining from her with each step. "It’s mine to fix."

"You won’t fix it dead," he said, as evenly as he could, not daring to imagine her idea of fixing the situation.

She didn’t reply this time. He felt her weight slump against him as she began to drop toward the ground. He grasped her as best he could, hauling her up, but she wasn't going to walk herself now, eyes half-hooded. Maybe it was something softening in her expression as she drifted in and out that made her look younger somehow. Then he saw her clearly. 

"I’ve got you, Keala."

Chapter Text

Nxy would have made some sly comment if he hadn’t disconnected in the mayhem, some sharp reproach about the drinking or, more obviously, the two bodies growing cold in the sand. He’d probably have a valid point, not that she listened to reason these days. Though the searing pain in her lower stomach and the concerning heat that slicked her top to her skin felt almost like a wake up call. Or should have, given the fact she couldn’t tell if the inebriation or the blows to the head were the reason she couldn’t see straight or hold herself upright for that matter.

“You won’t fix it dead.”

She wanted to reply, and if she’d had even a shred of strength, she’d have shoved him back. But the hand he kept on her waist was the last rope tethering her from pitching face first into the sand, so she was stuck with his company whether she liked it or not. It was him, she felt it in the sound before the shape of him came together. That voice was impossible to mistake. No surviving Jedi ever could. It was Obi-Wan.

Then the pain grew numb, her eyelids betraying her in darkness. How peaceful it felt to simply slip away and rest. And feel nothing.

“I’ve got you, Keala.”

And he denied her that peace.

☆☆☆           

The breaking of dawn on Coruscant was no grand affair. Darkness never truly took hold of a city so drowned in synthetic light, and so the arrival of morning felt less extreme by comparison. At nine years old, Keala knew no other dawn, and she was rarely coaxed from her bedroll to see it, a habit her Jedi teachers had grown weary of trying to correct. She’d seen it this morning though. She hadn’t slept more than an hour, and before the first specks of light had crept past the lowest buildings on the horizon, she was already up and dressed.

She’d been meticulous, taking her time to smooth out every wrinkle from her brown robes and pale tan tunic. She’d shined her boots until her own brown eyes stared back at her from the toes. And when all that was finished, she stood before the mirror and braided her hair until it sat neatly atop her head. With two whole hours to spare before she would usually have dragged herself out of bed only to arrive late for breakfast, she slipped out of her room and walked gingerly down the silent halls.

She shared the halls with no one for a while, save the clipped echo of her boots against the hard wood floors. Life appeared the closer she walked to the heart of the Temple. Low chants of morning meditation drifted through open doorways, and weary faces moved with slow, slack shouldered steps as they returned from missions in corners of the galaxy Keala only dreamed of seeing. She passed the gentle hum of the library, which seemed to remain barely alive at every hour of the day, and the canteen, just beginning to buzz to life.

She walked the longest route on purpose. She wanted to avoid the arena at all costs. Even the bare thought of it flipped her empty stomach, and it only settled when the arena was well out of sight and the gentle sound of water trickling from the fountains pulled her toward the calm she so desperately needed. It was the only place in the Temple she truly loved, perhaps because it was one of the few spots that seemed to exist outside the severity of the stone walls.

It was vast, like everything in the Temple, but so full of color, light, and life that if she squinted she could imagine herself anywhere but Coruscant. Waters pulsed and streamed from fountains and pools, trickling over stones and reflecting the light of the rising sun through the glass skylights. 

Trees and plants of all origins grew together, neatly marked with carved wooden labels. She’d read them all, imagining the planets that could grow such things, so alien, when Coruscant struggled to grow grass. The pools were full of smooth pebbles, and moss sprouted over any larger rocks that peeked from the water. She inhaled, settling into her spot tucked against a great beast of a tree, its branches reaching like tendrils toward the sky above.

Keala hated meditation, hated the stillness that dragged on too long under the watchful eye of a master who instructed her to reach out, find the Force, and exist there. Her mind was too busy, she supposed. She would rather be moving, training, saber in hand, sparring and running. And if, like now, she was forced to sit, she let her mind wander to her forms, which led naturally to dreams of missions, of battles, of fights with villains who vowed to burn the galaxy, and in every version of those dreams, she, Keala Serrin, emerged victorious.

It was in one of those dreams, eyes closed, body leaning against the old tree, that Obi-Wan stumbled into her life. Quite literally, tripping and tumbling to land in a heap on the grass beside her.

Twelve years old, awkward and lanky, hair cropped in a style that had spread through Padawan ranks and trickled down so that every young male human apprentice wore it as though it might bring them closer to a master.

“Sorry,” he blurted, his voice cracking on the word, which only drew a red blush up his face to match his hair. “I wasn’t aware you were here.”

“Are you okay?” Keala asked, suppressing the fit of giggles creeping through her bones.

He nodded, shifting uneasily from toes to heels. Keala hardly noticed, already bouncing to her feet with her hand outstretched before he could politely decline her company and wander off somewhere quieter.

“Keala Serrin.” She watched him stare at her hand for a half beat too long and her heart sank, convinced she was being too much again. “Obi…” he offered finally as his hand shook hers.

“I know who you are.” She squeezed his hand, shaking it firmly and leaving him no opportunity to escape. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re one of the favourites to win the tournament today.”

“So they say.” His smile was half hearted as he gently withdrew his hand. “Well, it was nice…”

“Sit.” Keala was already on the grass, patting the spot beside her. If she was trying to hide her excitement, she was failing spectacularly. It rolled off her in bright, eager waves, sweeping aside all the nerves that had tugged at her sleep all night. Obi-Wan hesitated, clearly not in the mood for company, but something in Keala’s expectant gaze pulled him down beside her.

He settled awkwardly, legs crossed under him. He fidgeted in the silence Keala had not yet decided how to fill, rubbing down the fibers of his robes. She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. So Keala did what she did best.

“It’s my first time competing today in the tournament.” She leaned forward, hoping to catch his drifting attention. “I’ve been dreaming about it for so long and practicing, of course. So much that I can’t sleep, and I guess that’s why I’m here. It’s nice here, isn’t it?”

He nodded but remained silent, so she kept going. And going. The beauty of the room led her straight into facts about the plants that grew there. When she finished listing every interesting detail she knew, she rounded off with, “I was born on Takodana. Do you know it?”

He nodded back so diligently she never noticed, through all her chatter, that he was quietly eyeing every possible escape route. 

“I’m going to travel there first and then I’m going to see the entire galaxy. One planet at a time.” She leaned closer as if it were some grand secret. “I just need to get a Master today. Is it true that Master Qui Gon is looking for a Padawan?”

“That’s the rumour.”

“Or maybe Mace Windu, though he’s so stoic. I’m certain I’ve never once seen him smile.” She sat back, face rigid as she pulled her best impression of the man. At last the older boy cracked a smile across from her.

“I wouldn’t show him that trick, youngling,” he snorted.

“Youngling,” she hissed. “We’re practically the same age. Maybe I’ll beat you in a match today.”

“You know you won’t actually compete your first year.” He spoke with a sort of calm experience that made Keala feel impossibly young. “You’ll get a few practice matches and that’s that.”

“I know that. But once they see how good I am, they’ll let me compete, and Qui Gon will have no choice but to take me as his Padawan.”

Obi Wan scoffed and Keala leaned forward again, her impression of Mace Windu collapsing under the harsh glare she shot him.

“And what makes you so sure he wouldn’t pick me? You’ve never even seen me fight. I’m top of my class, you know.”

“Because I’m one of the favourites to win today, and all the odds are still favouring me being marched off to the agri corps tonight. We don’t always get what we want.” He was already halfway to standing, and Keala felt her heart slip to her boots.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Her voice softened as she twiddled her fingertips, suddenly feeling very foolish

The silence settled again and Keala no longer felt brave enough to break it. She shifted back against the tree, easing herself out of his space. For a moment she watched the pale light catch on the still fountains. Her throat tightened.

"It’s not so scary though, is it?" She tried to make it sound casual. Anything but the truth. She could not let him know that nerves, not excitement, had dragged her out before dawn. That she was not certain she could win even a practice match. That the thought of remaining unchosen, trapped for another year inside the Temple while the galaxy sparkled beyond its walls, made her stomach coil.

"No." He answered softly. "It’s just a big arena with a lot of eyes on you. And there’s the commentary. And the lights." He rambled a little, and Keala suspected her expression had given too much away. He cleared his throat and added the line every older Jedi offered to frightened younglings. "We trust in the Force."

"I’m not so good at that." Keala murmured.

"I’m not either." His shoulders dipped, but a faint smile worked its way across his lips.

"I could always go easy on you," she offered. "Seeing as it’s your last chance. If we meet in a match at all."

"I doubt that." His smirk returned. "You look like the type who would personally escort me onto that transport to grow vegetables." 

"I mean it," she said, matching his smile. "But only if you tell me how the tournament actually works."

"Deal."

So he talked. Keala soaked up every word. He described the opening ceremony, the order of the matches, the rhythm of the day, and the small tricks he had learned from years of watching and losing. She pestered him with questions until the Room of a Thousand Fountains began to stir with morning movement. The distant hum of voices announced breakfast and her stomach agreed.

They rose together.

"Good luck," she said, and meant it.

"I’ll need it." He offered a crooked smile, then turned toward the path that led back into the Temple. Stopping to look over his shoulder. "I'd say Good Luck but I reckon you won't need it."

Chapter Text

7 days since Trix Vanished 

"Youngling do not bind your empathy to the fate that follows it. A jedi gives compassion freely, even when it costs them."

Her memories blurred, caught somewhere between childhood and her most vivid nightmares. It was strange how sleep could reach so easily for the worst of them, twisting each one further, as if what she had already endured wasn’t quite enough. It hadn’t been this intense in a long while, and Sera realised, in some fractured way, that this wasn’t simply sleep.

She was locked in a fight between reality and something she couldn’t quite name. Caught in nightmares some were memories, familiar in shape, but then she would feel herself rise toward consciousness with a scream in her throat, only to be dragged sideways into another place entirely. The pain there felt convincing. She was freezing, her whole body like it had been carved from ice, yet when her hand brushed her own skin it burned, fever-hot and slick with sweat. She didn’t have the strength to keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds, and her voice had cracked to nothing so the words came out tangled. The pain stayed real though, a pounding in her skull and a violent stabbing beneath her ribs.

She was aware, in a thin half-conscious way, that someone sat beside her. Their face kept shifting, slipping between her master, her padawan, or some ink-black shape of an Inquisitor sent to finish her off. They spoke, but the ringing in her ears was too intense and her mind refused to catch the meaning. She couldn’t reply. When she tried to pull away she either screamed from the agony or her body refused to move at all. Once, she had been so violently sick she slid straight back into another memory, only to be yanked into the same one again every time she felt herself clawing toward waking.

It was daylight when she finally woke and felt her eyes might actually stay open. The room around her wasn’t one she recognised, and it wasn’t much of a room at all. The roof and walls weren’t uniform, curving and jutting at angles no builder would claim. She realised she was in a cave of some kind, carved from rich sandy rock. There were no windows, no curtains, only a narrow crack that opened the space to the outside. Light spilled through it in a sharp glare, and she found herself hoping, strangely, that she was still on Tatooine. She wondered if she might be the only person alive who would ever hope for such a thing.

The bed beneath her was hard, just a thin bedroll stretched across a slab of shaded stone. She managed, slowly and with more stubbornness than strength, to pull herself upright and press her back against the uneven wall.

There was no bedside table as she’d half expected, only a low chair beside her. On it sat a metal bowl filled with water and a sponge. Bandages were stacked there too, some clean and sealed, others used and stiff with dried blood. Glass vials and bottles sat scattered among them, powders and pastes that looked vaguely herbal.

A rustle on the floor caught her attention, and the tiny jolt through her body sent a sharp, punishing pain through her abdomen beneath the ribs. So the dream had been real after all. She watched a small rodent dart across the sandy floor, a scrap of food clamped between its teeth as it vanished into a fissure in the wall. Definitely still Tatooine. She let out a long breath and the silence settled again.

She looked down at herself. She wore an oversized shirt, and when she dragged the covers back she found matching oversized trousers. Both were a plain cream, coarse but comfortable. She lifted the shirt and saw the bandages wrapped neatly around her abdomen. She had been stabbed. She let the memory drift back into place. She had been stabbed. Then she’d killed two men. And of course he had been there. Obi-Wan.

Little by little it all came back into place. Trix, the reason she had dragged herself to the sand-covered misery of Tatooine. She had come to rescue her. That much returned clearly. How she had ended up here, in what she could only assume was the cave of Obi-Wan Kenobi, stayed foggier. He was dead. Or at least she had been certain he was. Was she dead then. Surely death would not ache like this. Surely whatever waited after the end would not look so much like Tatooine.

She set her hands on the bed, testing her weight before trying to move. The first attempt ripped fire through her ribs and forced her back down with a gasp. She waited out the wave, breathing shallowly. The second attempt was worse, but she pushed through it anyway. Her fingers dug into the coarse blanket and then into the rock beneath it. Slowly, inch by inch, she hauled herself upright. Standing felt like balancing on a ship, her legs shaking, her vision threatening to tip sideways.

She gripped the edge of the bed and stared toward the doorway that led out of this small chamber. Every instinct screamed at her to move. She needed to find her clothes and her weapons.

She took one step. Pain caught her mid stride deep beneath the bandages. She clenched her jaw and kept going, dragging herself toward the light coming from the next room.

She moved into another, larger chamber. It was sparsely furnished. A table with a single chair pushed close to it, a few crates stacked haphazardly, and a small burner that passed as a kitchen. A basin sat nearby with a single plate and mug drying. She drifted past them, steadying herself on whatever she could reach.

The floor was the same rough stone, everything coated in a thin veil of sand. A bedroll lay unfurled near the center of the room and Sera realised, with a dull throb of annoyance, that she wasn’t in a guest space at all. She had taken his bed. It had to be his. Though nothing here hinted at the home of a former Jedi Master. Then again, no one walking into her office at the club would guess her history either. Still, she was sure she would have betrayed herself in some small way. With him, she saw nothing. Maybe she simply didn’t know him well enough to recognise the subtler marks of who he was.

She made for what she assumed was the doorway. When she stepped through, she found no hallway, only open air. She stood on a ledge that looked out over the desert, a harsh, endless stretch that felt unforgivingly far from any scrap of civilisation. Of course. Perfect, she thought. 

She turned back toward the main room. It was slow progress. Every minute on her feet drained her, tugging her toward sleep. She pressed on, fighting for each breath as she crossed the room toward the crates. The first one cracked open easily and revealed nothing of hers, only neatly folded linen. She dragged the next crate toward her but it resisted, the strain pulling hard at her wounded side. She gritted her teeth and forced it open. More disappointment. Just sealed packets of dehydrated food. She let the lid fall. The clap of it rang through the chamber and she straightened, pain ripping through her ribs for the effort. She waited, listening for movement. Nothing.

She kept going, circling toward the table. Another crack in the wall caught her eye, wider than the one in the sleeping chamber, shaped almost like a doorway. She hobbled through it. Sunlight slammed into her, both of Tatooine's suns glaring down on her. She shut her eyes and pressed her back against the heated stone until the sting faded enough to look again.

She found herself standing overlooked a vast stretch of desert. The landscape rolled out in layers, hard-edged cliffs and honey-colored canyons carved by wind, then dunes beyond them that shimmered in the heat. In the distance, rock formations cut jagged shapes against the horizon. For a moment she thought she saw movement, something slipping between the shadows on a distant ridge, the faint suggestion of eyes tracking across the stone.

She had heard stories of what hunted out here. Sand-burrowers that dragged full-grown men under the dunes without leaving a ripple. Winged things that nested along canyon walls and picked off travelers when the suns dipped low. And Tusken beasts people only ever described in half-whispered warnings. None of it made her feel any more at ease.

To her left, another opening came into view. The short tunnel led into a small stable carved straight out of the rock. A straw bed lay shoved into one corner and a shallow trough held hay. A stocky little eopie stood in the shade, staring at her suspiciously.

 Her weapons weren't here either. 

A sound shifted behind her.

"You're awake." Obi-Wan’s voice carried softly through the stable.

She cast her eyes toward him. So he wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t quite the man she remembered either. He looked older, hair longer, a few more lines settled around his eyes. He didn’t smile. He only looked tired, and she could guess, from the scattered shards of memory she had, that she was at least partly responsible. He wore a grey poncho over a lighter tunic and trousers, heavy leather boots wrapped in cloth. His blaster sat comfortably at his hip and she silently cursed him for having it when she had nothing.

"I didn’t expect you to be out of bed," he said. "You were still running quite a temperature when I left."

He held a metal bucket in his hand, water sloshing faintly inside. She assumed it was for the creature now chirping eagerly at him. She shifted aside, giving him space to pass. He nodded as he moved by, though she noticed he didn’t quite turn his back on her. Maybe he was worried she would fall over. Given the sight she must be, hunched over as she was. But Sera reckoned it was closer to distrust. 

"Well, I’m alive now," she said at last, only then realising how raw her throat felt as the words dragged through it. "And I’m leaving. If you could hand me over my things."

He raised an eyebrow, that irritating mix of amusement and the condescending expression most council members had perfected. Sometimes she wondered if they were trained for it, a mandatory skill along with saber forms and diplomacy. A look designed for all occasions, ideal for letting others know they had the final say and all other opinions were invalid.

"You won’t get far in that condition."

"I’m fine," she snapped, forcing herself to stand straighter. Keela would have sought his approval, but not Sera, no, she took orders from no one but herself. "Where’s my speeder."

"Back in Mos Espa, I assume. Probably still parked in front of the bar you left in such a hurry." He did not look amused at her tone, and she got the strong feeling he disliked having her here as much as she disliked being here. "I’m afraid, in my rush to drag your unconscious body off the street, I forgot to bring it with me."

"I’ll walk." She spat the words. All she needed was Nxy, her gear, and enough stubbornness to reach any settlement and steal something that ran long enough to get her to town.

"You won’t get far," he said. "It’s midday. You won’t make it on foot while you are injured."

"You are just full of enthusiasm." She scoffed. "What about that." She pointed at the eopie, who looked very unamused at her suggestion.

Now he looked annoyed. "That is called Rooh, and she will not be led through the desert by a half conscious stranger who is moments away from collapsing."

"I told you to leave me behind."

Her body was swaying now, and she reached back to brace herself against the wall. Most of the fight drained out of her.

"I should have. But there were enough bodies on the ground when we left." It was plain to hear his disapproval, and some old part of her tightened. For a brief second she felt as though he should have been preaching at her from his chair in the council chamber.

Silence settled between them, too heavy for her to fill. Somewhere inside, a small ache of guilt stirred.

"You need to come back inside and rest. I’ll take you back to Mos Espa when you are recovered."

"I don't need your help."

She had taken enough of it. She was not sure how many days she had been out, but he had obviously stitched her up. Changed her clothes. Kept her going through what must have been an infection. And to her discomfort he had probably helped her to the toilet at some point. She did not need or want any more help from him or anyone. She could not rely on people.

"Given that the entire town is locked down under Varrsk’s orders while he searches for the woman who murdered his son, and given that he has your ship impounded, you might want your strength."

Sera froze. No wonder he was pissed at her.