It's coming soon. If we want to survive, we need to take action now.

Isn't that selfish?

Haven't we always been selfish?

It begins with a tremor in Luminara's finger.

The tiny movement catches the only the attention of those who are expecting it, the minuscule propulsion of energy sending the small sphere of metal and wires rolling into the room only a millisecond later, its detonation startling the room with a sudden flash of light and expulsion of smoke.

The entire council is on their feet in seconds, lightsabers drawn, and reaching, reaching out into the force, searching for the source of the attack.

The last time Luminara Unduli has run so blindly she must have been a mere padawan, she thinks to herself. It's a necessary action, though, they all know that the shield that Agen threw up the moment the grenade went off won't hold for long, especially against the prowess of their companions (or rather, from this moment, former companions, she thinks) on the council.

Eeth Koth peels away from the group, stalking off towards the hangar bay, his hand on his lightsaber. He pulls the hood of his cloak over his eyes, but not before he shares one last glance with the group beside him. Luminara understands this, she knows that if their plan goes wrong, they will never see each other again.

We're not going to think about what happens if we fail.

Quinlan Vos is counting.

He sits against the back wall of his cell, eyes closed, breath steady. The light from the hallway filters through the slats on the door, leaving narrow strips of white against the otherwise dark floor.

Then he hears the telltale clicking sound of metal against metal, right on time.

He breathes in.

The door to his cell shatters, and he's standing in the hallway, momentarily blinded by the brightness of it all.

He breathes out.

His rescuers have already gone, but he's not worried. It's always been a part of the plan.

His lightsaber sits on the floor in front of the opened main door. The troopers guarding it lay crumpled and unconscious on either side. Fisto, he notes, has left them alive.

(He's going to have to break him of that habit, Quinlan thinks)

Assuming you can break yourself out, Vos-

I can.

Well then, Kit will open the doors, and we'll leave you to that. And then-

Further down the hall and several unconscious clone troopers later, Kit jams his palm onto the interface of a much heaver door than the one sealing off Quinlan Vos' cell. The glowing interface, also unlike Quinlan's, flashes red. They expected this, no one but the top council members are allowed to enter. What is inside is too dangerous.

Kit focuses, the veins in his neck becoming more pronounced as he strains against the force-lock, pushing his way through the mechanism. Agen Kolar, his back pressed against Kit's, looks even more exhausted than his Nautolan companion, eyes squeezed shut as he struggles to mask the massive amounts of the force emanating from Kit.

The bolt clicks open, and Agen Kolar slumps to the floor, drained.

"That's it for us, Luminara." Kit bends down to pick up the Zabrack, throwing him over one shoulder. "We'll see you there. May the Force be with you."

Are you sure about this, Luminara?

We can't leave her behind. She was right all along.

I won't fail her again.

Luminara takes off down the newly-revealed hallway, feeling the force block that Agen had put up crashing down around her. She can feel the other council members, there are too many of them, and their force signatures wrap around her, discovering her.

Shock.

Hurt.

Betrayal.

They hurt more than she expected them to.

She pushes them away as best she can, ignites her lightsaber. The door to the cell isn't impervious to lightsabers the way the one blocking the hallway was, but it still takes a decent amount of time to cut through the thick metal, and Luminara can feel a thin sheen of sweat on her face by the time she's done.

She pushes.

The neatly cut circle of what used to be the door slides out and falls into the cell.

She takes a deep breath.

"Who's there?" The voice sounds exhausted, mistrusting.

"It's me, Barriss."