The jungle moon had been a nest of virulent life. Now death in grand scale wrestled with it, subsuming the millions of smaller deaths into an atrocity that was at once premeditated and random. It lay beneath the trees and above them, in the chatter of anti-air barrages, piled thickly in the trenches and dark places of the earth.
The squad of Republic troopers moved quickly through humidity that hung in the air like a shroud, glancing around in the jungle's constant movement. They were career soldiers - the only reason they stood a chance - and led by a general who was unafraid to die.
At her hand signal, the squad came to an uneasy halt. There was nothing apparently unusual about this constricted spot of foliage, but, aware, they scanned the whole area, alert to light. The General stood still, battle-ready but apparently listening, chasing a shadow with her mind. Eventually she shook her head.
Hostiles up ahead, she signalled. Move out. Move quiet. Her stimmed-up second-in-command began to shake gently, anticipating. They crept on, though, through foul-tasting droplets of stale water falling from a tangle of vines, some distance up. The jungle bristled at their intrusion, their single-minded purpose, but remained silent save for the whisper of grass underfoot and the distant calls of birds. A lone animal, about hip height for most of the squad but built with too many sets of claws, evaluated them from the top of a boulder as they gave it a respectful berth. In the distance, the everyday struggle of life against itself carried on.
The unrelenting vitality around them obscured the Mandalorian sniper from the General's perception until it was too late. She whirled, shouting, and a trooper's head puffed blood and brain. A body above them slammed into clustered tree trunks metres away, the cloaking device mounted on its armour sparking uselessly. Three birds cried out and scattered.
Blaster fire from up ahead streaked towards the squad. The General yelled. The trajectories of her saberstaff were a rich orange blur as she advanced on the enemy position, her men matching her pace, matching the enemy's shots, chaos inflicted on both sides as the Mandalorians engaged with fearsome precision. She had failed them. She would make this count.
"For the Republic!" she screamed, knowing she was finally about to die. "The Republic!"
Anark Miercur sat up in the empty room and pulled a jacket and trousers on over her underwear: whatever didn't smell of smoke and blaster burns. She hadn't slept on Onderon much, either, so she was used to it by now. Still, a cursory glance at her reflection while she splashed her face with water said she looked just as bad as she felt - not that it matters. They were well into hyperspace and the feel of it all still resonated within her, a physical tugging in her chest.
So she walked.
She knew Mandalore knew what she was doing when she passed him - not even giving her the mercy of turning away and pretending to look at the holographic star map in front of him. It was halfway through the Ebon Hawk's night cycle. She kept walking, searching for something to take her mind out of itself. The endless white rain of hyperspace outside the ship pulled at her thoughts like a tide as she circled.
Atton looked up at her footsteps. The exile stared defiantly back at him - just say something! He looked away. After a while, he heard her settle quietly into the co-pilot's chair, an uneasy animal nesting, and he pretended to be engrossed in his datapad. There wasn't anything to say to her.
Anark had been even more withdrawn than usual after their hasty escape from Dxun: it was clear why. It was also clear that she still wasn't the kind of girl who'd take him up on an honest offer of help. Maybe that was for the best.
He wondered whether there had been more to the story on Onderon, too. He'd been told the exile was taking a Mandalorian shuttle offworld a day after Kreia had threatened him not to finish the Hawk's repairs too quickly, then once she'd finally got back to the ship she'd had their Mandalore, of all things, in tow. Only the old hag had looked happy about that one - Atton had decided to start sleeping with a knife close to hand, just in case. Wouldn't Anark be better off if that guy were to disappear one night-
He set the datapad aside, keeping his mind carefully occupied, pulled the battered deck of pazaak cards from a pocket. Shuffled, shuffled again, began to deal. If she wanted to take her mind off whatever it was, this would give her a chance; if not, it was something he might as well do anyway, for lack of better entertainment.
"Playing pazaak on your own?"
"I just can't get enough of it." He turned, ready to offer her an out. "Seriously though, I need to wait for the Hawk to finish these diagnostics and it's about the most interesting thing I can do on my own."
She quirked an eyebrow at that. "That why it took you so long to repair the ship?"
"Hey," Atton protested, "we had a coupla holdups, okay?" One of which is still on the damn ship…
"Yeah, I get it," said Anark, who obviously didn't. That old hag would have a lot to answer for, in time. Atton swallowed his wounded pride as best he could and continued, now she'd proven herself capable of conversation.
"So, how about a game or two? I was thinking- you Jedi have the whole 'mystical calm' thing down pretty well, good enough for bluffing if you knew what you were doing. Use the Force too, we could be rich by the time we leave Dantooine."
"I just spent most of our Telos bounty money on a replacement chassis for our broken droid, so, yeah, we should probably at least have you brush up on your skills with a sentient opponent." The exile shrugged noncommittally. "Don't see any of the locals wanting to hire a fresh face as a bodyguard, anyway."
Atton scowled despite himself. "Hold up. Are we actually getting another pet droid? With our food money?"
"It was on the Hawk before I found it. I thought maybe it could help figure out this whole mess we're in. Are you dealing me in or not?"
"Sure," Atton said grumpily, "but I want it on record that I think it's a terrible idea. You do remember what those assassin droids looked like, don't you?"
She smiled.
"I got my lightsaber back. We're covered."
"Whatever you say, sister."
The exile lowered her gaze to the hand of cards he'd dealt her, huddled slightly in her too-big jacket. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, as if something behind her skull was sucking all the life back into itself, the bruise-tender skin under her eyes swallowing them in purple. It hurt to think he could do nothing about it.
Then stop thinking.
He shuffled his hand. Looked at it. Shuffled again. Not bad. Maybe next time he could bring out the switch cards, give her another lesson in pazaak - since it was the only thing he could give her. He stopped that thought before it could go anywhere.
"Okay, let's do this," said Anark, leaning sideways - haphazardly - on one of the flight consoles. "Ready to be amazed?"
He won, of course, 'cause damned if he was going to go that easy on her. They played a few more games, too, before the Hawk's navigation computer chimed at Atton to let him know diagnostic was finished. After he'd double-checked everything to make sure the ship didn't need to leave hyperspace early, he turned back to the exile, who had fallen asleep in the chair with her head resting precariously on one arm. The apology he'd had ready stayed silent on his lips.
"Guess there's no good reason for me to stay here," Atton muttered to himself. No point waiting for her to wake up or anything - especially with how tired she'd looked. Seeing her asleep like that definitely didn't make him want to pull another all-nighter himself, either.
He gathered his pazaak cards from the console. He thought about bringing the exile something, a blanket or pillow from one of the spare beds, but maybe that was unwanted and presumptuous. It was hard to tell with that self-sufficient act sometimes.
As Atton made his way back to his dorm, already shedding his outer layers of clothing because no-one else should be up at this time, regardless of what Mandalore thought he was doing - he considered things. Two months ago, he'd never have expected that he'd have a Mandalorian as his bunkmate, nor that he'd have been pressganged into joining a crazy old scow's save-the-world group. Then again, he hadn't not been expecting it. Life just had a way of… happening… to him.
He toed off his boots as he sat down, the metal bunk creaking slightly. The Zabrak mechanic next to him stirred, but didn't wake.
If nothing else, it still beat starving to death in a Peragus force cage.
