Rylat moved to his chest piece after finally getting rid of a particularly nasty blood stain off the head armor. I bet that bastard wasn't expecting a headbutt. Knocked him out cold. The cloth was getting a little dry, so he dipped it again in the tub of cleaning oil sitting on the bench beside him. The tan colored breastplate was mostly clean already. Just a little dirt, no red splatters. Instant cauterization meant very little blood was shed on battlefields with high energy weapons. Physical blood, anyways; lives were still lost. Many lives. Thousands. Millions.
The war was brutal, for both sides. On one side was the Sith Order and their allies, the Mandalorians and the Zygerrian Empire, ruling with darkness over the weak. On the other side was the Jedi Order, the so called defenders of peace, and the Galactic Republic, a so called democratic government. Of course, at the end of the day, the Jedi were peacekeepers, and the Republic was indeed democratic, but such a devastating war had a way of corrupting even the best of the galaxy, in both domains.
"Still cleaning that armor of yours, I see." It was Miravel Hex, a glint of mirth in her eyes, "Are you putting it up for sale or something? It better be squeaky clean if you want to get the best price for it?"
It was just the two of them in the Jedi armory.
"Almost done." Rylat continued cleaning his chest piece, getting rid of every last bit of dirt he could find, searching deep into every little crevice, each one familiar to the touch. He looked up, eyeing the woman's black robes, tattered and filled with spots of brown dirt and muck. "Going for the vintage look, are we? It suits you well, Miri."
Miravel laughed dryly, setting herself down next to her friend. They shared a moment of silence, filled only by the squeaking of Rylat's vigorous scrubbing and their comrades' chatter coming from the common room. Years and years of combat experience afforded him the ability to pay attention to multiple parts of his surroundings at once. In this instance, he was making sure that his armor was up to standard, and that his friend was in a right state. He observed.
Her posture, slouched, elbows resting on knees. Dark bags under her eyes, hiding behind locks of bright red hair. Her knuckles, a deep purple from hard striking. On the edge of her right leather boot, a splatter of dark maroon, where she had stomped an enemy to death, perhaps.
Despite the convincing smile that she wore, Miravel was in bad shape, and Rylat did not blame her. The war was wearing even him down, and as much as he disliked to admit it, that was saying something. Rylat slowed his scrubbing, wanting to speak, to offer Miravel his support, but not knowing what to say, he kept his mouth shut.
Miravel noticed, and her friend's gesture was comfort enough. She spoke freely. "When will this end? How many more lives must be lost, how many must we take?" She was no longer smiling. Rylat continued to scrub in silence. "Every death, friend or foe, I feel through the Force. The pain, it's unbearable. Do you know how many died, just in that battle? Three and a half thousand, on each side."
Rylat remained mute, staring down into his armor.
"Of course you already knew." Miravel placed a careful hand on her friend's lap. "I'm so sorry."
Rylat's communicator rang loudly, the small holographic display indicating that it was from the Council. He let it ring for a while, unsure if he wanted to answer the call as he peered into the eyes of his lifelong friend. They weren't moist, of course; she was a hardened Jedi Master, the best of the best, like him.
"You should take it." Miravel retracted her hand.
"Yes, I should." And indeed, he did.
A blue holo of Jedi Councilors Ninba, Gurtan and Fasimo appeared above the communicator. Fasimo, the most senior, light skinned human, was the one to speak. "Master Ordo, Master Hex. Your success in Geonosis is most excellent news. The Sith forces have lost valuable ground."
"Thank you, Councilor." Rylat replied. Miravel gave nothing but a curt nod.
"The tides are turning now, and the Council senses that the war is nearing an end at last."
Miravel betrayed nothing to her superiors, but Rylat could tell that this news had brought immeasurable joy to his companion.
"I feel it too. The darkness is slowly being extinguished throughout the galaxy. They are starting to become desperate."
"Yes. Cornered, we sense that the Sith will launch several pinpoint attacks on key systems to regain control. Utapau is one of these suspected targets, and it is there that the both of you must next defend."
"Then we will be there as soon as time allows," Rylat declared.
"Indeed, and one more thing. You have been assigned a Padawan apprentice, Master Ordo."
"An apprentice?" Miravel blurted, looking strangely perky, cheerier than before.
"Yes." Rylat could swear that Fasimo sounded a little amused. "Councilor Ninba senses that it is the will of the Force." The Mon Calamari in question nodded from behind as confirmation.
Rylat could hardly believe what he was hearing. He was a front liner, someone who led troops into the most gruesome of battles, hardly a fitting environment for a Padawan. Most younglings nowadays were paired off with masters who were responsible for scouting and escort missions, not bloodbaths. "With all due respect, Councilor Ninba, are you certain?"
Ninba gave no verbal reply. She merely repeated her nod.
"Well, it's settled then, isn't it?" Miravel announced, her laughter barely kept in check.
"Indeed, it is. I have sent you her records. Masters, may the Force be with you." Councilors were busy people, and that marked the end of the conversation.
The two of them returned the greeting before hanging up.
Rylat glanced at Miravel, who was giggling like a youngling who'd eaten too much candy. "I'm glad you're enjoying this," he said sarcastically, but he meant it too in a way.
"Oh, I am. You? With a Padawan? Ridiculous."
"Frankly, I agree. Would this even be right for the child?" He opened the Padawan's files on his communicator's holo display. "Freya Asar," he read aloud, "Twi'lek. Female. Born as a slave under the Zygerrian Empire. Bought by a human family at the age of two, who freed her and allowed the Jedi to take her into the order. Fifteen years of age. Became a Padawan last month. Past masters…"
Miravel's giddiness vanished upon reading where her friend had trailed off.
Alan Moonrider (deceased)
Another friend, dead. So much good, lost forever into the unrecognizable conglomeration that was the cosmic Force.
"We must let him go, Miri. Grief is an attachment in itself."
"I know, but let me have this moment. That is all I ask for. Just this moment." Her fists were clenched tightly, bruised knuckles going white. She was afforded no such solace.
Commander Jax Cree, clad in his orange and white Republic Army armor, marched into the room, and Miravel straightened immediately. Cree saluted crisply. "Generals. Will the next deployment be immediate, or will there be some hours of rest afforded?" The commander was young for an Army officer, barely 23. Wartime meritocracy allowed talented soldiers to climb the ladder quickly.
"Our next destination is the Utapau system, and we must leave immediately, I am afraid. Prepare the ships for transport," Rylat ordered.
"Understood, sir." With another salute, the commander left as quickly as he had entered.
Silence fell upon the two Jedi once more, until Rylat eventually broke it, not out of discomfort but out of duty. "We should organize transport for the fallen."
They left the armory together, through the common room, where Jedi and Republic soldiers alike were huddled together in groups. Commander Cree was in the middle of grabbing his subordinates' attention. "Alright! Listen up! Everyone shut up and listen!" He shouted to his soldiers and not the Jedi, of course. He didn't have to shout to get the attention of those in the Order, and they outranked him anyways.
Rylat and Miravel continued out into the open balcony overlooking the grand desert plain where the main battle had taken place. It was a sea of corpses, cleaner droids picking up and dumping them into the large compartments that they dragged around. Each was handling either exclusively Republic or Sith forces; those that were handling the Sith corpses eventually dumped them into the incinerator once their 'sacks' were full. The bodies of those that had fallen fighting for the Republic were sorted out into neat rows in a freezing preservation unit, where another set of droids went about identifying each one. Facial recognition was sufficient for some cases, of course, but many required other methods, such as DNA sampling and profiling. Heads could be completely mangled or missing entirely.
Rylat heard Jax finish giving out instructions to the troops, and the common room behind them was now bustling with the sound of purposeful footsteps and organized communication under the commander's precise orchestration. Every soldier moved with a sense of duty and drive, each one knew what they had to do and why.
The pair jumped off the balcony, allowing the Force to gently float them down to the surface, two dozen stories below, and there they were in the midst of pain and suffering, or at least what remained of it. In front of them, a droid of the same model as those that were collecting the corpses, buzzed past them, crudely snatching up the lightsabers of their fallen brothers and sisters. The Kyber crystals of both Jedi and Sith had to be treated with proper care, whether they were to be repurposed or disposed. Letting lightsabers fall into the pool of black market goods was not only a sin in terms of practicality, but it was also a taint upon the legacy of its original wielder. Show respect for the weapons of the fallen; that was the most that could be done for the Jedi that had passed on to become one with the Force. A Jedi's lightsaber was their life, after all.
"General Ordo!" The logistics specialist, Ash Wilmuth, came running toward them, her dark brown hair tied up in a bun so tight that it was a little uncomfortable just to look at. "Would you like to organize the shipping details, sir?"
"Yes, I would. Order military freighters with enough capacity for … let's see, four thousand. Wouldn't want to run out of space, would we?" Rylat asked rhetorically in an attempt to distance himself from the sheer magnitude of the number, and what that number symbolized. Four thousand. He looked across the battlefield, filled with the bodies of the men and women that had perished under his command. Four thousand.
"And the seal of approval?"
"Oh, of course. Here." Rylat digitally transferred his Republic General's Seal of Official Approval to the specialist, who then attached it to the request form. That was it, his approval to send home the boats full of grief and sorrow. He turned to his friend, whose solemn expression did nothing to raise his spirits. It was just another system, tainted by war and death. "I've had enough of this place. We're leaving."
The trip to Utapau was uneventful. Rylat spent his time eating, reading, meditating and sleeping, all after a good shower, of course. It was the first course of action, to rid himself of the stench of battle. The system itself was quite eventful, it seemed. Even from several kilometers above, Rylat could spot the bustle of activity below with his naked eye. As they approached the landing pad, he saw everything with greater clarity. Fifty or so Jedi were already there, many of them he recognized as fellow Masters, along with several thousand Republic Army troops. Combined with the comfortably sized Republic naval force they had passed by on the way to the planet's surface, Utapau's defenses seemed to already be in good order.
"This special Padawan of yours. Where could she be?" Miravel pondered aloud, a little too loud to be unintentional.
"Would you like to take the apprentice on instead, my friend, if you are so interested? I would be glad to hand over the honor to such a respected contemporary."
"Fat chance, Ordo. May the Force be with you." With that, the redhead spun on her heels and departed toward the closest cargo bay, probably to check on the dropship retrofits.
Really, though. Where is this Padawan? He rechecked the holo of her face. Dark purple, with a small scar on her chin, perhaps from a childhood injury, and thick head-tails that came down to her mid torso. Below the holo was the Padawan's name and her communications address. He punched it into his communicator and dialed. The only answer came in the form of a chirping noise right behind him.
"Master Ordo?"
He spun around too quickly and landed clumsily, regaining his balance just in time so as to not fall flat on his face. It was her! "Oh, Padawan Asar?" he managed, doing his best to appear in control. The young Twi'lek simply nodded.
Moments passed with neither of them uttering a single word.
"May I call you Freya, then?"
"Of course."
Silence beset itself between the two of them once more, the Padawan looking around at her surroundings shyly.
"I am sorry about your former master. Alan was a good friend, as he was to many others in the Order."
Freya's eyes dropped toward the ground, but just as soon as they had, they were back to being directed at her new master. It was then, when their eyes finally met, that Rylat established a connection to his Padawan through the Force. Her presence was overwhelming, so much so that it made him wonder how he had not detected her earlier. As strong and powerful as it was, being a young Padawan, her Force signature was still incredibly malleable and vague. As she continued on her journey through life and the Force, her signature would slowly become more solid and immovable, just as it had in him and all other Jedi. It was the duty of a Jedi to mold his apprentice and guide them toward the light, and so it would also be for Rylat himself.
His young apprentice looked fierce, even dangerous. He felt her suffering, her pain, the wounds that had been inflicted upon her since birth. With this realization came doubt, not of the Padawan's capabilities, but of those of his own. Was this really what the Force willed? Surely there were other, more fitting masters out there in the Order. Those that could offer her the stable guidance she required.
"So, what am I to do?" the pupil inquired curiously.
Lost for words, Rylat was saved by Jax Cree, who interrupted the exchange between master and apprentice. "General Ordo. We have just received word of hidden Sith forces on the other side of the planet. They seem to be forming a makeshift base there, sir."
"How large of a force are we talking?"
"A handful, no more than a half dozen troopers."
"I see, a scouting party, then. We must strike them down quickly before they are able to relay any useful intelligence."
"We are going on the offensive, sir?"
"Of course, commander. Six or so of them should not be too much to handle for a squadron of ours, wouldn't you say?"
"Understood. And the squad members for this mission, sir?" The young man glanced toward the shy looking Twi'lek girl.
Rylat hastily introduced the two to each other, eager for a chance to let the Padawan open up to her comrades. A feeling of belonging to a group and a sense of duty to its people played a vital part in war.
"A Padawan. That makes us equals."
"Indeed, it does, at least in terms of rank, but I fear that I am still far too inexperienced to be your true equal at this point."
The three of them, Rylat walking slightly ahead, started on their way toward the transport ship that was to take them to where the Sith Warriors were apparently hiding. Jedi Generals meditated in circular chambers, deep in the lower levels, while the Republic soldiers were busy carrying around and maintaining large chunks of war machinery.
"Perhaps, but you are connected to the Force, and it can offer you insights and tactical advantages in a way that the rest of us can only dream of. There is a reason why Jedi Padawans start in a position of command, rather than as an enlist."
"Do you wish you were a Jedi, then?" Freya asked hypothetically, sensing a tint of envy in the commander's thoughts.
"Oh no. No way," Jax replied quickly, as if she had asked him if he wanted to take a dip in a Sarlacc pit. "I admire Jedi, but I wouldn't like to be one. Living as a Jedi is not easy. The self must be sacrificed for the sake of the whole, something much easier said than done. And the responsibility too." A moment's hesitation, as he wondered if it was appropriate to ask such a question so soon. "Isn't it difficult, knowing that each of your actions and decisions will probably have a greater effect on the galaxy than those of us that are not Force sensitive?"
Freya pondered for a moment. "I suppose so, but my supposedly greater effect on the galaxy also allows me to help those in need."
"Sure, but those are two conflicting ideas, are they not? You are given ability beyond natural explanation to save the lives of others, but the more people you save, the more attachments you form. As a Jedi's powers grow, attachments are created, which must then in turn be destroyed, according to your Code. This cycle of connections and severances naturally leads to a great anxiety within the Jedi, making them susceptible to corruption."
