Part Four: Searching

He was working on the General's swoop bike. Nothing particularly fancy, just some routine maintenance. It was only when he reached for the hydrospanner that he realised something was different. He turned around, surveying the empty garage. Nothing was where it shouldn't be. Nothing was following him. Nothing was missing—

Wait. Where was his Remote? He had grown so accustomed to the chirruping little sphere's omnipresence that he didn't know why it had taken him so long to realise it was gone.

'Remote?' he called out. No response. No longer able to ignore his little droid's absence now that it had been identified, he decided to search for it.

'Remote!' he cried out again as he passed through the hallway. A series of beeps and whirrs caught his attention and with a sigh of relief he stepped into the engine room.

But the Remote wasn't there. Instead, he was met with the sight of HK-47 and G0-T0 constructing soft pink, cuddly gizka toys as T3-M4 circled them, supervising. Already a pile of at least twenty was stacked on and around the hyperdrive, almost completely obscuring it from view. 'What are you doing?'

'Disbelieving response: Is it not obvious what we are doing Master?' asked HK-47 in incredulous tones. One metal hand waved the half-made toy that the droid was currently working on at him. 'We are sewing together pieces of material in order to create soft toys to bring joy and comfort to young children across the galaxy. Because as you know, Master, children are the future.'

T3-M4, clearly finding HK's unannounced work break unacceptable, let out an angry whoop and shocked the assassin droid with a bolt of electricity. HK-47 began to sew again, at a speed that an organic creature would have found impossible, and spoke again in a repentant tone. 'Guilty apology: I am sorry, Master. I should not be distracting you before your big performance.'

'Have you seen my Remote anywhere?'

'Your little droid is no longer with us,' G0-T0 responded ominously, as two of his pincer-like extensions tied a pretty satin bow around a finished gizka's neck. 'He left the engine room a few moments ago. Apparently he doesn't see the importance of toy gizka in ensuring the stabalisation of the galaxy.'

Nodding, he turned to leave, just catching HK-47 adding, 'Mocking response: what a foolish little droid that remote must be!' before he was back in the hall, trying to decide where to try next. The last time he remembered seeing his Remote was back in his bunk, and so he headed towards the dormitories. As he approached, the sound of soft singing became evident and he recognised the tune as an old song that had been popular among the Republican soldiers back during the Mandalorian Wars but he couldn't understand the words...

'General?' he asked, finally able to place the voice.

'In heeerrreee!' trilled a female voice. He pressed the release on the door to find Lexie in the bathtub but it wasn't water she was bathing in. No, the substance was thicker than that, red and sticky, dense enough to obscure her entire body from the neck down.

'I'm – I'm looking for my Remote. Have you seen it?'

'Can't say I have,' said the General, lying back further in the tub so that her dark hair spread out, fan-like, in the red liquid. 'But he may be rehearsing with the others in the cargo hold.'

'Thank you General.' He made to leave but heard her call, 'Just make sure you're back in time for the grand finale!' before a small plop told him that Lexie had just submerged herself completely in her bath of blood.

Sparks were flying from the walls as he made his way back through the ship. I should really do something about that, he thought, then remembered he needed to find his Remote first if he hoped to get anything done at all. What appeared to be a large white sheet had been stuck over the entrance of the cargo hold, almost like a curtain, and when he pushed it aside it was to find the area bustling with activity.

'NO!' Mandalore was roaring from the far left corner. Five members of his clan were stood before him in a line, dressed in full battle gear, but looking decidedly glum as their leader continued to chastise them. 'How many times do I have to tell you?! It's step, pivot, tap, step, pirouette and then you do the jazz hands! Now do the whole routine again, from the top!'

'Yes, Mandalore!' chorused the assembled warriors before breaking into a surprisingly graceful dance routine.

'Ah, here he is, the star of the show!' From out of the shadows, Atton appeared, throwing an arm around his shoulders. A beret was perched on the scoundrel's head at a rakish angle and he carried a clipboard in one hand. 'Now, you know that you're on last, right? The big ending! Very exciting stuff. You know what you're doing, of course?'

Before he had a chance to respond, Atton was bustling off. 'Grreeaaattt. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go see Visas – poor dear has terrible stage fright.'

Sure enough, Visas was stood trembling in the middle of the cargo hold, frozen in the process of rehearsing what looked like a stand-up comedy act involving several live cannocks. In the little space that remained, Mira and Mical were conversing emphatically, a plasteel cylinder sat between them, and he approached them, hoping that maybe he'd finally find someone else who didn't know what this performance was all about. They stopped speaking as soon as they caught sight of him.

'Atton's given me twelve different parts you know,' the Disciple announced smugly. Not waiting for a response, Mical pulled a box from inside the plasteel cylinder and began rifling through it. 'Look, I have a different hat for each one. You see, this one is black and pointy so that's my spy hat... I wear this one when I'm being a cowboy...'

'Good to see you're already in costume too,' Mira chimed in. She was wearing a black mini-dress and fluorescent pink wig, but still had her wrist launcher firmly in place. 'The outfit it perfect – no one will ever guess what you're about to do.'

His brow furrowed in confusion. 'But these are just my ordinary clothes.'

'Already in character too. Nice touch,' said Mira approvingly, winking at him.

'This is my gentleman hat... I find this balaclava very helpful with regards to portraying a criminal...'

'I nearly forgot, I found something of yours,' said Mira, rummaging in the plasteel cylinder that seemed to him to be able to hold an inordinate amount for such a very small container, before pulling something out with an accomplished 'ahh!' sound. 'You'll be needing this.'

Smiling proudly, Mira offered him his own severed arm. It was perfectly preserved, exactly how it had after what had happened at Malachor. One finger was still twitching and blood continued to seep from the end. It was still warm. 'Th-thank you,' he stammered, taking it from the bounty hunter. She winked at him again then turned her attention to the plasteel cylinder once more, pulling out long metal poles and planks of wood and, with Mical's help, began to construct a stage. Neither seemed aware that he was still stood there.

He backed away quickly, dropping his arm on the floor of the cargo hold. The severed limb landed with a squelch, writhing as though alive. It had occurred to him that something rather strange seemed to be happening on board the Ebon Hawk, something that went beyond his Remote going missing. Speaking of which, he was still no closer to finding out where his Remote had got to. He glanced across to where Atton was teaching Visas how to project from the diaphragm and was considering asking if they might know anything about his Remote when a small voice piped up from the floor beside him.

'I'd watch those two, if I were you,' advised the talking gizka, eyeing Atton and Visas warily. 'Jedi have a nasty habit of breeding like no-one's business. One moment there's just the one of them, the next they're everywhere. Do you see what I mean?' The gizka nodded to the far corner, where Mical and Mira had both drawn lightsabers – gold and pink respectively – and were having a mock duel. He looked down at his belt and was surprised to see his own lightsaber clipped to it. How had he not noticed it there earlier?

'Do you have any idea where my Remote might be?' he asked the gizka who he found himself instinctively trusting despite never actually encountering one that could speak before. Perhaps it was because this was the first creature not to mention some kind of imminent performance to him.

The gizka opened its mouth to speak but was interrupted by Atton's voice yelling from across the cargo hold. 'Mr Phipps! Get your little yellow butt hopping over here right this second or else I'm cutting you from the musical number!'

'I'll have his part!' squealed Mical, eyes lighting up with excitement.

'Not a chance,' Atton growled, pointing his clipboard at the Disciple threateningly. 'You're already having to use the sailor hat to represent two different characters! We just don't have enough hats!'

The gizka gave him an apologetic look and a rough approximation of a shrug. 'Sorry I can't help you look for your Remote, old chap.'

'It's no problem,' he replied reassuringly. 'You know how these things go anyway - it'll probably turn up in the last place I look for it.'

'Well then,' the gizka called back to him as it went bounding off across the cargo hold to where Atton and Mical appeared to be having a very heated dispute regarding the box of hats. 'Why don't you just look there first?'

Considering this for a second, he realised it probably made about as much sense as everything else that had been happening and decided he had nothing to lose by at least trying it Mr Phipps' way. Pushing the curtain aside again, he fought through a sea of gizka cuddly toys that now seemed to be filling most of the ship, through the back of a crate, up one flight of stairs, down another, under the floorboards, through the ventilation system, past two milky white balls that kept trying to bounce in his path, down a corridor made up of red velvet curtains until eventually...

'There you are!' he exclaimed, and his Remote gave a cheerful whoop of greeting, floating over to rejoin his side. He was about to ask where the little droid had been all this time when a huge yellow light flashed on, momentarily blinding him.

'And now,' boomed a disembodied voice. 'It's that time of the evening you have all been waiting for!'

A chorus of cheers rose up from the darkness and he squinted past the glare to see an audience was assembled, staring up at the raised platform on which he was stood. Staring at him. No, not just at him. At something behind him. He turned slowly to see that positioned behind him was a huge piece of machinery that was far too familiar.

'Yes folks, this is it, our grand finale!' the voice continued. 'This is the moment when the angry young Zabrak finally gets his revenge by using the Mass Shadow Generator!'

'No,' he breathed. 'No, not again. Please don't make me do it again.'

His eyes scanned the gathered crowd. There was Atton, scribbling frantically on his clipboard, Mical admiring his reflection while wearing his gentleman's hat, Mira giving him an encouraging grin, Mandalore and his assorted clan of dancers watching expectantly, a whole crowd of Republic soldiers willing him on with their eyes and there... There she was. The General. She must have come straight from her bath because her entire body was still coated in scarlet.

'Please don't make me do it,' he whispered, staring imploringly into the eyes of his commanding officer. There was no mercy there. Instead, she simply gave a small, tight nod.

Sighing, he turned and for the second time activated the Mass Shadow Generator.

'Noooo,' groaned Bao-Dur, writhing in his bunk.