Song: "How Come," by Ray Lamontagne, from the album Trouble.


Chapter Six: Out Of Reach

The pistol now is prophet,
The bullet – some kind of lord and king.
But pain is the only promise that this so-called savior is going to bring.
Love can be a liar,
And justice can be a thief,
And freedom can be an empty cup from which everybody wanna drink.

Everything went pretty smooth, at first.

Drake supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, as he and his brothers – even Levy – were fairly used to the mechanics of starship piloting and galactic navigation, but this was different. For one thing, they were on their own ship. From his place standing behind the pilot's seat, he ran his eyes over the console where Levy was seated, feeling his shoulders relax as he watched his brother's concentration over the proximity sensors. Even though they were tunneling through hyperspace, there was always a chance of being ambushed when they slipped back into realspace.

"Nice work with the transponder codes, Lev," he said. "Hopefully all those upgrades you made will keep us under the radar, at least until we get to Zygerria."

From behind him, Risky let out a sigh, and Drake heard the click of weapons being assembled. "And how much longer will that be? We've been flying for almost two kriffing days."

"Relax, Risk," Keo said from his place beside the red-haired clone at one of the fold-out seats along the bulkhead. "This thing can haul shebs; we'll be there soon." However, despite his easy tone, Drake could hear the worry in his voice, something that they could all relate to.

In his fashion, Finn voiced their thoughts from his place at the helm. "I'm worried about her, too." None of them had ever met Ares' niece, but the idea of even a peripheral member of their family being in danger was enough to make the clones give a collective grimace. Finn leaned to one side to glance at the nav, then nodded. "But we're making really good time," he added, his tone filled with admiration. "The ship is really powerful, Lev."

Levy's hands fluttered, forming his reply. Thanks, but I think the dual-hyperdrives have more to do with it than anything I did.

Finn gave him a soft smile. "Yeah, but you did most of the work. I couldn't believe she was the same ship that I managed to get Trax and Ares to tow in last year. I wish I'd gotten to help more."

Plenty of work still needs to be done, Levy replied with a shrug. The cannons are funny. For some reason, Weave didn't like the idea of me testing them out too much while we were dirtside, and it seemed a waste to fire at nothing from atmo. And she still needs a name.

"What do you mean, 'the cannons are funny?'" Drake asked, straightening.

Levy furrowed his brow and glanced over the console. The guns stick, sometimes. Get jammed up with corrosion...I think the heter valves are kind of old, but I never got a chance to get in there and dig around. At Drake's look of frustration he lifted his hands in a helpless gesture before signing: What did you expect? We had to leave in a hurry.

But before Drake could reply, a familiar figure stepped out of the rear of the ship, and he felt his words get lost inside his brain as Zara approached the helm to stand next to him. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, then he happened to glance her way and realize – with no small amount of surprise – that she was tense, too. But awkwardness was to be expected, he supposed; between her Jedi training and his missions with his brothers, they had not seen much of each other in the past several years, and while they were on Mundali...well, there was a whole planet to avoid one another, wasn't there?

Stonewall had been right, of course. Being near her now was difficult, and it did hurt. Perhaps, he reasoned, as he passed more time in her company, he'd grow used to the feeling, maybe even learn to live with it. Or try to.

So Drake focused on the mission and continued carefully shielding his thoughts from the Nautolan girl. In the interest of moving on, he cleared his throat and glanced at her. "How was your meditation session?"

Dark, almost-black eyes looked back at him. "Not bad," she replied, hugging her arms to her sides. The deep indigo coat she wore contrasted with her pale blue skin and he caught a glimpse of her lightsaber tucked at her hip. "How's it going out here?"

Her voice was calm, professional, and he nodded inwardly. Thinking back to her behavior at the party, he figured that she was as uncomfortable as he was, but nothing had changed between them. She'd made no overtures of anything besides friendship. They were both making efforts to act normal.

Maybe the realization should have set him at ease, but he didn't have time to reflect on it, as the proximity alarms began to blare. Levy leaned forward and flipped a series of switches on the console before his eye widened at the readout.

But it was Zara who spoke. "Imperials? Levy...you're sure?"

Before Drake could question how she knew such a thing, as Levy's hands had not lifted to form his kind of speech, the entire ship jolted to one side, tossing everyone save Levy and Finn, who were buckled down, into the nearest bulkhead; the wind was knocked out of Drake's lungs as his back slammed against the wall, and again as Zara careened into him. However, he hardly had time to notice, as the bright swathe of light beyond the viewport dimmed, indicating that their vessel was merging back into realspace.

Which turned out to be very bad news, as the crew was greeted by the sight of a rather imposing-looking Star Destroyer.

"Kriff!" Risky yelled, clambering out of Keo's legs where he'd been tangled. "Get to the guns!"

"Are you insane?" Keo replied, his voice shaking as the ship started to shudder. "Even if our guns did work, there's no way we could out-blast the Imps, Risk."

"Tractor-beam," murmured Zara. She and Drake exchanged a look and he realized that her curves were pressed along the length of his body. She seemed to realize it, too, as she flushed a dark blue and pulled away from him so that they could both see what was happening. Indeed, they were being pulled towards the massive, V-shaped ship. Over the comm, a smooth, mechanical voice began to speak, something about a 'routine inspection' and 'unidentified cargo,' but no one paid it any mind.

Clearing his throat, Drake frowned at the Imperial ship. "Can we break out of the hold?"

Finn glanced at Levy, whose hands were working furiously as he signed. After a moment, the long-haired clone nodded. "It's got us, but we can still get away. If we can keep out of the main section of the beam, if the engines keep up their hard work, if we can out-maneuver them..." Words trailed off as he began to turn the craft away from the Imperial ship. Suddenly he glanced at Drake, his face creased with worry. "You're a better pilot than me, vod." The implication in his words was clear.

Before the sentence had left Finn's mouth all the way, they'd switched seats. Without even taking the time to strap himself down and paying no heed to the exclamations of the others as he did so, Drake grabbed the controls and moved the ship into a dizzying spiral, noting with satisfaction when the display indicated that then beam's hold on the Deep-X had been broken.

For now.

Any minute, Drake knew the Imps would probably start firing, but he hoped that the Deep-X would be long gone by that point. Their own vessel's engines were powerful, and with a skilled pilot at the helm it was possible to avoid the grip of a tractor-beam; however, it was not easy. While Levy attempted to lock onto a safe set of coordinates for them to jump to, Drake was forced to put in every bit of piloting know-how he'd picked up from Ares, along with what had been coded into him.

Much of his skill came naturally – well, as natural as anything the Kaminoans had bred into the clones came, anyway – but many of his tricks he'd learned from spending long hours at the helm of the Stark Raven with the coral-skinned Twi'lek. Ares had once jokingly said that piloting was simple, as long as one could be both careful and reckless, clever and foolhardy, and if one concentrated and let go...it was then, the Twi'lek had chuckled, that the impossible could be achieved.

Right. Just that space around the unnamed Deep-X began to shudder with blaster-fire, so Drake exhaled and tilted his hands, feeling a thrill as the ship moved with him and more distance was put between them and the Imperials' guns. A glance at Levy's console. "How's it look? Can we jump yet?"

Sweat had beaded at his brother's forehead, his hands were trembling as they signed, but he was nodding. We're set. Go for it.

"Everybody hang on," Drake shouted over his shoulder as he prepped for another dizzying roll to avoid the cannon fire. "We're almost out of this..."

Their ship spun. It twisted out of the way as the Imperial vessel continued its attempts to disable them, but it didn't matter, because in the next moment – almost the instant that Drake righted the ship – Levy had punched the nav and they were gone, into the thick swathe of space.


Among its multiple charming attributes, Tully decided that the Zygerrian market stank like the vile end of a womp-rat.

As the former ARC lieutenant waited for the merchant to finish examining the items he'd presented for trade, he was at once thankful and irritated that he couldn't see; thankful, because he knew from description that the market was not a thing of beauty, and irritated because...well...being robbed of his sight six months ago hadn't exactly been in his life-plan.

Of course, he figured that no Fett clone – from commander to grunt – really ever had a life-plan besides 'shoot the clankers and try not to die while you do it.'

Even though his army days were long since behind him, the clone gave a snort of indignation at the thought. It had taken him six long months, a seemingly endless struggle, but he finally felt like he was something of his old self, even though at times he felt like he was lost in more ways than one without his sight.

But life – especially genetically-shortened life – was too valuable to spend mired in unnecessary regrets and bitterness, and besides, Tully had enough of both of those things without adding anger at his...disability to the list.

To distract himself, he turned his face to the Zygerrian merchant with whom he was dealing. "You almost done? I'm not getting any younger."

There was a clinking sound and Tully detected that the halpiton circuits he'd brought to trade were still on the booth's surface; though he couldn't see them, he trusted his ears. Indeed, the rough, gravelly voice of the merchant sounded a moment later. "I can give you...fifty creds apiece."

Tully straightened, his chest puffing out just a bit, remnants of his ARC training automatically kicking in along with his ire. "Fifty? That's not even robbery...it's an insult. Why don't you just shank me while you're at it?"

"It's a better deal than an outlander like yourself is going to get, haja," the Zygerrian replied, his pitch dropping on the slang-word that Tully didn't need a droid to translate to know that it was insulting. "Well, forty-five now, with that comment."

The cha'kaar sounded smug as all get-out, and Tully opened his mouth to retort. However, Johari's words came back to him, and he realized with annoyance that he was not really in a position to turn away coin of any kind. Not now, when he and Jo were so desperate for income they had actually started selling off components of her beloved ship.

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "Forty-five's great. Me and forty-five are best friends, actually." He held out his hand, mentally weighing the credits as they fell onto his palm. Beneath the strip of cloth that he wore around his head, his eyes narrowed. "You trying to cheat me?"

A guffaw sounded, and the Zygerrian pressed the rest of the creds in his hand. "Not easily fooled, are you, haja?"

Tully gave a feral grin as he tucked the money into a pouch beneath his vest. Now that the transaction was complete, all semblance of politeness fell away. Just because he couldn't see didn't mean that he was helpless, after all, and Tully had an inclination to give a piece of his mind to the slaving shabuir, even though he only said: "Maybe I'm a Miralukan, and I can see your filthy, cheating soul with the Force. You ever think about that?"

He didn't wait to hear the merchant's reply, instead turning and making for the cantina where Jo would be waiting, chuckling at the litany of Zygerrian swear-words that were emanating from the merchant. Johari had been a bit hesitant about letting him conduct their business while she tried to meet with a contact, but Tully had been resolute in his conviction that he could manage, and damn, did it feel good to be proven right.

Of course, his cavalier mention of a Miraluka brought one very specific person to his mind, and Tully found his bravado fading away as the memory of the Jedi, Atreus Rand, bubbled to the surface of his brain while he slipped through the market, using his keen ear and his memory of his previous journeys through the area to guide him along even as he considered.

Where in the nine Corellian hells was his former general? After six months of being on the run with the Echani woman, Johari Senna, with no word from their Jedi, he thought that he knew, but could never quite bring his mind to form the thought.

Because, if he allowed that thought to creep in, others would be swift on its heels.

Mira, his late wife...

Right now, Tully had no desire to think of anything besides returning to Jo and leaving this miserable excuse for a planet. So as he walked, he concentrated on feeling for the brush of displaced air that would indicate other passers-by and smelling the Force-damned scent of Zygerrian body odor that would likely never leave his nostrils even after he'd departed the world.

Maybe he hadn't been paying as close attention as he'd meant. Maybe he was distracted by thoughts of his friend and of the other memory he'd tried to lock away. But none of it mattered when he crashed headlong into a rather solid form.

"Watch where you're going, mudcrutch."

Rather than respond with equal vitriol as was his first inclination, Tully froze. The voice was familiar, almost frighteningly so, and for a moment he was stunned that he'd heard it here of all places. It was just like his but a bit younger, which meant that it belonged to another clone, and he frowned in puzzlement at the realization as he turned his head towards the source of the sound. What was a Fett clone doing all the way out here?

Besides being on the run from the Imperials with a rogue Antarian Ranger, of course. Tully was pretty sure he had the monopoly on that situation.

Multiple feet paused, indicated a group. A quick analysis told him that there were six; if he inhaled, he could smell their sweat and the traces of processed ship's air that clung to their skin, indicating that they'd arrived recently. There was another scent, too. Faint, feminine...watery,he realized after a moment. Certainly no clone.

"Risky..." It was another clone's voice, different only because Tully knew what to listen for. "Why'd you have to be such a-"

Another voice sounded, female. "Guys, come on." To Tully, she said: "Sir, I'm sorry...we're new here." Her tone was respectful, with a measured pace that he recognized as the kind that often came with hours upon hours of meditation.

The girl spoke with the refined inflection of a Jedi that was a constant, no matter where they were from.

Rand had spoken just like that, and Tully had come to know his former general's voice so well before...he pushed the thought aside to focus on the here and now, noting the irony of the situation that Rand would have probably appreciated.

Atreus Rand had been right about this, too, and Tully swallowed down his apprehension. It shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. "Don't worry about it," he replied, modulating his voice to a gruffer, hopefully unfamiliar register. "It's a tough planet, especially if you've just arrived."

"How did you...?" Confusion was evident in the female Jedi's voice.

"Come on, Zar. We need to get going if we're going to rescue Faye." It was the second clone, the one who'd named the first as "Risky." "Zar" was – evidently – the Jedi.

A third clone spoke. "Guys...keep it down, okay? Let's not advertise ourselves any more than we have already."

There was a brush of air against his cheek, below the strip of cloth he wore to conceal his eyes and lead credence to his Miraluka disguise. The displaced air as Jedi had turned away from him indicated that she either had long, thick hair...or lekku, and he frowned.

However, he didn't have time to speculate on her race, because soon the group was moving away from him, as evidenced by the faint vibration of the ground that was almost lost in the host of other sensations from the market place. At once, Tully's annoyance over the merchant, his sorrow over the thoughts of departed companions, even his irritation in general had fled his mind with the encounter, and for one moment the former ARC debated.

It was only a moment, as he'd been programmed to make critical decisions within the blink of an eye, and then he was tailing them. Muscles that had trained for his entire life automatically responded to his new mission of stealth, and Tully moved through the crowded streets with the grace of a shadow. A lesser man might have doubted his own ability to make his way through the market without the use of his sight, but Tully was ARC, one of the original, Alpha-designations that had been personally trained by Jango Fett. Being blind, he assured himself, was no big deal, not really, and he shoved all doubt from his mind with his new mission.

To further obscure his features, he pulled the hood of the coat he'd taken to wearing around his face – though there was little issue of anyone recognizing him as a Fett clone with the blindfold, anyway – and meandered after the group, keeping them within earshot but far enough away so that they wouldn't discern his intent. His only concern on that score was the Jedi. If she was as attuned to the Living Force as Rand had been, the game might be up.

As much as he wanted to race after them, Tully knew that it was more important to make sure that they were whom he suspected. There were a lot of things the group of young folks could be, but only one of those things was something he gave a kriff about.

The heat of the market was thick, but it was not entirely due to the temperature of the air. This part of Zygerria was apparently in its winter season, so the air was dry, and every so often a mild breeze would slip down from the Drukarg Highlands, carrying the scent of distant snow to mingle with the pungent spices and Zygerrian pipe-weed, a famed pastime among the slavers. Basic was common here, but Tully could make out a bevy of other languages among the familiar sounds: Bocce, Zabraki, and Huttese among the guttural snarf of native Zygerrian. The kids, as he'd come to think of his quarry, were speaking in harried Basic as they rushed through the market, but beyond the language he couldn't discern their words, even with his sharp hearing.

Gradually, the languages changed. The Bocce and Zabraki faded away, followed by the Huttese. The pipe-weed scent grew almost overpowering, mingling with old blood, new sweat and an almost palpable fear. The dust beneath Tully's feet turned to smooth stone, evidence that he was approaching an arena of some kind, and he felt the breeze of the open-air market recede, as if the buildings on either side of the street began to close in.

All of these things revealed to his senses the destination of the kids, and he grimaced as the mention of "rescuing" someone named Faye returned to his mind. With a sigh, he realized that he should get back to Jo and bring her along to rescue the younger folk before they lost the inevitable fight.

"Big damn heroes, are you, di'kutle?" he muttered to himself as he turned and made his way back to his original destination, before all the nonsense began. "Just try not get yourselves killed before we come to the rescue."


Ensconced within the confines of the Zygerrian cantina, Johari Senna tried – as she found herself doing a lot these days – not to let despair creep in.

Back to the wall, she busied herself with visually scanning the room, assessing any potential threats in the patrons while she waited for Tully's return and resisted the urge to glance at her chrono again. With her booted feet resting on the only other chair at the small, round table at which she sat, the slender, pale-skinned woman did not appear intimidating to the casual observer. In fact, she figured that she looked a bit insubstantial, save for the bulky, brown nerf-leather jacket that she wore over her clothes, one that fell past her knees. Her dyed, dirty-blond hair was gathered at the nape of her neck in a messy bun, with a few strands falling down about her shoulders. Despite the glass of ale beside her, she sat with her hands folded across her torso, and held almost unnaturally still.

By his own reckoning, Tully should have been back by now; it was unlike the former ARC to be late, or to misjudge how long it would take him to complete a mission, and the Echani woman darted her eyes to the door of the cantina as if he'd appear clawed at her gut, but she pushed it down, deep with the other feelings that she tried to ignore.

A server – a young, female Zygerrian, perhaps a relative of the proprietor – paused before the table, a stack of glasses overloaded on the tray in her hand. Jo glanced up, debating about trading in her warm ale for a fresh cup, then decided against it, taking a sip of her drink as if to prove a point.

She could have pulled a face at the taste of the stale beverage, but did not. In fact, had anyone been watching her, they would have wondered if the young woman in her mid-twenties had any expressions at all, for her face had not shifted, and she gave nothing away of the turmoil that was within. A bitter taste from the ale was now in the back of her throat, but Jo ignored it, instead taking a moment to observe the cantina around her.

It was the usual mix of patrons: spacers stopping by for a drink and a bit of gossip about this and other ports-of-call; merchants with sharp eyes who were – she had no illusions – here to trade in living flesh, as the slave markets were set to open soon; locals who fed the trades of the others and who were in turn fed by the outlanders' credits.

None of them gave the silver-eyed woman more than a passing glance, and for that she was thankful.

After all, these days it was better not to be noticed.

Fifteen minutes later, Tully still had not returned, and she found herself growing more and more anxious for the clone. A myriad of scenarios had begun to play out in her mind, everything from Tully being assaulted, robbed and left for dead in some dingy alley, to Tully doing the assaulting and ending up on the slave block himself. The former ARC had always been...tenacious, but Jo knew that he would never be the man he used to, not since her sister, Mira, had died.

The thought made her shift in her seat. It was a minuscule movement, but to one who knew the language of the body, it was a clarion call of agitation.

Mira would have loved this place, she thought, eying the carousing crowd. Johari's sister had generally preferred to be in the company of others, and it seemed that the feeling had always been mutual; while Jo herself enjoyed her solitude – save for a few exceptions – there was nothing that Miriam had enjoyed more than boisterous company and a good dose of laughter.

Jo's head tilted down and her eyelids half-closed, and she realized that she shouldn't have thought of her sister, now. There was a burning behind her eyes as she tried to force the memories back within the confines of her mind, where they belonged.

Jo and Tully had both done their grieving, and Miriam's spirit had been sent to her ancestors so that the younger woman could be at peace, which should have been enough for those who'd been left these thoughts, there was a small pouch of ashes on the inside pocket of Johari's jacket that felt heavy, and her shoulders sank, just a little.

A chorus of jeers erupted from the opposite corner of the cantina, next to the bar, and Jo's gaze lifted for just a moment to see a group of Weequay holding an arm-wrestling competition. She sighed and shut her eyes for one moment, running her hand through her dyed hair as she lamented the need for such a disguise; her nose wrinkled at the greasy feel, and at the sharp scent that still would not leave her nostrils.

When she looked up again, Tully was there, and she exhaled in relief.

"Fancy meeting you here." His arms were crossed before his chest, the dull black coat he wore was too small, the sleeves pulling back to reveal his thick wrists, and he was scowling down at her. But it was not his customary expression; she noted that his entire body was tense, as if he was a coiled spring ready to be released.

So she ignored his words and spoke in her normal, quiet tone. "What is it?"

The clone's frown deepened and he jerked his head towards the door. "We have a situation that you might want to take a look at."

"Tully, who did you get into a fight with?" She tried to keep her voice calm despite the agitation in her heart. "We can't afford to appear on anyone's radar-"

"You always assume the worst, vod'ika," he replied. After a pause his hand reached down to skim the edge of the chair that held her feet; she slid her boots to the floor and he took a seat, folding his arms along his elbows and leaning forward to speak to her. "I was nearly assaulted...by a group of young men. Young clones."

"Tully-"

His voice dropped. "And a female Jedi."

Johari froze at the word, turning it over and over in her mind before she blinked at him. "You're certain?" He blew out a snort of air from his nose, which she took to mean 'yes,' and she gave a deep sigh.

Of course, Tully voiced her thought. "Rand was right, wasn't he? That vision he had, with the Jedi and the younger clones..."

Jo frowned a bit in thought but made no response other than to lift her fingertips to her forehead, as if she could press the missing pieces of her memory back in with the motion. Of the last half-year she remembered everything – too much, she figured – but from about two years ago to six months ago her memories were...spotty, at best. She didn't know exactly why she had this inexplicable urge to find the Jedi artifact known as the Great Holocron, but there it was, an impulsion that she had no choice but to follow.

If she knew where Atreus was, she could have asked him, but of course she had no idea where the Miralukan had gone.

Gone.

No, Atreus was not dead, she told herself, but likely in hiding. All Jedi were now enemies of the Empire, had been so for about five years, and he'd always been reluctant to put others in harm's way for his own sake. It was one of the things that she...liked about him?

Jo frowned at the tenuous thought; it reminded her of being young, when her mother would place all kinds of interesting things on the highest shelves in their house, and Jo would jump as hard as she could, arms outstretched to reach the tempting objects, but she could never quite grasp at them.

As if pulling her out of her musing, Tully sat up and jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. "They're in trouble, or they're going to be. I followed 'em to the Slavers' Market...from the sounds of it they were on a rescue mission of a sort." He gave a feral sort of smile, one that showed his teeth and reminded Jo – as if she needed reminding – that he was one of the most dangerous kinds of men in the galaxy: a canny and capable one, who feared almost nothing and had less to lose. "I can only imagine how well that's going to go."

The words of Atreus Rand, a Jedi Knight with whom she and Tully had both served, had begun echoing in her head from the moment that her companion had mentioned finding the other clones and the Jedi: there will be five of them, together as the fingers of your hand are together, linked by one who wields the Force. They are the children of the storm, and they are the key to finding the Great Holocron.

Tully cleared his throat. "Are we going or what?" Beneath the table, his knees were bouncing, and for one moment she thought he seemed so young, growth acceleration aside; sometimes Tully seemed like a teenager more than a man grown, and anxious to jump into the fray.

The cantina was growing emptier by the minute, and she reckoned that the slave auctions were to start in about an hour, so Johari rose and began to thread her way through the tables towards the door, Tully at her heels.

Outside, the afternoon was just getting started, as if the cooler air from the highlands had been pushed aside by the heat. The marketplace was emptying. From his place at her side, Tully indicated the direction he'd come from, and they began to wind their way through the streets. Johari moved with alacrity, but even so the blind clone kept pace with her, his steps assured despite his lack of eyesight.

The closer they got to the site of the auction, the thicker the crowd seemed to become until it was coalescing around them, a miasma of beings of all kinds; everyone appeared to be converging onto a large stadium built in the center of town. Elaborate archways curved along the sides to allow the audience to enter, and within the interior of the arena Jo could make out large screens set up to allow potential buyers in the crowd to see the "merchandise."

Most of the crowd seemed to be directed towards one location: a row of booths set up to allow potential buyers to rent special datapads on which they could record bids in real-time, to allow the auctioneer a way to keep track of who purchased what – or whom. In the back of the stadium, Jo could make out the entrance to the slave sectors, where special, VIP members could take a look at the wares before the auction began.

Despite the crowd and the violent reputation of the Zygerrians, it was all incredibly efficient, and Johari felt sick to her stomach.

However, she had little time to dwell on the feeling, as Tully gave a deep sigh and touched her upper arm; turning in the direction of his lifted hand, her face fell at the sight. A group of three young men – with painfully familiar faces – were gathered around a blue-skinned young woman who seemed like some kind of Nautolan-Twi'lek hybrid. They were facing a tall, thick-necked Zygerrian who was looking down at them with little interest but quite a bit of disdain. She couldn't make out their words, but Tully must have, as he stepped forward and began to run, just as the Zygerrian's entire body shifted in the manner it would if he were about to strike one of the boys.

In return, all of them seemed to tense, and she watched as several hands went to grasp for weapons. Their plan – she assumed they had one – was baffling; were they just going to attempt to bash in the Zygerrian's skull and take what or whom they wanted? As far as Fett clones went, Jo had seen Tully in action, of course, and the girl – the Jedi – looked to be in decent shape, but she could also see the other Zygerrians who were waiting in the nearby shadows, ready to spring to their comrade's aid.

The situation was about to get particularly nasty, so with a tug on Tully's sleeve to guide him along, Johari surged forward.


So this chapter brings us the return of Tully and Johari; the former ARC was a ton of fun to write, but he also presented many challenges, as I've never written a blind POV character before. I'm curious to know what you guys think of him and his POV so far. (Anyone catch the Firefly reference? :P)

With Jo and Tully's return, all the major characters are in place and the story is about to pick up! See? I told you it would happen...eventually. ;)

Zygerria: all of this part was written well before that particular arc aired on TCW, so I had to make a few minor tweaks to fit with canon – mostly relating to the appearance of the Zygerrians themselves. (They looked way cooler on Wookieepedia before the episodes aired, imo.)

Thanks for reading! Reviews and comments are welcome! (Think of reviews like a virtual tip jar: "Support your local authors! Leave feedback.")