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This erupted as a bit of a passion project recently, it'll run independently from my Patron-based series. All updates are entirely free but there's no confirmed update schedule, more of an opportunity for me to play in the sandbox and enjoy writing again.
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The Clone Wars explodes across the galaxy, caught amidst the largest conflict the Jedi have seen in millennia, strange tidings surround Padawan Harry Potter—visions and dreams of dark things. Somewhere in the deep distance, lights call him home.
CHAPTER I - THE JEDI HUNTER
From the viewport of the bridge, Padawan Harry Potter watched the slow dance of infinite stars ahead.
Although it was an expanse that no doubt stretched forever—until stars died and galaxies faded—they waited still until an enemy arrived. A new one, an old one; in these days it had all begun to blend together.
"Acclamator Vanguard is in position," the monotonous voice of a Clone blasted through the bridge's communication link.
Breaking free from his thoughts, Harry turned his head to the side, watching the stretching line of Republic vessels reach their formation—all weapons facing forward. Soon enough, the cacophony of affirmative calls followed the Vanguard's.
"Collosus and Spiteful have reached defensive positions," a voice cried from the pit of the bridge. "Remaining Dreadnaught-class cruisers are moving to conduct aggressive reconnaissance."
A triad of ships, sleek and silver, emblazoned with the red of the Republic's naval ensign advanced past them, their thrusters flaring to life as they shot out of sight towards the nearest Hyperlane. Left in their wake was nothing but the blue haze of hypermatter exhaust and the hope that, maybe, they'd made the right call by choosing here of all places to begin their campaign.
Footsteps sounded against the durasteel of the bridge, a slow gait that he knew without a second guess. He felt the presence that came with it—old, soft, calm. It held an eternal reassurance to it, compounded with each step. It took some inordinate amount of time for it to fully approach him so he busied himself with scanning the rest of the fleet for some sort of imperfection he knew wouldn't exist.
"I take it the scouting party has made their manoeuvre?" The feet had come with a voice, croaking with years and soft as a whisper.
"It has, Master Volme," Harry answered her as he stood beside her, brown robes flowing with each slow step. "Moments ago, we've yet to hear them drop out of it yet."
She's not usually this slow, he noted with a frown he hoped she couldn't feel through the Force.
"Time," she counselled. "These things take time."
She continued past him, her hood falling over her long, grey hair. Before the war, he could seldom remember a time when she wore the hood, save for the missions where the secrecy of their identities had played a factor. Now, it was an almost permanent affixture to her features, donned to hide just how many lines her face had grown since the war had begun as if every death left a crevasse behind.
It had sapped much from her as it did from many of the Jedi when the war erupted. He was thankful he was no Master for she felt every pinprick of life lost, every ember of hope extinguished wherever they went like a knife in her breast. The Separatists had enacted a toll they had no right to with this war, and one he was no longer sure she could pay for as long as this war would last.
"The fighter-based scouts couldn't find anything within fifteen parsecs. No forward reconnaissance, no probes, nothing," Harry said as she walked to rest on the viewport. "Are you sure the Council made the correct decision in sending us here?"
"Rarely am I ever confident in their decision, especially on the matters of warfare," she said. "But have faith yet, wars are not won in days. We must seize the opportunity to move unheeded."
"With a fleet this size we could have punched through the rear of their lines at Hypori with Master Mundi, taken our pound of flesh for Geonosis," he said. "We've got enough firepower to raid convoys, choke the fringe worlds from producing more battledroids. Instead, we're held up here, just—"
"Islakon," his Master interrupted. "Despite your umbrage with the task we've been given, the planet should not bear the brunt of your sulking. The planet, its people and their history are more than deserving of your respect."
Harry nodded and kept his head low, "Islakon," he amended. "My apologies, Master, I meant no disrespect."
"It is no foul," she said, her whispery voice sounded. "Though your anger is. I can feel it now as I have for months."
"I have no anger, Master," Harry crossed his arms over his chest, flicking his Padawan braid behind his shoulder. "I apologise if it seems otherwise."
Volme scoffed, "I have known you since you were a boy, perhaps you might've once slipped things by me, speeder races in the upper city, pazaak games on the fountain steps but I'm afraid those times have passed. You're nearly a man grown, you've lost your touch with white lies."
"I definitely haven't," he grumbled good-naturedly, trying to improve the mood.
"I regret to inform you that you indeed have," Volme said. "Still, I would know what troubles you so? And the truth if you'd please, of all the matters we must attend to today, entertaining your attempts at prevarication isn't one I'd relish."
Despite her request, he wondered if he might still sneak a lie past her and avoid the situation as a whole though abandoned the notion as soon as it came—he respected the woman far too much to take her for a fool.
"Feeling useless, I suppose," he admitted. "What have we truly done since the war began? Rescue diplomats, jump from one planet to the other in search of nothing at all. It's been months, some battalions have been wiped out completely, Jedi are dead. If we'd been back to the Temple sooner, we could have gone—"
"Gone where, Harry?" She asked with an exasperation that came only from having this conversation near a thousand times before. "To Geonosis with the others as you wished?"
"We might have helped them," he said quietly but with enough steel in his voice to not crumble. "Had we been there—"
"—Had we been there, two more Jedi would have been present and, true to that, there would be two more tombs at the Temple."
"You can't know that."
She turned to him and nodded, the hood shifting enough that he could make out violet eyes that had long since begun to lose their colour. "I know it well enough. Strike from your mind the idea of glory, Harry. We do what the war requires of us, what keeping the peace requires. One day, you'll appreciate the distinction, a day where you're alive, a day you'll see that you wouldn't have had we gone to Geonosis."
"I'd just like to be of some use to the war," he admitted with a bitten-off sigh. "The galaxy is on fire and instead of quenching the flames, we're standing back and letting them burn."
"You are of some use to the war, if that is your concern," she said. "Wars have more facets than conflict across open fields. Saving diplomats and securing planets are just as important. If you've yet to learn as much, perhaps your Knighthood isn't as close on the horizon as I might've entertained."
It was a reply that made him bite his tongue, cutting off his retort before he could breathe life into it. Thoroughly chastised but no less passionate on the issue, he let it drop and let the bridge chatter fill the divide between them for a moment. Stepping forward, he approached until he was beside his master, staring at the planet beyond.
"Might I know why we're here then?" Harry pushed softly, staring at the planet below. "What's our purpose?"
Even from the viewport, the planet was large, this gargantuan swathe of ocean filled with all manner of blues he hadn't known existed until recently. The whites of storms swirled, traversing the seas with a devastating force that looked so trivial from so far away.
"I take it you remember the planet of Mon Cala from your studies?" Volme asked suddenly after a pregnant pause she used to examine the planet herself. "Or shall I have Madame Jocasta regale you on the planets of the galaxy?"
Cringing at the terrible memories, "I remember, the Shipyards, Calamari Sector, Outer Rim. A water world far, far away from here. This isn't the Calamari Sector though."
"Then what do you see in front of you?"
Squinting at the planet, "Uh… another water world?"
"Closer," she urged. "What do you feel?"
He did not know and so he looked, he felt. He did not know what he was supposed to find but he trusted that, when he did find it, he'd know.
Then he felt the rolling waves, the breeze of the sea, he could hear it in his ears and taste the salt on his tongue. The Force prickled at his exposed skin like the harsh summer sun until he opened his eyes and let the sensation of another land fade from him.
"Life," he answered.
"How can you tell?"
Letting out a long breath, he closed his eyes again, "I can feel the sun, it's… hot, I don't know how to describe it, too hot to live under. But I can feel the people though, they're not hot, I can't tell what they're feeling but they're cold, somehow, and moving. I can feel them flourish. They're different though, none of them feel the same, some are warmer than the rest."
"Why would they be cold?"
His eyes cracked open, "I… because they're underwater?"
"Very good, why would they be different?"
"Different species," that hadn't been so much a guess as a recital of knowledge learned at the temple. "I couldn't say what but there's many of them, all different species."
Nodding at him, she turned back to the viewport fully and prompted him to answer further.
Harry chewed at his lip and continued looking at the planet, "So it's similar to Mon Cala then, they both live underwater, both house many different races," his eyes darted to Volme to ensure he was on the right path. "So if they attack here, they would have to some purpose for it, they wouldn't just commit a force for nothing. Perhaps they're testing their aquatic combat droids? A trial by fire? Or water, I suppose, to adapt to how their droids function. Or maybe recruiting?"
It had been some time since he'd seen a smile from her but she offered the makings of one now, "Well thought, Padawan, but part of the truth, I'm afraid," as quick as the smile had come, it vanished. "It is true, assaulting water-based planets is an unconventional piece of warfare lost to the ages—the Confederacy needs to test its mettle where the stakes are low and the reward is high. But Islakon holds more for them, it has for some time now."
"Resources?" Harry guessed.
"In a way," Master Volme said before she mustered the requisite amount of disgust a Jedi was allowed to use for the next word. "Slavery. The people of Islakon have been targets of bondage for half a millennia or more. They're varied and powerful in their own ways and it takes such power to be able to operate on planets without land."
"How does that relate to Mon Cala?" Harry's brow furrowed.
"Their fleets move towards the planet, desperate to tear their shipyards apart and tender the scrap for their own purposes. However, the Separatists do not have the combat power in the Calamari sector, or at all, to sustain a siege of Mon Cala. But, the races of Mon Cala, the Mon Calamari and Quarren alike are among the highest echelons of shipwrights and with our assistance, a more than comparable foe. The Quarren Isolation League will hand over their designs for ships, bolstering the Confederacy Navy, for support in the Civil War on Mon Cala; they wish to rule. Now it is an arms race and they want for ships able to break blockades, batter our fleets and head corewards. Break the parity and sever the republic in half. We cannot allow that."
"So they want slaves to replenish their front lines?" Harry asked. "It seems… risky, to arm slaves and send them to do your fighting."
"Perhaps," Volme agreed. "We cannot know their tactics, not yet. They may simply divert droids from their logistical forces and replace them with slaves. We cannot anticipate their exact move so far before they've made their first move. We only know of who the one set to lead the attack—a General Grievous."
"The Jedi Hunter," he spat the word like it was venom. Where his Master might have reprimanded him for such a display, she let it pass.
With a grave face and, perhaps hidden under her hood, a new line on her face, "Indeed," she said, her voice somehow quieter. "I have heard the tidings of the Jedi and soldiers who have faced him thus far. They speak of a titan, clad in steel and fury, a conqueror of worlds, a taker of slaves. They say he carries a lightsaber for each of us he slays and they say when planets see his armada, they pray."
"He was the one they fought at Hypori the first time," Harry said. "The one that beat Master Mundi's strike team."
"The very same."
"Is there any hope to defeat him at Mon Cala?"
He chewed on the inside of his cheek; he'd heard the same stories and more. The Clones in the barracks liked to discuss the matter at great length, of what they'd do if they finally caught up to the leader of the Separatist's army. They also spoke of squads they trained with, squads that met the creature, if he could even be called so anymore, in the field.
And when they spoke of those squads, it always came with hushed tones and sullen whispers, for they lived no longer.
"Loss shall come for him," she said. "Worry not, we do not tell younglings the tales of Krayt Dragons merely because they exist, but because they can be beaten, no matter how fearsome the foe may be."
Swallowing the anxiety in his throat, he breathed a soft breath and let the Force fall over him in soothing waves, "So that's what we're here for, to protect Islakon from invasion to save Mon Cala?"
"Indeed," she said after another long moment. "Because even if you feel useless, that our journey might not be a noble one, there are some battles best fought by rooting your feet and some by charging forward. It's these little victories, the unimportant ones to some, that line history books because they win wars just as easily as the large ones."
"I still think blockading Geonosis with a real force this time would be more beneficial, making sure they can't export their war machines again," Harry said. "But I understand your wisdom, Master, and I'll respect it. Thank you for explaining."
Her old, wrinkled hand found the shoulder of his robe, "Your commitment to seeing the war end quickly is admirable, my Padawan, but you are not the Revanchist come again. Patience is for more than meditation and you've much to learn. In time we shall strike at Geonosis. The Confederacy thinks we've forgotten about it and the power it holds. In time they'll realise we remember, and that we've waited."
"And so we wait?" Harry guessed.
"And so we wait," Master Volme confirmed.
Even if he hadn't heard the order over the communication, he felt it in the floor and in the walls.
The marching was so loud he thought it might shake mountains to their core, clipping his lightsaber to his belt he followed the columns of troopers striding to the hangar. Rifles in arms, men marched to their duty, fulfilling their sole purpose.
They crowded the hangar, assembling below him as he watched from the walkway above, the first group to be deployed, three thousand men in total. They were the 82nd Infantry Regiment, clad in white and red and they'd been assured by both Commander and Kamino that no force could match them and, should the worst come to pass, they'd hold the line to the last man.
Harry hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Letting his hands fall limp and relaxed, he let out a calming breath, reciting breathing techniques he'd learnt what felt like a lifetime ago. Suddenly, as though he had flipped a switch, the feelings came to him all in one sudden rush. He opened himself to the feelings of thousands, all at once, a sensory overload so strong it almost made his knees buckle.
He'd been cautioned not to open himself up in such a blasé manner countless times before, he felt too strong, too attuned to those around him. He'd also never been a very good listener.
It was hard to decipher, most feelings were. Some felt giddy at the chance to fulfil their purpose, some felt determined, some felt fear. For all his prowess in the art, an ease he found with most subjects of the force, he was no master. Regardless of ranking, he still felt within them all a feeling that needed no name.
Anticipation.
Something was coming. Something big.
With another breath, he closed the connection as best he could and rose back to his full height, ignoring the twinge of pain in his temple.
Soon, he sensed a familiar presence and turned to face it. The figure that approached stood distinct from the rest, a pauldron fixed proudly across his right shoulder, emblazoned with the red of the Republic. A colour that bled, and wrapped around, the centre of his helmet in a sharp stripe
With a precision that could've only been instilled by the years of rigorous training, his salute came swift, sharp and straight-backed, "Commander, CC-8432, reporting."
"At ease, Captain York," Harry offered the man a slight smile as his hands fell behind his back, still confused at how he might ever outrank such a man. "Are the men of your company ready?"
"Light Assault is always ready, sir," York said in the way Harry found that soldiers did—more of a succinct bark than a regular voice. "We'll be digging in and making contact with the locals by the end of the day as planned."
Arching an eyebrow at the man, "there's enough ground to dig in?"
"Enough to make the Seps' hurt if they try and land," he said. "We believe they'll try and stage an assault to secure a foothold to allow resupply if they invade. They'll have to glass the islands before they root us out."
Beneath them was the colossal noise of their new weapon of war—the All-Terrain Tactical Enforcer. Its six legs thumped against the durasteel enough to sting his ears as its carrier began to secure it. The pair took a moment to marvel at it, and what it meant.
"Do you think it'll come to that?" Harry asked, watching as more heavy weaponry was loaded in the LAATs, "The Separatists breaking through and attacking the ground, that is."
"I can't say for certain sir but I'd like to see them try. We were made for the fight and our blood is boiling for it."
"I hope your training comes in handy then, Captain."
"Don't worry sir," the man's hands fell to his sides as he turned an about-face. "It'll be just like the simulations."
As the Clone left, the first troopers began to depart from the vessel as they hovered in the orbit of the planet, the ocean's gale buffeting the shields of the ship. A flurry of landing craft left all at once, armed and armoured as the Republic's best. It was hard to believe that anyone, especially battle droids— a credit-a-dozen affair—could hope to challenge them.
And yet, he'd heard of their losses. Half of him relished the idea of finally being of some use to the war effort, of being able to say that, one way or another, he left a mark on the Galaxy.
The other half wondered if it was a path that, once walked, could never be unwalked.
Regardless of his opinion on the matter, he knew well enough that their scouting ships had yet to return, the Clones would soon be digging defensive entrenchments and preparing to hold the line against an invasion. Even if his Master had yet to share the reality of the situation with him, whether it was out of concern for him or uncertainty, he knew one thing.
He had a sinking feeling that, maybe, Islakon was a place for endings.
His quarters were a spartan affair, more by necessity than want. His role afforded him little in the way of personal effects. His constant companion, the only thing he'd been able to convince his Master to allow him to take was a keepsake from a childhood he couldn't quite remember.
A cylindrical piece of wood, smaller than his palm across, one that felt warm no matter where he held it, even Ilum.
As the door slid open to allow his entry, it rattled slightly in the small room, falling onto the mattress of his bed. Plucking it from its new position, he let it roll in his hand a little before returning it to the shelf, relishing the warmth it left behind. It was a teething toy, or so he'd been told, that's what he'd used it for. From a life he couldn't remember he found indents of small teeth down the shaft.
Swiping his finger across the panel closed the door beside him and he shrugged off the bulkier element of his robe and placed it on top of his footlocker. Soon, his lightsaber followed, sitting atop the cloak and with a casual shifting motion, he used the force to push the footlocker to the side, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed beneath him.
Then he did as his Master bid him, and waited.
It was not long before she entered in an almost identical fashion and followed the same ritual, placing both her outer cloak and lightsaber next to his. Before she took a seat alongside him, she surveyed the room with a critical eye.
"I appreciate the tidiness," Volme said.
Snorting, "It's not as if I have anything to make a mess with," Harry said as she, with some great care, attempted to fold her legs beneath her.
Reaching out a hand to help her down, she brushed it away as quickly as he'd offered it and with twice the force, instead choosing to descend with her creaky joints. He knew what she'd say before he even offered.
"I'm old, not an invalid," he mimicked to her clear disapproval. "If I can move, let me do it myself."
Volme said nothing—she didn't need to, he felt her displeasure through the force strong enough that the smile he'd gathered in his joke faded, and he looked to her.
His previous observation of her, and how the war had begun to affect her, was clearer when she lost her hood. This campaign of theirs had scarcely lasted a few rotations, this war of theirs only nearing five months and she already looked far older than when they began and she had been old enough when she took him as her Padawan.
"I meant no disrespect," he eventually said. "Apologies, Master."
"In all my years and Padawans, I've never had one quite like you," she said, taking in his face like it was something to be deciphered. "I believe Qui-Gon would have liked you a great deal."
"So you always say."
"I say because it's true," she said, finally finding the ideal position. "You have that same spark within you as boys—"
"—I'm no longer a boy, Master," he interrupted. "I'm nearing Knighthood."
"Not if you continue to interrupt," she admonished gently. "Even as old as you are, I still remember the boy that came into my care. You share the same rebelliousness, same wit, that he did, even if you exercise it in such trivial ways."
"You don't talk about him very often," Harry noted, trying to feign more interest in his robes than the conversation. "You were friends."
She nodded for a moment, saying nothing. "Quite good friends," she eventually settled on. "He passed while you were a but a Youngling, quite some time ago now and some ghosts, no matter our feelings to the contrary, are best left to rest."
Harry smiled a small, supportive smile at her, "I would've liked to meet him, I don't know that I ever had the chance."
"No," she shook her head wistfully like she was breaking free from some memory, "I don't think you would have."
It had been years and he'd seldom heard a thing about the man—her old friend. Maybe the war had stoked the embers of reminiscence in her, he was unsure if that was a good thing.
"He was always on some quest, approved or not," she continued. "A true Knight, another quality you would have shared; the desire to do the most to help."
"I do my best," he shrugged and hid his head.
"And it'll serve you well," Volme praised. "But you also share a complete lack of patience, which might more than make up for your better traits. Which is why we'll be—"
"—please don't say meditate—"
"—meditating."
With a groan that forced his hands to massage his temples, "I promise I'll be patient in the future—"
"Meditation, Harry, is more than just patience and watching hours pass. Think, reflect, these are troubling times for us all."
"As you wish, Master," he said, crossing his legs beneath him and allowing his back to straighten with the assistance of a large, slow inhale.
Volme followed his example, breathing her own deep breath before ushering gently, "Breath," she said. "Breathe and let go."
So, he did.
So, he let go and sought out what was left. An empty space filled only with him, who he'd been and who he'd be. Then, he could feel his Master, a presence that felt as old as time and that never failed to, even in the direst of moments, give him some direction and comfort. Then he reached further, once again, to a sensation he could seldom describe.
"Listen," his Master's voice urged softly though not aloud, he heard the thought echo in his ears all the same.
He could sense them, the clones and human officers, spanning the entire vessel. The ones that felt out of place, the ones that felt scared, the ones that felt eager, stood out like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. He could hear their feelings, they had a life to them, a flowing current, the dull hum of a hyperdrive that set him at ease.
He could feel the echoes that travelled through every action, every small kindness aboard the ship, every laugh or argument. He wondered, in the off moments, if this is why the Jedi were so—they could feel others, feel their happiness like it was their own, feel their pain like they'd lost just as much.
When he came to meditate, he thought about it often though today, there would be no more thought.
All his senses flared at once like it was an assault on the Force. It was disorientating, perhaps more powerful than any he'd ever felt it. The muscles in his throat contracted, feeling as if someone had reached through and wrapped their fingers around his throat, attempting to strangle the life from him in one, swift move.
The warning was clear, even if he'd never felt such a feeling before. Danger was nigh.
Stumbling backwards, he didn't have to break free from the meditative trance consciously, it had broken itself. Clutching at his throat as he lay against the cold steel of the floor, he allowed the oxygen to run in unimpeded as he massaged the taut flesh. The exact moment his senses returned to him, he pushed himself up against the far wall and stared at his Master, thinking that, somehow, she was the culprit.
It had soon become apparent that she was not.
The sensation, whatever it was, clearly hadn't struck her as strongly as it had him. Harry could feel her shock, a rare enough occasion that he could feel anything, let alone the dread she emanated. When her eyes met his, her faded purple against his green, he knew well enough what was happening.
With the assistance of the force, he leapt quickly to his feet, an outstretched hand saw his lightsaber sail into it and clipped onto his belt. Despite the creaky joints she'd experienced, Volme followed suit and the pair raced from the room.
Familiar hallways of the ship were little but a mirage as they sprinted through the halls, buzzing with movement and the wailing of alarms. When they finally burst into the bridge, stepping around the flurry of crewmen flocking to battle stations, they spied the object of the Force's warning.
It had come in the form of hulking warships, matching their own for size and numbers. Two bow-mounted cannons roared and the world as he'd known it for the past few days erupted into red and blue hues of turbolaser fire, proton torpedoes and dogfighting.
Their enemy had arrived.
Had their ship been of any other build, it might have buckled under the colossal weight of the enemy's guns. Modified for sustained combat operations, the Vanguard's intention was, as the name suggested, to hold the line. Sacrificing troop capacity for armour and ground vehicles for a complement of fighters, the flagship stood distinct from the rest of a fleet—a distinction the Separatists had clearly made with their efforts to direct fire.
The bridge quaked with each rapid fire of their own turbolasers, torpedoes screaming from the hull, cracking one of the patrol frigates that tried to make its advance in half, sending the debris, careening off a nearby vessel.
"Are we able to hold the line, Captain?" Volme posed the question to a man overseeing a panel on the far side of the room.
Captain Auteur, a man thirty years Harry's senior but no taller for it, marched across the room with booming footsteps, coming to stand before them with shoulders so far back, Harry thought he might break in half, his rank plaque polished to somewhere beyond shining.
"Unable to say at this time, General," Auteur said, speaking only as much as he had to. "We've broadcasted a sector wide call for reinforcements but the signal seems to be interdicted. Unsure if any nearby fleets were alerted."
His Master's lips became a thin line, "Have they launched craft towards the surface yet?"
"Negative," Auteur said. "We believe they'll try and close in further to minimise risk before the craft enters the atmosphere. We've ensured 82nd Command knows of the impending threat of landing and to respond accordingly."
"Very well, what shall our next move be?" Volme asked, steadying herself as a carcass of a vulture droid bounced off the ventral side of the ship.
Auteur looked to the battle ahead in a way Harry had seen few men look in his life. Like the world had split into two categories; friend and foe, and ruthless logic was all that remained. Ships, fighters, ammunition, lives, were pieces on a Dejarik board.
It was no longer a game of surviving with the most pieces, it was simply about surviving and it had started with a decisive move.
It had started with a sacrifice.
"Our light cruiser force will advance beyond our group and draw fire to drop countermeasures and disrupt their fighter-based missiles, we need for a path to be cleared for their advance and cover provided while our own fighters regroup."
He held his breath without realising, his first battle, the one he might remember forever, especially if forever came today, arrived by sending men to their deaths the moment it had begun.
Volme turned to him, "I trust you're confident in your ability to provide cover?"
"I can get it done, Master," Harry said. "If I have a squad and my ship, I'll do what I can."
Taking a moment to contemplate, she nodded, "Very well, keep your communication link open, stay with your squadron and refrain from acting outside the objective unless necessary."
"When have I ever acted outside the mission's objective?" he said, trying to feign anger unsuccessfully amidst the idea of finally being able to take flight.
"I fear if I was to regale you the tales, the battle would be long over by the time I finished," she brushed him off with a wave of her hand. "There's little time for banter go quickly."
As he was bid, he turned and made a quick dash for the elevator off the bridge, almost fast enough that he didn't hear her last words.
"And may the Force be with you, Padawan."
"And with you, Master," he returned, stepping into the elevator.
His ship stood shrouded by a squadron of Z-95 Headhunters, nestled away with an astromech working diligently from its position inside the hull. Clone pilots flooded through the open doors like a breach in enemy walls and fell upon their ships, leaping aboard the wings and into the cockpits.
Sprinting past them, he found his own ship—a Delta-6 Sprite-class, Nimbus, emblazoned with crimson and gold. It was a thin ship, shaped like a dagger. An interceptor rather than a fighter and an asset in the battle to come.
It had been a gift to him from his Master, a reward for one of their successful diplomatic missions months before the war had even begun. There had been newer models, reserved for Aces and Knights with a greater mission pedigree than he had under his belt, but it suited his purposes fine. Modified to hold an Astromech for communication purposes, it was never bound to be much, but it was his.
Finally, after all this time, it would finally see its true maiden voyage.
Once again, half of him relished the thought, the other half wondered what lay ahead.
Slinging himself onto the wing, and hitting the cockpit latch, the gold and black astromech whirled a greeting at him.
"Is the Nimbus ready for combat, X4?" Harry asked, slipping himself into the pilot's seat.
The droid beeped an affirmative at him as he toyed with the instruments as quickly as he could, swiping his braid aside to place on his communication headset.
"Good," he nodded. "Give thrusters maximum power, we've got distance to make up, and fast. Did we make the weapon serving in time?"
Giving another affirmative, the engines roared to life, followed by the surrounding craft.
A crackling voice sounded in his ear, "Ready for your first combat flight, Commander?"
"Ready as ever, Cinder," Harry said. "Griffin Leader to all Griffin callsigns, report in and ready for departure."
Six forces returned his call, three fighters on either side of him readied their systems and awaited his order as X4 transmitted the codes, letting the modified hangar door open slightly, allowing them to barrel out of the entrance and to the stars beyond.
Once they'd broken free from the Vanguard's shields, he took the briefest of moments to remark how terribly loud the world had become. Everything he could see, everything he could hear and everything he could sense was war, hypermatter catching alight and burning the ships out from within, proton torpedoes burying holes in cruisers, it overloaded his senses.
Taking a moment, and a deep breath to calm himself, the Force washed over him like warm water in a fresher. It gave him the imperceptible urge to pull the trigger on his flight stick, one he'd have missed if he wasn't focused, so he pulled.
A quick salvo of red from the rapid firing guns of the interceptor flashed out, crashing into a vulture droid that suddenly appeared, filling it with smouldering holes until it crashed into the Vanguard with a loud explosion.
A whistle sounded through the commlink, "Nice shooting, Commander!"
"Lucky shooting," Harry corrected. "We've got to clear a path for our anti-fighter cruisers, break and engage in pairs, set deflector shields to double front for the first engagement. Call out your targets and stick with your wingman."
"Yes sir!" Echoed through the communications—he thought he did quite well for recalling and rehearsing what he was taught in flight school those years ago in the Temple.
His squad broke into three groups of two and started carving an opening through the vulture droid screen. Separating from them, he levelled out and took stock of the battle before him, forcing to occasionally dodge an errant shot from one of the capital ships.
They were outnumbered by the Separatists, but it couldn't have been by much. Their frigates continued a slow advance forward, Hardcell Transports followed in tow with patrol frigates and corvettes, desperate to make a landing.
With the Siege of Mon Cala in its opening stages, they had assumed nothing but a token force would try to take Islakon from them. It appears they had been mistaken.
Breaking from his observation, Harry flipped and shot down towards a damaged corvette, burning from the stern. A sustained burst of his cannons, enough to make them overheat, severed the engines from the rest of the craft, letting it float listlessly as power blinked from the thrusters.
While the cannons cooled he was forced to manoeuvre around an incoming fighter, unable to open fire. Diving through the wreckage of a ship, close enough to scratch the paint, it broke and chose to engage an easier target.
Swinging around, Harry dropped into a squadron of bombers making an attack run against one of the Dreadnaught-classes making an advance. Unable to outmanoeuvre the intercept, half fell in the initial explosion, their proton payload setting a cataclysmic chain that destroyed their formation.
"Griffin Leader hailing the Vanguard" Harry called into his headset, squeezing the trigger to deplete the shields of an overextended frigate. "Enemy presence is currently depleting, signal the cruisers to advance and begin to deploy countermeasures."
"Copy that, Griffin Leader," a Clone's voice sounded. "Cruiser Squadron advancing, remain to provide anti-fighter cover."
A wayward shot rocked his right-most thruster, fighting with the stick to regain control, Harry sought out the closest members of the Squadron he could find.
"Griffin Squadron, regroup on the cruisers," he said. Of the six fighters that left, only four remained now. He hadn't focused enough to feel them pass in the Force, he was thankful for that much.
But there would be a time for grieving later.
Emerging from behind the fleet, a grouping of four Consular-class cruisers, refitted for combat, sped forward, Harry urged forward, squad in tow, to cover them. When they got close enough to the front of the allied formation, each of them erupted into a huge plume of smoke, trailing from generators near their engines. Once they were all soundly covered from enemy detection, countermeasures rained outwards, erupting like fireworks as they spewed from the cruisers.
Watching as enemy missiles veered off their target's exhaust and instead, exploded into harmless pieces of shrapnel, his squad turned back around, knowing another attack was nearing.
When it came, it doubled the ferocity of the first, swarms of all manner of enemy craft rushed them en masse. Spinning and circling around the group, Nimbus's cannons fired enough to nearly overload the ship's small power supply.
Yet, it wasn't enough.
Despite the many they destroyed, his ship trailed smoke from his previous damaged thruster, his squad was down to two fighters—the outlook was dire. The smoke screen was barraged by every light craft in the area, soon flames came from within the smoke; fuel to the fire.
Made all the more terrifying when the force gave a warning, just as his Master did from the commlink, that danger came. A ship, larger than the others by far, rained fire down upon them.
Even though he hadn't felt it before, known only the stories, he could tell as landing craft spewed from the depths of the ship that dwarfed their fleet by hundreds of meters and made to board the Vanguard.
The Jedi Hunter had arrived to conquer.
The Nimbus limped into the hangar, listing to one side as the damaged thruster finally sputtered and died. With damaged landing gear, it bounced off the deck and slid to a halt, showering the clones defending it with sparks. Opening the canopy and then leaping out, Harry nearly tripped over the smouldering wreckage of a B1. Looking a little further, he found the defensive line of Clone and engineers, holding a perimeter near the entrance to the hangar.
A Clone Sergeant held up a fist to signal them to lower weapons before stepping forward, "It's good to see you back in one piece, Commander."
"Likewise," Harry said. "What's the situation?"
"Unclear, communications has taken a beating, so has life support. From what I can gather most decks have been penetrated by boarding parties. Not enough to directly overpower us, we believe they're trying to seize the bridge."
"That's where I'll go then," he nodded. "The remainder of my squadron will be here soon, I don't know how many of us are left."
With that, Harry sped past the man, the Force carrying him as much as his legs towards the elevator that'd take him to the bridge. It was clear, especially from the interior, the beating the Vanguard had taken the minute Grievous had arrived. Durasteel panels were knocked free from their fastenings, sparks showering the corridors as the lights flickered.
He could hear blaster fire on the floor above as he made it to the elevator doors, before the turbolift could rise to take him upwards, another explosion rocked the Vanguard, replacing the lights with a dull crimson alternative—the emergency power had been activated. Taking a sharp breath and throwing his shoulders back, he gave a sharp push to the now unresponsive doors, using the Force to push them from their housing. The thin metal gave way quickly, sending them scattering down the rest of the shaft, landing atop the static elevator.
Chewing his cheek in contemplation as to how he'd reach the next floor, he unclipped the lightsaber from his belt and held it like one would a dagger. Giving the entryway a wide birth, he sprinted towards the elevator shaft, leapt off the ledge and ignited his lightsaber.
A sharp snap-his gave life to an azure blade, as blue as the ocean they protected, careful not to injure himself, he thrust it into the wall of the elevator shaft, slowing his momentum as the lightsaber melted through the durasteel. Positioning his feet against the wall, he extinguished the blade and leapt upwards, igniting it again to catch himself in the wall.
The strain it put on his shoulders was immense, threatening to tear muscles and push bones from their socket though he had little choice in the matter. Finally, after a third jump, his fingers found purchase on the ledge of the next floor. Another sharp push sent the doors ricocheting down the corridor, allowing him to jump onto the next floor.
Somewhere along the way, the blaster fire had stopped. When he surveyed his surroundings, he found little but Clone corpses, B1 wreckages and carbon scoring across the walls. The red lights above him flickered with the beat of his heart as he advanced, lightsaber extinguished but at a low ready.
"Padawan, are—there—respond," the communication link on his belt crackled almost indecipherably but he knew the voice well enough.
"Master, can you hear me?"
"Intrusion on—repel—general retreat."
For good measure, he gave the equipment a harsh thump before trying to speak into it again although this time he was only given silence in return. He placed it back on his belt, if she was still on the bridge they'd see each other soon enough.
Continuing his advance through the red-lit corridor, he didn't even make it halfway to the bridge. He had felt something wrong.
More aptly, he had felt nothing.
He had blocked out the sharp anguish of their fleet on fire easy enough but he had still been able to feel it, still been able to calm himself. Suddenly, he had nothing, no ambient noise of the galaxy, not the struggle of the fleet, not even his connection to his Master. It was an absence of anything. As if he was a composer without his symphony, a painter without his oils—a loss to his person he couldn't quite put words to.
Stopping in his tracks, he tried his hardest to find the disturbance.
Another explosion rocked the ships, sending even the emergency lights flickering, trading the crimson for pitch black. They flickered again as the vessel listed slightly to one side and, when they came back, a figure stood in his path.
Harry's breath hitched in his throat, it was a man.
Perhaps not much older than him, dark fabric wrapped around him so tight he looked like a beggar enshrining himself in the robes of an Emperor. The unknown figure rose his head in the red light and exposed the mystery of his face.
Tattoos lined his jaw unlike any he'd seen, nowhere near as prolific or prominent as those on a Zabrak. They followed his jaw, little illustrations that looked like Dathomirin runes. They stretched for as far as they could before they came into contact with a piece of cybernetic that replaced the missing part of his upper right jaw.
Worse still, Harry couldn't sense him.
Whatever he was, he was absence, a void he couldn't feel, an anathema to the force like he'd never felt before.
Regardless of if he could feel him, he knew from the turning of his brow, the dangerous hunger of rage in his eyes, that whoever this was—man, machine or worse—it was intent on being a foe.
"Who are you?" Harry thought he'd ask, thumbing the activation of his lightsaber but not yet pressing it.
He received no response, not that he expected to, the individual merely swung a vibroblade from a sheath on his back—double-edged and standing head-over-shoulders taller than either of them and brandished it at him, coated in the red of the dying ship's last attempt at power.
That same red receded in an instant when Harry ignited his blade, bathing his person and close surroundings in the uncompromising blue. He'd never truly fought a foe in combat, training droids and sparring partners had fuelled his progress since the moment he'd picked up a saber.
Now, he no longer had the luxury of saying otherwise—combat had come for him, as it did for all Jedi eventually, and he would meet it.
The unknown assailant swept forward, there was no sizing up his opponent, no calm before the storm.
Swinging his blade around his head, he brought it down in a flat arc against Harry, keen to cut his still confused mind and body in half. His lightsaber was there to block it before it had even become a conscious thought, bringing it back in an instant to try and stab forward, a move parried by another spin of the long blade.
Disengaging for a moment, Harry raised his blade and his stance, affixing it in a position over his head as he adopted his rudimentary stance of Ataru, hoping to outmanoeuvre the unwieldy blade.
Before engaging, Harry threw his hand out to try and send the man off his footing. Expecting him to topple, if not at least stumble, he was taken off guard when the tattoos on his jaw glowed a sickly white, and he moved only a few inches.
Falling out of his stance at the momentary shock—he wasn't just an anomaly in the force, he was almost immune to it.
Harry adapted his previous question, "What are you?"
Seizing the initiative, his foe sprung forward and swung the blade to force him backwards in the corridor. Sliding against the steel plates, the man reached for his belt, switching the blade to his off-hand, for what Harry assumed was a blaster and readied himself to block it. Rather than any blaster, he removed a dagger, maybe, one made of wood, a long, cylindrical piece with a point.
Confused at what would come next, the dagger or whatever it might have been was pointed at him and the man said a single word.
"Expulso."
His voice sounded like a hundred different voices tried to talk at once and carried the metallic garble of cybernetics—they clearly stretched further than his jaw.
A blue bolt that looked like plasma but clearly wasn't, sailed into the floor near him with the force of some cheap thermal detonator, sending him careening down the corridor. Smacking against the nearest wall and tumbling against the floor with what he identified as a cracked rib and a face and robe filled with cuts from durasteel shards.
Another bolt came, an identical one, but prepared for the outcome even if dazed, he dodged backwards out of the blast area that sent the floor panel loose but still managed to shower him with more shrapnel.
Calling his lightsaber back to him, his enemy tried to interdict it.
"Accio!" The man shouted and within an instant, his lightsaber began to pull away from him slowly, into the arms of the other man.
On instinct, Harry used his other hand to shoot the loose floor pannel against him, sending it barreling down the hall fast enough that he had to break the connection on the lightsaber to dodge.
It was within his hands in seconds and Harry leapt towards him, catching the man off guard as his blade only came up just in time. Lashing a leg out, Harry kicked a knee out from under him as they locked blades and Harry got a closer look at the piece of wood—not that it revealed anything save for the fact it definitely wasn't a dagger. Putting his shoulder behind the hilt, the hand that held the wood tried desperately to maintain the lock and aim it at Harry.
Desperate to avoid such a case, Harry leant further into his lightsaber, trying to avoid his fingers as they repositioned to fire at him. But no matter how far he moved it was a futile point, even if he disengaged he'd be too open. Options were slim and the outcomes spoke of nothing good.
Perhaps his first battle was to be his last. Maybe Islakon really was a place for endings.
Suddenly the ship lurched, but with no explosion but the engaging hyperdrive, thrusting their battered form forward for a few seconds and away from immediate danger. The lurch was enough that while only standing on one knee, the man lost his balance and tried desperately to regain it.
It was too little, too late. By the time he could find his footing, the blue blade had overpowered him, slid along the length of his blade and ran a red line, immediately cauterised, from collar to naval, sapping the strength from him as he fell backwards.
It is the climax, the end of their duel. It's not a thrilling one nor a fitting one, it's not how he imagined taking a life would be, but it was over.
They had lost the Battle for Islakon, but he had won this.
But he had killed a man. An action that, no matter how justified, left an echo in the Force that he could now feel once again. The man had said nothing, wanted violence and got what he wished.
Even so, he felt as if the foe he slew would be etched on his very soul.
Harry stood there for some indecipherable amount of time, trying to make anything out of this enigma of an opponent as his breath waned and his heart stopped. He waited until, finally, his Master found him, clones clearing the ship in tow.
And she found him standing over not just an enemy, but a mystery.
He was wrong—Islakon was no place for endings.
It was a place for beginnings, terrible ones.
