The Wanderers

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Echoing loudly around the polished walls, the hilt clattered against marble floor. Beaten again. Darst Ealy let his dark eyes fall to the weapon, but didn't move.

"Really, Darst, I've beaten you three times now."

"I'm busy thinking."

Sighing in mock-frustration, Friwa Starkiller opened his hand, caught his friend's lightsaber and switched it back on. The blade's glow cast his tidy grey-white beard in red, reflecting in his own eyes – meaner looking than Darst's, but a pale, stony azure. Blue eyes with no brows were more welcoming than a vacant, midnight black pair to anyone. He also looked more harmless, having the same athletic body, but Friwa coloured his beard to match the premature wrinkles creeping over him. The enemy always went for him either first (if they were cowards) or last (if they worried about worthy enemies), so were never expecting he'd to slice them apart thrice in the time it took to blink. His natural baldness helped this image, which Darst caused by accidentally kicking him headfirst into a campfire. He only saw the good side of it, considering Darst wasn't stabbed in his sleep that night. Though he was the only one Friwa wouldn't kill.

"Thinking? About what?"

Curved merc-style sword and low-heat saber in each hand, he lunged at Darst's middle before an answer came. Darst dodged, seeming to time it for Friwa to barely miss him, then surged forward at his legs. A noisy crack echoed, spining pain through his ears. Time seemed to freeze a moment, the air strangely lifeless, heel pushed hard into Friwa's knee, both weapons lingering half an inch from his body.

Friwa screamed. Their blades clattered against the marble.

He laid hunched on the ground a moment, tightly grabbing his leg. Breathing through his clenched teeth, as if trying not to cry out again. Gradually, his arms relaxed, his shoulders and head dropped. Friwa breathed out heavily and stood like his kneecap hadn't been broken.

"There you go! This is the first thing they taught us about meditation when we were kids. The first thing you have to do is let all your thoughts drift away. None of the day's problems need to exist here." He waved his arm over the room, caught both their weapons again and passed Darst his hilt. "If you let your thoughts catch up to you, you'll be fodder. Come on, try and hit me again. Soresu only, this time."

They took their stances, Friwa stubbornly keeping his defensive. For a moment, neither moved. They stared each other down; Friwa's moves were hard to see coming through his thin, black robe – the grey one under it gave his muscles away, so he'd sold it. Something the Academy gave them, if he remembered right.

Darst moved in, blade high, but didn't attack. Too fast for an untrained man to see, Friwa blocked up. He thrusted the unprotected gut. Friwa slipped back effortlessly. They took their stances again.

Curiously eyeing the 'old man's' outstretched finger, Darst relaxed, focus shifting to Friwa's eyes. Most enemies widened their eyes when they attacked; he'd learned to kill someone before they knew they were being attacked, without his cold face budging. Blaster-fire sounded distinctly in the hall behind them. Darst turned and swatted a laser out of the air. A scorch mark burned into the nearest deep-red wall. They locked eyes again, shocked.

"Do you think they found us already?" Friwa's frown-lines tightened, the way they only would after fighting hard.

"There's no way. They couldn't have actually followed us here."

Friwa tore his hilt from the silky robe, deep orange blades searing out each side. The sword dropped, so he could hold it two-handed. He subtly felt Darst's heat up beside him. From the hall armoured men, wearing a padded vest they hadn't seen before, marched double-file into the room, rifles aimed at them. Dressed in the familiar Coruscant soldiers' colours. Darst counted the men as they came - about thirty circled them, barely fitting in the little square, burgundy sparring room. A hard-looking guy in the full commander dress treaded carefully toward them, a guard at each side. He stopped just in front of his men, comically far from the Jedi.

"You two look like Jedi of the Grey Order."

Only the Coruscant militia took time to chat. A bad sign.

"Grey Order?" Friwa smirked back. "But we're both dressed like Dark Jedi. You know where you are, don't you? Surely you know of the cloaked man?"

"We were sent by Coruscant's Armed Forces – perhaps you know about the incident that occurred a few days ago?"

So the shot at Darst's head wasn't about yesterday's skirmish. Friwa touched his beard, thinking hard. "A few days ago … what was that?" He froze. "Oh. The landing pad." The militia readied their blasters. Reminiscently, his eyes deepened.

"Would you really shoot us for the work of our associate?"

He waited for them to fire. No one moved.

"You're under arrest. Surrender – all we want is some information, and we'll no longer have any need to hold you."

"Blasters against two masters of the Soresu form? Huh, Coruscant's changed."

He prepared to give the order. Killing them would be a disappointment, assuming they knew as much as the Admiral thought. Friwa turned off his lightsaber. Darst followed blankly – he was the one who decided who specialised in killing, while Friwa dealt with other people, when he thought they could talk their way out of something.

"Alright. No use having you chase us around the galaxy. We'll go with you."

They tossed their hilts forward. Both guards flanking the commander stepped toward them, motioning to put their hands up. The guards attached a force field to their wrists and shoved the Dark Jedi forward, Friwa limping. The commander picked up their sabres, clipped them onto his belt and led his guards into the hall, all five of them tailed by the militia.

"What are they here for?" Darst inquisitively turned his head.

"Remember that Zabrak gang leader? The one who thought you were a girl?"

He thought about it. Then cringed.

"That's right, my young friend. There's one way out of this one."

Friwa calmly watched the hall. They passed halfway through … two thirds … three quarters. He nodded.

Discreetly enough for no one to notice, they floated the hilts back into their hands. Friwa loved when Coruscant soldiers underestimated the Jedi – it made anything seem possible. The golden morning light shone over them, only beaming partially into the hall. Perfect.

They aimed at the restraints and switched on the sabers. Every blaster in the hall aimed – just as the commander's guards fell dead before them. Darst slipped behind the commander, blade hovering at his throat. They froze. Friwa leapt behind them both, leaning back readily. His knee was almost better. The red blade slid through his neck. Both Jedi retreated out of the hall, hitting back the barrage of fire. They pressed against each side of the hall's archway, hearing at least half of them slump to the ground. The rest seemed to linger a moment, then charged.

"Brave," Darst mumbled. They flipped back out and cut through the mass of soldiers crowding the hall exit. The Jedi grunted in shock; only about seven stood now. Slowly, cockily, they moved back into the hall, the men backing away. Darst leapt forward, slashing through each before him, reaching the hall's other side on his third jump. Back turned, they collapsed with less of a thud than the others. He modestly pivoted.

"Come on," Friwa called, only needing to raise his voice subtly in the corridor. "The cloaked guy won't like this. We'd better leave."

They retracted their blades.