3951 BBY, Serroco
Darth Sion
Sion had never once stepped foot upon Serroco's surface until now. He'd only heard stories.
When he first landed, he sensed the planet's wealth of history ebb and flow beneath his heavy boots before being bombarded with the voracity of the fledgling life that fought to survive in the wake of its darker past. This planet was no stranger to usurpers, that was for sure, but each eon of ache felt different from the last. The most recent one felt particularly sour in the back of Sion's throat at the thought of it, but only because he sensed her here. Just as he had on Dxun.
Back home again, she'd almost laughed, worried despite her brave face as she looked upon the visage of her mother. Sion could see the both of them - crystallized in the echo of a memory within the Force. Now, there was nothing here but wild jungle. But near ten years ago, this stretch of land was an extension of the capital city's landing pad, and Eden had met her mother upon its promenade when Darth Revan assigned her to this post as the youngest Jedi General in the notorious Revanchist's entire army. Who better to see this place is still standing, huh?
An older version of Sion might have laughed at the irony of it, but instead he tsked, his throat dry despite the thick humidity of the forest around him, threatening to choke the life out of him even more so than Dxun had.
Sion closed his eyes and stilled, willing his every molecule to freeze in meditation as he concentrated on the energy surrounding this place. He could still hear, still feel, the new life fighting for credence behind him, the new landing pad already bustling with rekindled commerce as a decade's worth of rebuilding finally saw some progress. But the pain was still here, the ache of what came before, the wound that still festered and fueled the need for rebirth here at all.
Just as the Exile's young face faded away, and the memory along with it, another one took its place. Battle raged, the scent of blood filling Sion's nostrils as he relived the worst of the combat in full, as if he were standing there in the midst of it as it were still happening. The warmth of blasterfire graced his skin as if shots fired nine years ago were nearly missing him in real time, the weight of their displacement through the air sending minor shockwaves through him as he felt the vibration of each shot taken, every trigger pulled. In that moment, he was each soldier and every round they fired, the very air changed for the blaster having been there at all and the earth beneath him heaved as if suddenly having to carry a heavy weight, waiting for the exhale. Only the exhale never came.
Sion opened his eyes, gasping. A moment ago, he was meditating, and now he was kneeling upon the ground and upending his stomach's contents. And when he was spent, he knew. He knew now.
She felt this too.
The Jedi Exile had felt the echo then, and she still felt it now. Both in memory and through the Force.
Sion had not felt sick since he was a boy, the feeling so utterly foreign and ancient that the idea of it sickened him further, his eyes widening as he reconciled the past from the present, wondering just how the Jedi Exile managed to endure at all.
No, Sion seethed. After another dry heave, he paused. Breathing in and out with intention, Sion recentered himself and focused on the bloodshed here, honing in on the pain and feeding off of it as if it were his own. Within an instant, his ribs ached, his lungs sharp, and his gut wrenched, but in a way that made him whole again. He absorbed every wound suffered here and, with another moment's pause, he was right as rain again.
Pride radiated out from his chest for a moment as he gasped at the present air again, the sounds of the now returning in full force as the past faded fast away. But it wasn't long before he paused again, this time stilling with uncertain acknowledgement - not because he did not know what he sensed, but because he simply did not believe it.
She felt it too. And she endured. As if nothing happened.
Within the span of a breath, Sion glimpsed another memory, viewing the very planet from afar as it shrunk in the moments before entering hyperspace. This is how Eden saw it, he knew. She was nearly a light-year away before bombs fell in full. And yet she felt it all, and kept going.
Sion gasped again, unwillingly, his eyes dry as he exited the latest memory and was deposited unceremoniously back into the present.
She'd felt it all and kept going.
Sion's throat threatened to close in on itself, expanding further and further until hardly any air could escape his already decimated throat. Sputtering, he floundered, kneeling on the ground - thankfully without any witnesses - when his comm went off.
"I have word of Darth Nihilus' apprentice, m'lord," his attendant's voice announced, cutting through the static that was Sion's near-suffocation via Force memory. "He has returned to the academy and awaits your audience."
Sion coughed and coughed and coughed, a smidge of blood spattering on the raw earth at his knees. Some sloshed onto his trousers and the backs of his hands, some splintering at the exit and spreading across his mouth as if he were a poorly mannered child. He huffed and wiped the red spittle from his face with the back of his palm, his gray hand streaked with red as he reached for his communication console.
"Good," he muttered, his voice a husk of itself. He shuddered. "Ready my shuttle."
Sion shut his comm off and threw it to the ground, still unable to make himself stand again.
She'd felt it all and kept going.
Sion re-imagined the woman in his mind's eye and compared her to the girl he witnessed in the memory, trying to reconcile the two of them as if merging the disparate versions of the same woman would somehow make any of this add up. Only it didn't. If anything, it only brought up more questions.
She was only a child, Sion thought as he finally fought to bring himself back up to full height, his own spine suddenly more than his body could manage. He had been nearly forty when he fought under Exar Kun's banner, though the finer details of his early life were lost now. He'd always figured his time before the Great Sith War to be of little to no consequence - why else would he recall so little of it? But perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps he had just housed more than enough human memory to grapple with, the pain and the anguish quickly finding a home where his older self once resided, taking up space where memories once reigned but now no longer. Unable to hold onto it all. But Eden remembered it, all of it, and Sion felt her each and every memory through the Force. If he blinked, he could not only sense her time here as a Jedi General, the prodigal daughter returned for one last gallant fight, but also her time as a child - from infancy to childhood, even her fraught adolescence and beyond.
After some finessing, the muscles of his back stuck in knots as he fought to stand once more, Sion stood to full height and spit - a splash of bright red blood marking the ground where he stood. Eden had done the same just after suffering a fighting blow from a Mandalorian, gauntlet to the jaw, leaving a scar that still graced the Jedi's freckled face… Sion shook his head, and the errant memory along with it.
"I'll be along shortly," he muttered into his comm again before shoving it deep into his pocket, relishing in the way the earth here hugged his boots, as if reluctant to see him go.
In a way, Sion was annoyed that his research was cut short. But in another, he was relieved. Speaking to the Exile's brother was sure to answer some questions. The least of which being: how is this even possible? Let alone: how is she still alive?
But Sion was still alive, wasn't he? Yet while he lived and breathed, he did not sense any semblance of the Dark Side in Eden - then or now.
How?
3951 BBY, Citadel Station, Residential Module 084, Apartment D1
Eden
"And you're sure no one will realize we've been relocated?" Eden asked at Lieutenant Grenn sidelong, her confidence only taken down yet another peg when the man refused to meet her gaze.
"I assure you that anyone watching the apartment will be none the wiser," Grenn assured, though his voice didn't sell the lie. "We've set up similar construction facades all over this residential module. Yours isn't the only one now under heavier TSF surveillance. No one will witness the switch, I assure you."
Eden glanced back at her unwilling comrades. Atton rolled his eyes visibly while Kreia appeared as if she were doing the same even though her usual veil remained lowered beneath her temporary orange hood. Each of them donned a hazmat suit issued by the Citadel Station worker's union as they were escorted by the inept Lieutenant and his usual assistants, all sporting the same garb.
"Your new quarters will be on the far end of Residential Module 084, just bordering on that of 083. There's a causeway that blocks most pedestrian traffic and overlooks a series of viaducts so hopefully the remote and inaccessible nature of the relocation will prove useful," Grenn continued.
"What about any needed escapes?" Eden pressed, a sour smile painting her face as she awaited Grenn's answer. The man refused to meet her gaze again, and it told Eden all she needed to know.
"Rest assured, Admiral Onasi is on his way. He sent along this message for you as well, if that provides any comfort."
Just as they arrived at their new digs, Lieutenant Grenn produced a cheap portable datapad and pressed it into Eden's orange-gloved hands.
Did your people happen to read it first? Eden hoped her cocked brow and otherwise furtive expression got her internal message across, feeling somewhat successful as Grenn's bland attention met hers before quickly turning away again.
"I have our people working on this bounty of yours, by the way," Grenn assured as he turned to leave, bowing at both Atton and Kreia as they approached the entrance to their new headquarters, each of them eyeing the Lieutenant with expressions that both lacked confidence and enthusiasm. "No other Exchange thugs will be finding their way to your doorstep."
Eden pressed her lips into a false smile, willing it to shoo Lieutenant Grenn off. It appeared to work. Within a moment's time, Grenn was gone, leaving them alone with the three plain-clothes officers now stationed at their door.
"This is utterly ridiculous," Kreia muttered, glancing towards one of their stewards with a punitive look as she pushed her way into the new apartment. The door swooshed open and Kreia swept inside, vanishing into the furthest room. Like the old apartment, the new place housed three small rooms, a sitting area, and a kitchenette, only this space was the mirror opposite to the one previous. Not only that, but the large window on the far wall of the sitting room looked out at the mottled side of the rusted viaducts as Grenn described. No scenic traffic or ruined planetside to be seen. Eden wasn't sure which was worse.
"Guess we better get comfortable, right?" Atton offered in a half-whisper as he extended a hand, beckoning that Eden enter the apartment before him. Sighing, Eden obliged.
"She's right," Eden mumbled, stepping out of her hazard suit, reckoning that the stupid thing may at least come in handy if they did need a quick exit. "This is ridiculous."
Atton similarly discarded his suit, hopping out of the last leg as he inched towards the coat rack by the now-closed entrance.
"I'm not surprised," Atton sighed, "But I have a feeling it's more than that."
Eden was about to ask what Atton meant by that before her eyes unwittingly grazed over Kreia's already-closed bedroom door before looking at Atton again.
"I shouldn't have gotten involved in any of this," Eden confessed, more easily than she expected. "Kreia was right. This was a waste of my time, and it's only gotten us into even more trouble."
Eden crossed the room and slumped into the armchair by their new lackluster window, disappointed in the feeling of cold hard metal just outside the duraglass instead of the steady flow of speeder lights.
"What is this us you speak of?" Atton said, his usual air of sarcasm creeping into his words, though of the warmer variety. Eden only looked up at him darkly through her lashes, silently saying not now via her vacant expression as Atton shrugged and similarly slumped onto the settee opposite her. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood."
"I know," Eden said, somewhat thankful but also annoyed. And suspicious. Atton was already the odd man out. As much as Eden was unsure about Kreia, at least the two of them had a similar past, and connections to the Jedi. Someone like Atton had every right to be annoyed with them and his guilt by association. And yet he was the one she felt more comfortable around. Especially now. "But I fucked up."
"What do you mean?" Atton said, making a complete about-face into utter seriousness. "We're still alive, right? I'd call that a win."
"For now, maybe," Eden said, shaking her head. "But I know both Luxa and Jana Lorso are playing me. I mean, I always have, but what's killing me is I don't know why, or what for. If not for the bounty, then what?"
"I thought Luxa already explained it to you," Atton said, shifting in his seat unsurely as he squared his shoulders and looked at Eden dead-on. She couldn't tell if he was putting on a face of conviction for her sake or if it was yet another lie, just another one to add to the growing pile. "A Jedi in their corner may rake in more money than a bounty would in the short-term."
Atton shrugged at his own suggestion, as if considering it for the first time, though Eden doubted that were the case.
"Maybe," she said. "But it still feels… wrong. Like the shoe is still about to drop - on both of those deals. I have a feeling this is all going to go real south real quick."
Atton's eyes glazed over as he considered it, eventually nodding his head once what Eden presumed to be a simulation of either event played out in his mind.
"You're probably right," Atton said. He swallowed, and stood up again, swaying on his feet. Glancing at their new front door, Atton swayed again and then turned to Eden. "Maybe we should sleep on it. See how we feel in the morning."
"Yeah, sure," Eden said, the disappointment ringing in her gut, "You're probably right."
Atton nodded before turning on his heel and disappearing into the room mirror to his old one, leaving Eden alone again. Part of her hoped he'd wanted to play a game of Pazaak, or even chat some more, shoot the breeze or talk some shit. But finding herself unnervingly alone again, Eden was left with the cheap plasteel datapad Lieutenant Grenn had pressed into her hand.
"Sure," she muttered to no one. "Why not."
Eden powered up the pad, unsurprised to find only a single message uploaded onto the flimsy thing's interface. Sighing, she pressed on the unnamed voice file, almost annoyed that the document bore a defacto name like 285478_3_supp_8572031_rr4xbm and not Important Fucking Message from the Fucking Admiral of the Fucking Republic even though she knew it was safer that it didn't.
As soon as she clicked, Eden was met with an error code.
FATAL ERROR_message_unavailable
Eden slammed her palm to the pad, errantly calling up the command prompt function. After sighing again, with more purpose and frustration than before, Eden instructed the console to translate and transcribe the unplayable voice file for her.
At first, nothing happened.
Just when Eden was about to give up, hand ready to throw the datapad across the room like a discus, the command prompt condoned her reply. Aurabesh flew across the screen in a small text doc box that opened of its own accord, reading: [unintelligible] - unfortunately delayed, but I will be along shortly. I hope the TSF accommodates your every need in my absence, even if you and your two companions require seventeen cases of Mid-Rim juma and a bankroll of swoop chits. Another three days should be all, once we're clear of this binary star. I will be sure to keep you updated, lest we lose our way like a stolen sandcrawler astray in the desert. Regards, Admiral O.
Eden blinked, her blood chilled.
At first, she couldn't move. All she could do was stare and reread the message over and over again. After a minute's worth of mute panicking, Eden pushed herself up from the chair and across the room towards the kitchenette. After quietly yet hurriedly opening and closing several drawers, she found it, as ancient as it was: a stylus and paper. Likely meant to draw up grocery lists and the like, Eden scribbled the stylus across the pad of paper until the etched point stopped scratching and started depositing ink. And once it did, she decoded the message as best she could.
There are twenty-seven bottles in standard Mid-Rim shipping containers, three rows of nine. Three days, binary star - three and two. But how much is a bankroll of swoop chits?
Eden paused, wracking her memory for anything she might have overheard at the cantina in the last week but came up empty. She scribbled some more, crossed things out, and tried again. The math didn't add up even though she knew what the end result should be - a series of both coordinates as well as a secure radio line if stolen sandcrawler was to be trusted. Mission must have spoken with the Admiral, parts of Eden's memory returning to her just as the math failed her. With a heavy sigh, Eden padded towards Atton's closed door and paused, holding a breath as she poised to knock.
"You can come in," Atton's muffled voice invited, a laugh evident in the air as Eden's face grew red. "I can hear you pacing."
Eden glanced at Kreia's closed door before silently budging Atton's open and slipping inside.
"Sorry, I know this is a sore subject, but-" Eden began, walking across the small stretch of room towards Atton who stood leaning over the windowsill like a lovesick teenager awaiting the signal for a late night rendezvous. Eden paused momentarily, half-expecting Atton to have a lit cigarra or something similar in his hand, but from what she could gather he was just… waiting.
"Lay it on me," Atton said, straightening up from the window and straightening his vest. Eden furrowed her brow, looking further out the window the closer she neared only to find an unfortunate load of nothing. Shaking her head, she pressed the pad of paper into Atton's expectant hands. "Wait… what's this?"
"A coded message," she said, next handing him the datapad from Grenn. "Anyway, you don't happen to know about how much a bankroll of swoop chits is, do you?"
"Wait, backup," Atton said, taking both the paper and the datapad in his hands as he slowly lowered onto his single bed, his eyes darting between the two as he took in what information he could. "This is from Admiral Onasi?"
"Presumably, but I have reason to believe he's been in touch with my friends," Eden began, her pulse quickening as everything truly began to process in her mind. "Long story short, but it has to do with what I was up to before I ended up unconscious on Peragus and potentially has something to do with what I'm afraid may now be in Darth Sion's possession."
Now Atton truly balked, blinking hard between glancing from the datapad to the paper and back up at Eden again. "Darth who?"
Eden bit her lip.
"Sleeps-With-Vibroblades," she said, "But nevermind that now, do you know what else we need to plug in here? Once I get the right coordinates and the proper signal, I can chime in a call to my friends and-"
"Wait, wait, wait," Atton shook his head. "Call them from where? The TSF are all over us."
Eden shook her head, moving from biting her lip to biting the nail of her right thumb before the idea struck.
"The junkyard," she said, pointing at Atton as if that solidified the notion, "There were plenty of decommissioned comms parts there. I could set up shop and try to contact them from that trash heap."
"Maybe," Atton offered as he stood again, returning the datapad and paper to Eden's hands, "Alright, might as well go now. I mean, yeah, Grenn just dropped us off but now's probably the best time to sneak out, right? They wouldn't suspect us to leave so soon."
"Wait, you figured it out already?" Eden paused as Atton already moved towards the window again, this time to open it. Atton only shrugged in response.
"Yeah," he said, shaking it off as he beckoned that Eden follow him. "Are you coming or not?"
Eden looked at her half-done math and sighed, pocketing both the paper and the datapad as she shook her head and followed Atton back outside.
"Sure, why not," she muttered, this time with an audience, and somewhat unsure about it.
3951 BBY, Malachor V, Trayus Academy
Erebus
"Fascinating," Mellric uttered, his scarlet eyes still fixed on the screen before him as he spoke. His voice was deadpan, as usual, but Erebus knew the man's interest was genuine.
"What is?" Erebus asked.
Before a response erupted from Mellric's throat, a slight smile graced his green face.
"The fact that you're still alive for one," he said, before swallowing his smile and replacing it with his more well-worn look of utter seriousness. "But also that this is rather unusual."
Erebus let out a beleaguered sigh. Inching towards Mellric, he silently requested that the man afford him a glance at the screen. Mellric begrudgingly scooted sideways and allowed Erebus full view of his search, a miniature holo-image of Azkul looking up at them moodily. The historical image of Azkul was not only a younger version of the man, but a version where the scar that spanned the side of his face was still red and raw, his wounded eye a shriveled thing beneath the heavy metal stitches that still spanned the man's face. Beside his visage was a list of his assignments, all under Malak. No other appointments or accolades were listed, as if the man popped into existence at the start of the Civil War.
"So, he didn't serve in the Mandalorian Wars?" Erebus asked as he read further.
Mellric shook his head.
"No, but that isn't what I found interesting," Mellric scrolled down and pressed his finger to the screen. "Says here he's from Coruscant, but there's no record of him ever having been there."
"It could very well be a lie," Erebus offered. "I've seen other such entries from Jedi foundlings. They list Coruscant as their birthplace for records purposes, but it holds no truth otherwise."
"You're not suggesting this brute was a Jedi, are you?" Mellric groaned.
"Of course not!" Erebus hissed, knowing first-hand that no semblance of the Force flowed through Azkul that was in any way tangible by his tiny though angry brain. "What I'm saying is that it was common practice. Not just among the Jedi, but others. I just happened to first come across it as-"
As a Jedi Historian.
Erebus couldn't even admit to it, the words stopping in his throat before it made it past his lips. A thin smirk overcame Mellric's face as he soaked in Erebus' expression sidelong, ignoring the implications and pressing forward just as the man had been thoroughly instructed to.
"Regardless, what I find both strange and interesting about this is the sheer lack of information," Mellric concluded after a tense moment, though Erebus' apprentice seemed relaxed in his presence, if anything. "Malak was better than this. You and I both know that. And so was Saul Karath."
Former Republic Admiral Saul Karath's name was all over Azkul's report, having been the man's immediate reporting officer during the second phase of the war - once Revan and Malak returned as Sith. Karath was a thorough man, even when he was working for the opposing side. To see a soldier so loyal to him that hadn't been there from the beginning was strange. Nearly everyone aboard the Leviathan had been one of Karath's when he was still Republic.
"Are there any other soldiers assigned to Karath that-" he began, though before Erebus could complete his sentence Mellric's hands were already sweeping across the keyboard, his fingers still poised over the keys from earlier.
Erebus tsked, but continued anyway, feeling like an idiot if he left the sentence hanging.
"Anyone else that didn't come from the Admiral's own original fleet?" Erebus asked in full, still feeling the fool.
By the time Erebus' question was fully voiced, an answer awaited them on-screen. Erebus could sense the mirth threatening Mellric's usually cool exterior as he allowed his instructor a closer look at the screen again.
"Seven others," Mellric uttered, though he knew Erebus was fully capable of reading the data for himself.
"Click on them," Erebus ordered, his voice low and hollow, almost a whisper as he was lost in a half-formed thought.
Mellric obliged. He clicked on one name and considered Erebus' expression, anticipating when he'd read enough of the following personal report before backtracking and clicking on the next name.
"They're all Sith commandos," Erebus noted aloud, "From the elite Sith Special Forces detachment."
"An initiative headed by Revan but overseen by Malak," Mellric added, the curiosity growing in his voice to mirror Erebus' interest. "Shall I continue?"
"Please," Erebus urged.
Just like the entry containing Azkul's information, each subsequent name Mellric clicked on opened up to a page with basic information accompanied with a decade's old visage of the person in question, each of them still donning their black and silver Sith uniform of years' past. None of the other names rang a bell, though Erebus recalled the face of the fifth individual, recalling that she had also been present upon first landing on Malachor V along with Azkul himself. It was no wonder, though, that two agents from the same task force would be assigned the same mission of scouting the barren moon.
It wasn't until Mellric clicked on the final name that Erebus felt strange, something unnerving clicking into place, though he did not know what.
"Stop," he ordered, "Wait a minute."
The first thing Erebus wanted to know was why Saul Karath was the first in charge of this elite squad. At least, that would have been Erebus' guess had he not recognized the seventh person on the list.
The last man on the list was the only person with any strong former link to the Republic Navy, specifically - just not under Karath. Most of the others had either run special ops for the Republic or helped secure major ground battles, making them clear candidates for an elite team. Bomb squad, the entry read, listing the man's credentials under both the Republic Navy as well as Revan's revamped fleet. So he'd dropped bombs on Mandalorians, then Jedi, and was promoted to this elite force seemingly out of nowhere. But why? Yet despite the oddities of this man's entry, it was the fact that his face was unnervingly familiar that sent chills down Erebus' spine.
Erebus hadn't seen, nor thought of, that face in quite some time - yet part of him felt as if he had seen the man recently, as if in a dream. I hadn't realized he was Republic, Erebus thought, wondering why he'd never researched the man after meeting him. Though meet was a generous word.
Don't tell me how angry you are, the man had pleaded to Erebus, then Aiden, through a wicked smile in that Coruscant alleyway almost eight years ago. Show me.
To any other person, this man would have been utterly unremarkable. But to Erebus, he was the beginning of an end. And the start of what brought him here now.
"What is it?" Mellric asked, the man's voice demuring to something more timid, unsure of what to expect from his errant master.
"Is there truly nothing else about this one?" Erebus asked, scowling at the beginning of the entry that read simply borne of Alderaan and little else in the seventh Sith's early life section.
"I can try, but it's hard to go on just one name alone," Mellric said, gauging Erebus' expectations beforehand, as the man was trained to do from experience. "You mean this one here, yes? Not Azkul? Neither of these men have surnames."
"Yes, tell me whatever you can about…" Erebus started, swallowing mid-way, his throat suddenly dry. "Tell me anything you can about this Jaq. I'll go check on Uruba."
"As you wish."
3951 BBY, Dantooine Grasslands, Jedi Temple Ruins
Mical
Two days he'd spent traversing the wreckage, both old and new. And two days he had not gone without food or company. Just as the kath hounds shepherded him through the wilderness, first one laigrek then three ushered him slowly through the precarious labyrinth that the ruined Jedi Temple had become, feeding him scraps along the way.
The first meal had been an ancient ration pack, thankfully still vacuum sealed from somewhere in the depths of the academy, and the second had been a loaf of hard bread likely baked by one of the scavengers still stationed not too far off from where Mical descended now, none the wiser to the secret passageways the deeper creatures of the world already made themselves familiar with in the wake of the Golden Company's hasty aftermath. And it was upon depositing Mical beside where he'd last explored, as if they knew somehow, that the larger laigrek bequeathed him with its final gift - an old Jedi robe filled with berries and a raw leg of meat.
Where it came from, Mical did not know, but it must have been fresh. He bowed to who he assumed was the matron leader. The laigrek lowered awkwardly onto her backmost limbs, almost curtseying in response as the two smaller creatures, possibly her children, scurried beside her and begged that Mical make himself comfortable. Beside them was a bundle of wrapped linens and what appeared to be a satchel of supplies. As soon as his eyes laid on the cache, thankful for the bounty, the creatures skittered off. He didn't even get to say goodbye.
He was back in the hall that housed the old archives now, the ruined wall he remembered Erebus collapsing against still there but now accompanied by a few other ruined walls. The entire space was barely habitable. He was no spelunker, but the area seemed wholly impenetrable to the naked eye. His being here certainly proved that the academy was still accessible, but were it not for the laigrek's leadership, Mical would never have made it this far. He would be surprised if any humanoid could, especially unaccompanied.
It was strange to be alone again. Even though he hadn't spoken to them, he'd felt an odd camaraderie with the creatures that scuttled ahead of him, showing Mical the way and that the way was, indeed, traversable. Safe. Now that they were gone, he almost ached in their absence.
Just like the spaceport the kath hounds first led him to, this hall had a view to a small sliver of sky. It was strange to see any form of non-artificial light after navigating in the dark for so long. But unlike the sunset when he'd first entered the place, it was now the thick of night, a moon and a half accompanied by a swath of stars glittering overhead. In the half-dark, Mical made his way towards the linens and the satchel, curious as to what his mysterious benefactor left behind.
On the outside were just as he suspected: Jedi robes. They were old and rather small, but large enough for a change of clothes should he have need of it. Just within the robes was a set of disposable torches and more old rations, wet with the leg of raw meat but otherwise edible.
"Thank you," he said to presumably no one, again. "I appreciate it."
Only this time, no voice spoke back within the confines of his mind. Mical was alone.
Well, he thought internally now, alright then.
Mical wasn't sure how he was expected to prepare the meat gifted to him without fire or any electrical appliance, so he pocketed it for now and prioritized the torches. Cracking one in half, the length of its cylinder glowed a dull amber and led the way forward into the academy's archive again. He could at least finish what he started.
The room was gloomier than it had been the last time he was here with Master Vash and Erebus.
Erebus.
Mical's free hand descended into the depths of his pocket, fidgeting with the kyber crystal that resided there.
Just ask for Aiden, the man had said as a means of goodbye as well as a callsign. Mical bit his lip as the warmth of the crystal snaked up his hand and then his arm…
Mical snatched his hand out of his pocket and instead moved towards the archive's console, wreathed in shadow as night fell further above. He glanced up at the meandering stars, their dull light glittering through the faraway branches and broken earth, a few floor's worth of debris still separating Mical from the rest of the waking world. If he stood any chance of getting ahead of the Golden Company - if any survived, that is - he best start now.
The console stirred, whirring and clicking after a moment's worth of coaxing. Within a few minutes, the machine was back up and running again, its cool blue screen greeting Mical with a glow he was not expecting to be so bright but welcomed nonetheless.
The search function was the first to greet him. The machine welcomed whatever query Mical had, as if no damage had befallen this place, the computer oblivious to the cracks in its screen and the flickering nature of its surrounding datapads and holocrons. He hardly knew where to begin - that is, until, the communications flickered next.
First, it teased sixteen unread messages. Ever curious, Mical clicked, only to find that all sixteen messages were of the error unknown variety. But upon seeing that the outgoing messages queue was still open, he paused.
Just ask for Aiden.
Mical bit his lip, thinking of the stone in his pocket, and against his better judgment opened a drafted message.
I'm safe, was all it read at first. Mical typed more and then deleted it. Repeating the action once, twice, and three times over before he deleted the majority of the message before signing off - Don't worry about me - M.
M.
It felt both impersonal yet personal at once, though it was hard to tell given that Mical had never truly signed off on a personal message before. He'd only ever sent correspondence on behalf of the Republic. Never as himself.
He chewed the inside of his lip and typed out Mical, before backspacing until only the M was visible again.
Mical hit send and awaited, eagerly, as the machine relayed whether the message was in transit, being delivered, and then finally sent. He waited, unblinking, palming the kyber crystal in his pocket a moment more before he reconciled the fact that he may not receive a response tonight.
And then, he got to work.