Green light fills the bridge as the Stalwart's deflector shields catch another turbolaser. A klaxon alarm drowns out the clatter and cries of a dozen officers, mostly human, rushing to the armory. They bump and stumble into line, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes. You keep your head up and move through them, parting the tightest clusters with a sharp elbow. Any upset replies die as the offended recognize the badge of rank on your orange jumpsuit. A quelled wake of "Sorry, Lieutenant!" follows you into the passageway, where the better prepared are already taking up positions. They have more important things to worry about. They know what that alarm means. The Jedi are upon you.

The ship groans underfoot and you catch yourself against the white plasteel wall. It only takes a moment to recognize the acerbic hum of a tractor beam beneath the din. You feel the engines bucking vainly underfoot.

The alarms pause as the PA crackles, "The Vengeance has locked on. Imperial contact imminent. All crew to boarding stations."

It's over then, you think to yourself. That part at least. On to the next one.

The passageway clears as you march through the corners and capillaries. Eventually, you find yourself in front of an unremarkable port in the passenger berths. You don't bother knocking. The door slides open to reveal empty quarters. Another barrage of laser fire punctuates your shock. Red emergency lights flood the passageway as primary power shuts off.

Well done, Darren. Somehow, you've made things worse.

Throttling the fear that scurries in the corner of your mind, you search the room. Nothing on the bunks; nobody in the refresher; nowhere else for a person to hide – even a person like Qu Rahn.

"Dank farrik," you swear, grabbing your comlink, "Uali, where's our guest?"

As you wait for a response, the hum of the tractor beam grows, and the sputtering engines set the floor vibrating.

Your link squawks. "Darren? I'm trying to juggle a few things, here," the Dresselian sounds more frantic than usual.

"Uali! I need eyes, now," you snap.

"I'm wiping the system," the tech replies, unbothered as ever by your impatience, "Captain's orders. Observation's mostly fried, already. I can't give you any – what?" The speaker buzzes as someone interrupts him. While background chatter crackles across the link, you leave the room and look up and down the hall. Not a body in sight, living or otherwise.

Finally, Uali's voice comes back, "Kendip says she saw him in Comms."

Your free hand reflexively makes a fist.

"He doesn't have Comms clearance," you say, "Who let–"

"I've gotta clear the navicomputer, Darren. You're on your own."

You muffle more obscenities and slip the link back into your breast pocket. It's a much quicker walk to Comms. The rest of the crew must already be at the main hatch. You can't help but wonder if this is the captain's preference after all these days of running. They were an old rebel to the last. You, you pride yourself on knowing exactly where you were and what you were doing. You had been a good agent for the rebellion: mindful, decisive, tough. But that was over. That life. That part, at least. Now what? You're just a glorified babysitter for all the most important ex-imperials who finally put two and two together about where their regime's pitiful remnants were heading. Maybe the captain wasn't so bad, with their drills and shooting range and old GAR regs. At least it gave the crew something to do besides sweat while they sat around the hundredth planetary ring or life-forsaken plasma cloud waiting for another overcautious and under-empathetic turncoat. And the skills, well – you unclip the lock on your sidearm – you might be grateful for having kept those fresh, too.

Two guards stand by the entrance to Comms, silhouetted by the scarlet backup lights. As you approach, they wobble faintly at their posts. There's a glassy look in their eyes. In the room behind them, you can hear a low voice rumbling. By the top of the door frame, the blue "Call in Progress" light is glowing. A hot pulse of adrenaline makes you squeeze the grip of your blaster. Blood rushing in your ears drowns out the distant alarms and the muffled speech behind the hatch. You shake one of the soldiers and get no response, just more blank stares. Drawing your weapon, you take several quick breaths, then kick the door controls.

The panel sweeps away and you charge in, lifting your blaster and shouting, "Step away from the console!"

The figure by the main transceiver barely has a second to register your command before you open fire. He nonetheless manages to step across the chamber before the first bolts reach where he'd been standing. No matter, you weren't aiming for him anyway. Sparks burst, panels flash, and a smoggy cloud chokes the back half of the cramped room. Rather than move towards you, your wayward charge simply takes in the damage.

"I was sending a distress signal," he admonishes, turning to face you.

Qu Rahn's face is dark, but not unfriendly. His white tunic and the flecks of grey in his short-trimmed beard seem to glow in the light of the terminals around him. Nonchalantly, he rests his thumbs on the leather belt around his waist. Your eyes flit to the empty clip you noticed when he first came aboard: the spot where a lightsaber ought to hang.

"They're jamming all outgoing signals," you snap, practically shouting. Your ears are still ringing from the shots.

"Not all. Not usually. Imperial protocol says to keep a few lines open for emergency and executive transmissions. You just need to know the codes. I do," he taps his chest.

"And they didn't," you tilt your head at the pair outside, perhaps even less bothered by the sound of blaster fire than the man across from you.

"No, and they weren't especially interested in hearing me out. Still, I think I got most of it through before you arrived."

"Then rescue's just a few days away. Goody."

You keep your gun steady and move back towards the door. He looks between you and the passageway. Automatically, your thoughts turn to Sabacc.

Deal two. Green three, green seven. Total plus ten. Discard reveals red eleven.

"Lieutenant," he begins, stepping behind another console, "Are we really still such strangers? Surely I've earned a modicum of good faith."

You don't respond. You don't even think of a response, just Spike dice roll. No matches.

He moves out of cover just a few meters away.

"You don't need your weapon to deal with me, " he implores, waving his hand mystically.

"I think I very much do," you reply, still filling your head with Swap green three for red eleven. Total minus four.

He frowns, then smiles broadly. Despite yourself, it's a comforting thing to be near. From the moment you met him above Sullust, you noticed that about him: the aura of absolute serenity. It was part of why you had gotten off on such a bad foot, even before he was mesmerizing your shipmates. The other defectors usually had the good sense to hate themselves, or at least play at it. The tranquility on his face, however, had not moved since he first came aboard. It was as if all the galaxy and his own past together could not shake him. You'd seen the images that came through when the Sulon resistance collapsed. Streets turned to rubble, conspirators publicly executed, their bodies mounted on pikes. How could anyone walk away from that so damn peaceful? Even days into the Stalwart's ill-planned evasions, as Rahn passed advice to the captain and navigator, it seemed like he couldn't even imagine getting caught, much less what that meant for everybody else on board. Well, now it's happened; let's see what that does to him.

"Lieutenant Darren, you surprise me," he chuckled, "I hadn't appreciated how qualified an escort I'd been assigned. It's been a very long time since I encountered such defenses in the uninitiated. I can't even scratch the surface."

Draw. Green two. Total minus two.

You're almost there.

"I salute your dedication," he continues, "But we must move quickly if we are to save any of the crew."

"The crew is lost. The captain just hasn't accepted it, yet," you reply, "They've got a tractor lock on us. There is no escape."

Spike dice roll. No matches.

"They've got a lock on the Stalwart, but not her escape pods," he says.

"They'll shoot anything that launches. Send fighters to chew up the pieces."

"They can't shoot anything if it's hiding behind the Stalwart – and I happen to know that our friends lost their TIE escort in battle over Eriadu some time ago," he smirks and glances to the side, remembering something apparently amusing.

Just another meter now. Discard shows sylop. Stand.

"You're going to stand at minus two?" he teases, "I don't ever settle for less than zero."

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep moving, doubling the intensity of Spike dice roll. No matches.

"Lieutenant," he continues, "If you lock me in here, and I am on their side, it just means I'll miss the fireworks."

"I could shoot you now," you flick the stun setting, "I know a thing or two about keeping your kind down."

"I bet you do," he nods with aggravating sageliness, "But that would be quite difficult without a weapon."

You squeeze the trigger, but it's already too late. The stun bolt grounds against the far hull just behind where he'd been standing. He's already dashed next to you. Something invisible tugs your blaster out of your hand and into his palm. You lunge for the door controls, but the panels refuse to shut. In your panic, the steady stream of New hand. Deal two. mixes with a frantic He won't get this crew. It's not gonna happen. Not again.

"Darren, please, we're almost out of time. I can't convince the captain on my own," he touches your shoulder, and the warmth in his face radiates like a star, "Please. Take hope."

You whip around and put your entire body weight into a right hook. He catches it without taking his eyes off you. Wordless, he shoves your weapon into your hand and lets go. Taking a few steps back, you clutch the blaster close to your chest. The ship lurches as the engines stall out. Neither of you break eye contact. In the relative silence that follows, you hear the captain barking orders down the hall. Rahn blinks, slow, catlike, in no hurry to move.

Outside, the guards stir and notice the open door between them. They both let out nervous gasps when they peek in and see the pair of you standing amidst still-smoking terminals.

"Is everything alright, Lieutenant?" asks the senior of the two, a Bothan with a buzzed mane.

"Bordok feathers," you swear under your breath, and stuff your blaster back into its holster, "We're fine. Everything's fine. I want you two to clear the drives here. We can't let those troopers have our encryption codes, can we?" They both hop into action and dash to the nearest consoles. "When you're done," you call after them, walking out the door, "Report to the captain and prepare for boarding."

While you wait for Rahn to join you, you hear one of the guards whisper, "Do you think he noticed us sleeping?"

"Shush!" The other hissed, fervently waving an electromagnet over several data cores.

You walk back up the passageway. The man behind you matches your pace, his insufferable grin beating at the back of your neck. At the main port, the captain, dressed in their usual eclectic blend of New Republic Navy kit and GAR armor, commands the last few stragglers into position. Most of the crew is already there, kneeling behind cover with their weapons trained on the entryway. A yeoman wearing a slept-in uniform shakes her head intermittently, occasionally thunking it against the bulkhead next to her. An older woman takes a sip from a brown flask before passing it to the Sullustan ahead of her. An astromech by the captain beeps nervously, almost drowned out by its master's commands.

"- like we drilled: don't wait for a target. Open fire the moment they breach!"

"Captain!" you shout.

They turn as the pair of you approach.

"Lieutenant!" he claps his hand on your shoulder, "And our guest. Excellent. Where's your rifle? Ack, at least you've got your sidearm. I want you by me, and you–" he begins pointing to the hatch when he's interrupted.

"Captain Clipper," Rahn implores, "Your courage is commendable, but I believe there are alternatives to fighting."

"I hate to say it," you add before the captain can respond, "But he's right. There was never any chance for us in a straight-up fight. That's why we're way out here in the first place. But," and you turn to the man next to you, "He has a plan that may keep a few of us alive, maybe long enough for the Republic to send help. If his message got through," you add, only a little sheepish.

Rahn smirks at your sideways glance. The captain doesn't notice, their attention already returned to the skittish crowd. Two men near the entryway have taken each other's hands while keeping their weapons up. They kiss, heads bent at odd angles to keep their helmets from bumping. A Mon Calamari woman you recognize from the gunner corps takes up the flask that's worked its way to the front line. She finishes it in one gulp before chucking it at the closed door.

The captain turns back to you.

"What do you propose?"

"Roll the ship," Rahn begins, "Let our starboard broadside cover our port escape pods. If they had any fighters, they'd have used them days ago."

"What info do we have on the planet below?" you ask.

The green astromech lets out a complex string of dings and whistles. There's a pessimistic tone in its timbre.

"Surveys say it's got a solid mineral crust,'' Clipper translates, "But that's the end of the good news. The lower atmosphere is mostly dioxys and volcanic chaff. I can't send my crew walking around down there."

"They won't have to," you realize out loud. Rahn nods, urging you on, "The pods have rebreather units and rations rated for a weeks' use. If the Republic hasn't picked us up by then, well…"

The captain thumbs their blaster while looking out at the rest of the crew. The roar of the tractor beam is deafening. The last of the nervous chatter has given way to quiet sweating and compulsive weapons checks.

"What about landing crews?" he asks, not turning back to you, "Surely they still have shuttlecraft."

"Yes, that's the unfortunate part," Rahn replies.

You glance back, raising an eyebrow at this twist.

He continues, looking between you and Clipper, "The atmosphere should interfere with their orbital sensors, but to avoid their shuttles, you'll need enough time to land, cool off, and go to low power," he strokes his beard, "Something has to delay them."

"Such as?" the captain asks.

"We give them what they want. Let me take one of the starboard pods. Once they collect me, I'll cause a distraction that should buy you that time."

"And if they start blasting everyone on board the moment they have you?" you ask, remembering whose advice got the Stalwart here in the first place.

"Don't be on board," he smiles.

The captain thinks it over, rhythmically drumming the butt of their pistol.

Finally, they say, "It's slim odds, but I've had generals get me through slimmer. We take your orders today, sir," and they give an old GAR salute.

Returning it, the defector starts making his way up the corridor.

"I'll launch at ninety degrees rotation," he calls back.

"Understood," the captain shouts, before adding, "And may the Force be with you!"

"And you!" he replies, shining that grin one last time before vanishing behind a corner. You fight the urge to gag.

The captain doesn't lose a moment to reverie. "Alright, I want everybody to the port escape pods! I hope nobody had seconds, because we're in for a hard landing. Kwalek! You have one minute to give me roll thrusters. Do I look like I'm asking? Move!"

There is no sense of relief as the crew walks past you. The same nervous excitement and dawning resignation are playing out on their faces, but now it's tempered by curiosity and the faintest glimmer of real hope. It's a strange feeling, you think, to call off a grand last stand in favor of a real – if faint – chance at living. You turn to join them. Just as you reach the junction between the two pod bays, though, you stop. While everybody else marches down the left corridor, you squint down the right. The sole occupant, dressed in white, stands out against the ill-lit hall. You follow him, realizing you never had any intention of joining the crew.

The glossy surfaces of the main passageway give way to exposed tubing and tangled wires. You catch up with the old man just as he reaches the launch bay.

"Some people would call that pretty cruel," you say. If he's surprised, it doesn't show.

"And what would you call it, Lieutenant?" he asks, opening the nearest hatch.

"I think the captain puts too much faith in you. They've been giddy as a mynock in a scrapyard since you got on board."

He chuckles, crouching into the pod.

"And I think a lot of those crewmates are going to die," you call after him, "A lot more than you let on."

There's no reply. You walk up to the open hatch and see him resting in one of the seats, calmly tightening the restraints. Out the forward viewport, the planet below shines red and silver. The shadow of the Vengeance cuts across the stars above.

You take the seat opposite him.

"But some of them may live," you say, "And that's an improvement."

"Assuming I'm not lying," he adds.

"I thought of that. So long as I'm here, somebody's gonna make trouble."

He lets out a big, full-bellied guffaw. For the first time, you notice a leonine quality about his features: something untamed keeping watch inside his placidity. With a wave of his hand, the door seals. Not a moment too soon. You feel the engines kick online. The lights flicker, and, outside, the starfield turns. The planet falls out of view. From above, the Vengeance looms like a broken dagger.

Your partner taps several buttons on his control panel.

"Preparing to launch," he says, "What's our angle?"

You turn to your own panel and read out, "We're at sixty degrees rotation."

"Best strap in. The beam will be on us quickly."

You slip on your restraints. You've had far less cautious launches in far more ragged pods, but you've never been more certain you were launching to your death. For the first time, you return his smile.

"Seventy degrees rotation," you continue, "Eighty. Eighty-five."

"Launching."

The acceleration tackles you. Your cheek hits the thick padding with a slap that barely muffles the scream of the ejection engines. Your hands press on your chest like sandbags. In the forward porthole, hundreds of sensors and artillery platforms come into focus, hanging beneath the harsh gray landscape of the super star destroyer. Out the rear, you see the Stalwart turning like an old crank shaft. Beneath it, the cloudy trails of a dozen escape pods arc towards the crimson planet. You wonder if Uali and Kendip ever got word about the evacuation, not to mention those guards by Comms. Tapping the inter-pod comm, you try messaging them, but the Vengeance's jammers swallow it up.

You don't take your eyes off the falling pods. Rahn doesn't take his eyes off the Vengeance. He breathes slowly: in through his nose, out through his mouth, wincing occasionally. Although you're tempted to dismiss it as turbulence, you could swear he's whispering. Then, as you anticipated, green light fills both viewports. Dozens of turbolasers on the ventral bow of the destroyer light up. Inside the unshielded pod, red proximity alerts flare up like fireworks. Behind you, you catch the orange glow of several crewed pods exploding in flame. The Stalwart gets the worst of it, though. In moments, the artillery tears through the scant remains of its deflectors. Fluid and atmosphere lines rupture, giving the vessel a white, smoggy halo that all at once glows red and green in the contrasting lights of the bombardment. In moments, the venting ceases and the cloud dissipates. For one final second, the corvette looks almost peaceful. It was never properly home to you, and its crew never anything like the family you had found in your old cells, but to see

You remember, on a mission long since past, encountering the burial ground of great mysterious creatures that migrated through the darkness of interstellar space. Even in death, wearing the scars of unimaginably long lifetimes, they had a majesty that made you pause. It had cost you precious seconds at a time when you hadn't any to spare. Uncharacteristically, you did not regret those moments lost. Dead in the vacuum, the Stalwart drifts with that same majesty. Then the turbolasers target its fuel cells.

You and Rahn clutch your seats as the pyrotechnic blast hurtles your pod aft over bow. Fighting the centrifugal forces, you heave one hand onto the controls and try to realign your flight path. Your co-pilot's expression remains neutral, but his normally warm face takes on a definite green undertone.

The stabilizer stick grinds up. A third of your instruments have short-circuited. Halfway through another roll, the pod lurches like it's hitting a vat of oil. Twist to figure out what happened, you hear the telltale revving of a tractor beam.

"I thought you said they'd be on us quickly," you gasp, thumbing your hair from your eyes.

The old man sits back in his chair, sighing as if the whole thing had just been an especially rough patch of wind. "Seems they didn't want anything else in the beam," he says

Slapping the release button on your harness, you move to get a better view of the docking bay opening overhead like the maw of some immense rayfish.

"What can you tell me about the layout?" you ask, cheek nearly pressed against the window, "What sort of welcome should we expect?"

Rahn taps his own release and joins you at the viewport before replying, "That hangar is reserved for Jerec's surprise guests. I'm afraid it's quite wanting for hospitality. We can expect to be welcomed by the best of the worst."

"The man himself?" you ask, checking your blaster's settings.

He pauses for another long breath before answering.

"Possibly."

You freeze in your work. The memories of missions long past rise up: figures in black armor; spinning red blades; a terror that sweeps away all hope, all sensation. You have to squeeze your weapon to keep it from slipping out of your palms.

"You don't have a plan," you say, without accusation.

"The Force is my ally," he whispers, as if talking to someone just outside the porthole, "It is my lens to see the universe, and it has taught me this: brook no inevitability," he turns to face you, "The dark powers that await us are terrible, but you have your training, and I have mine. Trust in the Force."

Under normal circumstances, you would have rolled your eyes. In this particular moment, you just sigh and nod. That settles it, you think to yourself, he must be telling the truth. Anybody lying would have at least tried to come up with something. You keep the memory of the pods that made it through the barrage at the forefront of your mind. Did half of them make it? No, it must have been more. They just need a few minutes, and maybe they have a chance. An old adage about rebellions and hope comes to mind.

The pair of you fall into silence as the thrum of the tractor beam reaches deafening heights. The sheer force of it, concentrated on such a small craft, rumbles the walls and floor. You clutch the handrails while your crewmate moves with noticeable haste to sit back down.

At last, the obsidian walls of the hangar sweep across the viewports, and, with one last thunk, the docking arm comes into place. As the atmospheres align, you catch a whiff of hot plasteel and acerbic cleaning chemicals. It may be missing the usual accents of tibanna gas and molten flesh, but you'd remember the smell of Imperial ships any day.

As you kneel in front of the hatch and draw your weapon, your podmate presses his hand into your shoulders. He waves you to the back of the pod while standing in the entryway, tall as he can in the cramped cylinder.

It doesn't take more than a few seconds for the white-hot sparks of plasma cutters to erupt from the door frame and trace blinding lines along the joints. Smoke and burning chaff fill the air. You choke back a coughing fit. With several metallic clangs, the hatch falls apart. The smog rushes out, and a dozen black barrels point in. At their center is a single figure. His face is dreadfully old, spiked and rippling like sandstone cliffs etched by centuries of desert wind. It sits atop a body of tightly corded muscle, struggling as much to be restrained by his skin as by his black and red tunic. Harsh white light glints off two chrome pauldrons, which accentuate his enormous arms. A wicked lightsaber hilt dangles from his belt. Fear like thermite burns down your throat, into your belly, and welds your feet to the floor.

"At last, our prey surrenders," he gloats with an unvarnished mid-rim accent, "Your weakness sent you scurrying from us, and now, mewling and limping, it brings you back."

"You think so little of me, Maw? After all this time?" your companion replies.

"You are a coward, too scared of what you've lost to build something new. You are obsolete, and you will die painfully for it," Maw says.

"Some things I am prepared to die for. Can you say the same?"

Maw only chuckles and barks, "Take him!"

A dozen arms drag your partner into the docking tube. He does not resist, merely adjusting as best he can to the limits on his posture. You brace yourself, but, after several seconds, nobody comes near you. While the stormtroopers lead their new prisoner away, you find yourself alone in the pod. Twisting in their captor's grip, your partner looks back at you. The familiar smile, bright and brilliant, prods you out of your astonishment, and banishes your terror.

Make some trouble, Rahn's voice echoes, disembodied but no less warm.

"Jedi," you swear under your breath.

You wait till the last soldier vanishes down the hall before tiptoeing onto the gleaming black floor. Crouched low, you sneak your way down the passageway until it opens up into the larger docking bay. You press your back against the side of the entryway and look around.

Stay close, the voice calls again.

It's difficult advice to take. At the turbolift across the bay, three more figures join the group. The nearest is a young human man in rigid imperial posture. He gives Rahn a wide berth as the troopers hand him off to the other new arrivals. They make for an incomprehensible pair. One is immense, with hands large enough to palm their captive's back. The other, perched on the former's shoulder, would barely come up to your thigh. Both wear ancient armor of an entirely unfamiliar design. Like Maw, you quickly recognize one thing about all three: the gleaming hilts at their waists. Instinctively, you resume your mantra as you scurry to the far wall.

Deal two. Red three. Green ten. Total plus seven. Discard shows green eight.

A distraction. A delay. Anything to keep their eyes up here and not on the surface. This is a super star; whatever you do, it will have to be big. Your friend wasn't joking about this hangar. It was decidedly unfriendly. Not a fuel line in sight, or any other ships, for that matter. No shortage of turrets, though. What you wouldn't give to have brought a slicer along. If you had more time, maybe you could find some life support systems and work out a little sabotage – but that would mean leaving your friend and whatever enchantment he had worked on you.

'Trust in the Force,' he'd said.

Draw. Green nine. Total plus sixteen. Spike dice roll. Matches. Reshuffle.

You knew about the Force. You had heard about the Jedi growing up: all the incredible things they could do, all the good they did for the old republic. You remember learning at the Academy that it was all propaganda and, suddenly, the universe felt much smaller and easier to understand. Years later, when the universe was big again and you didn't understand anything, you got to see what Jedi could do firsthand. What the Force could do. What it could do to a body, or a whole cell of your friends.

Sweating, you try to drown out those memories with Deal three. Red five. Red eight. Red one. You're not sure it's working. One of the Jedi, the pale human, does a double take in your direction. You freeze on the spot. Total minus fourteen. Discard shows red six, you think as loud as you can. A few moments later, he looks away as the turbolift doors open.

'There are alternatives to fighting.' You'd heard him say that, too. Yes, when he was talking the captain into making this bet, but also before, when he first convinced Clipper to start this wild gundark chase. As if he didn't know how this was all going to end from the start. And you'd gone along with it all. That's what you'd done for years now. Ever since the constitution first got ratified and suddenly what you'd been trained to do wasn't what the Republic needed anymore. Ever since the Rebellion first united on that damned Jedi moon, and all the cells had to wipe the blood and muck off their faces so they didn't offend the delicate sensibilities of inner planet sign-ons and their precious senators.

You didn't start fighting just to go along with things. You hadn't learned all these terrible secrets (Discard and gain. Discard red eight. Draw green ten. Total plus four.) just to go along with things. You did it – all of it – because you trust in your own senses. You know, you see, what is wrong. You know, you see, the imbalance and the injustice that plagues this galaxy. And you know, you see, and you do what must be done.

You are going to die here. You knew it the moment you sat down in that pod. You also know that you get to decide how that happens, and what good comes from it. That's why you sat down. That's why you helped convince the captain. That's why you were going to get it done.

You dash across the docking bay and squeeze aboard the turbolift alongside the rest of the squad. Maw barks instructions that barely register over the sound of Spike dice roll. Matches. Reshuffle. The lift eventually opens on a balcony overlooking a metal canyon a dozen meters deep. You spot one of the primary power conduits running across the bottom. Nearby, on the catwalk, several junior officers are lugging munitions and waiting for the next lift. Underneath the rhythm of Deal three. Sylop. Green ten. Green nine. Sylop. Discard shows red ten. you get an idea.

It takes less than a minute for you to snag a charge, climb down the power lines, and set a timer. It takes exactly a minute for the troopers to lug your partner just far enough away that his spell breaks. Officers passing overhead gasp and bark commands at sentries stationed below, themselves too stunned to move. The noise startles them out of their astonishment and they open fire. You duck as blaster bolts careen past you. Looking for somewhere to plant the detonator, you return fire and start running down the canyon.

Over the sound of shots ricocheting off the bulkhead, you hear someone scream on the catwalk above. All of a sudden, a stormtrooper hits the floor not three yards away. Looking up, you see three more coming to join them. You let out an involuntary yelp and roll under an especially large conduit. Several more shots ring out, but they don't land anywhere near you. After a few seconds, you risk a peek. The troopers are still there, but they're not aiming at you. They've got their sights set on the catwalk. It's Rahn!

The Jedi is a whirlwind of kicks and punches. Two more troopers fly over the railing, along with a hail of shattered armor. The four Dark Jedi run after him, but he pulls a blaster from a cowering officer and blows out the catwalk's supports. It collapses beneath the entire group. You curl back up under the pipe and cover your face. A sound like a landspeeder crash echoes down the canyon. You feel your conduit buckling overhead and you scramble to get away before it caves in. A cloud of ferrous particulate obscures the wreck of the catwalk. From within, you can just make out several figures pulling themselves from the rubble.

Now, Darren! cries Rahn in your mind.

You look around for somewhere, anywhere to plant the detonator. In the cloud, three orange-yellow blades ignite with a roar. The conduit – there's a crack exposing the wiring. Kneeling, you shove the white cylinder into the piping and start the countdown. You stand and point your blaster at the cloud. The two alien jedi, as well as the younger human, surround Rahn. His face and tunic shine in the fiery light of their sabers. For the briefest moment, he looks like he's sizing the three of them up for another round. Noticing you out of the corner of his eye, he raises an eyebrow. You nod. Wordlessly, he lifts his hands in surrender. You sprint down the canyon and away from the timer ticking out in the pipe.

Suddenly, your feet leave the ground and something hurls you into the waiting claws of Maw. Fear overtakes you, and you can't help but get swept away in Swap. Discard green nine. Take red ten. Total zero. Spike dice roll. No matches.

"Disgusting game," he growls.

"Yee-haa," you sputter, as a muffled alarm sounds from the power conduit.

The explosion leaves a deafening ringing in your ears and the taste of burnt plastic on your mouth. Maw keeps a death grip on your throat while smoke blasts across you both. He growls and the lights go out.

It will take exactly thirty seconds for the auxiliary line to kick in. It's not two seconds into the darkness that a red blade flares into existence beneath you. Something vicious and hateful crawls into your mind, uprooting every memory of dismembered rebels, red lightning, dark figures and sadistic, mocking cackles that have haunted you for years.

You scream and fall to the ground. Blood-colored plasma flashes. The smell of burnt flesh mixes with the other odors on the mirror-smooth floor.

Ahh, you think, Now that's what an Imperial ship ought to smell like.

Rahn wrestles against the oversized Jedi restraining him.

"Darren!" he roars.

The small one flashes an esoteric hand symbol. You don't understand it, you don't recognize it. Yellow light sprays forth, and you're nearly blinded. The sound of the scuffle dies down. Something in your gut is too scalding hot for you to pay them any more attention. The floor is cold. For that, you are genuinely grateful.

By the time the lights come back on, half-lit by the backup systems, you are dead. This is not your story anymore. Someone else is coming. They will find it and take it on as their own. They've already made that decision, though they don't even know the question will be asked.

You can rest now, it's their turn. It's okay. You did your part. Rest.


Jedi Knight: Valley of the Lost is an adaptation of Jedi Knight: Dark Forces II and updates on the first Monday of every even-numbered month. The cover art is by jordan_jingli on Instagram.