The shadow of an Imperial shuttle swept across the Suloni moor. Its engines shrieked high and loud, blasting dew off the clover-spangled hills. It was only by the fortune of many years' practice that Kyle Katarn stayed still. Nobody aboard would notice another dark patch in the landscape. He focused on his breathing, enjoying the heavy smell of morning soil. A chill ran along his arms and legs as the moist gusts beat into his clothes. After two ceaseless minutes, the roar faded away. All that remained was the droning wind.
Under different circumstances, Kyle would have enjoyed laying there. The sun was rising high enough to start drying the grass. From the valley below, the subterranean funk of mud, worms and rain brought back memories of off-road swoop rallies, wet evening walks and grass-stained games of touch. With each deep inhalation, a new image rose up. Yes, he would have enjoyed staying there very much. Pity about all the stormtroopers nearby.
He crept to the ledge and peeked down the steep valley wall. No sign of white armor – or the strange, cloaked commanders he'd seen earlier. Just a long, low building with a tilted roof and antique copper slats. Viridian patches of moss clung to the mortar between the oversized stone bricks – the only visible change to Kyle's childhood home.
Hey dad, sorry I'm late, he clambered over the ledge, I would have called, but you were dead.
He tried to slide down gently. It was a lot wetter than he expected and he was a lot heavier than he used to be. His foothold made a squishing sound as it smeared away from the cliffside. He scrambled to catch himself. Dark clay furrowed under his fingers. The green valley floor met him with a cold slam. His whole left side throbbed in protest and his vision tunneled. A voice, familiar and distant, echoed in his mind.
"Your path is at a moment of change."
"I heard you the first time," Kyle mumbled, trying to find his breath again. His eyes fluttered open. Familiar red-yellow clouds twirled overhead. He'd been hoping he'd left the voice back on the landing shuttle.
A humanoid battle cry echoed across the valley. He leapt to his feet, head on the swivel. Cradling his stitches, he shoved his free hand into his holster. He wiped the mud and gray-green pulp out from under the trigger guard.
Images, orange and green, flashed around the edge of his sight. He shut his eyes and shook his head.
"We're not doing this right now," he leaned his weight against the cliff face.
More visions, the same intrusions that had hounded him since that night on the Redemption. A golden sky turned black by twilight. A sandstone tower that dwarfed mountains. A man of green light, telling him why his father was murdered.
He kept his back to the stout cliff. Its muddy walls stretched out a hundred meters in either direction, eventually meeting somewhere behind the ancient structure that was the Katarn estate. Algae-green lawn covered most of the valley. Oversized crates were strewn about the yard, some twice as tall as Kyle: remnants of the Imperial raid. Many had been hastily broken into, their contents – rusted appliances and disassembled harvesters – spilled onto the field.
He snuck into the nearest bin, grateful for the quiet of the still-wet earth. Wind and the distant sound of another battle cry rang around the valley. It wasn't any closer. That was annoying. He liked to be the only one sneaking around.
Around the corner came the sound of sluggish footsteps and an armed man came into view. He wore a blue leather vest and padded pants. A wicked bowcaster hung from a spiked sling around his shoulder. For a split second, Kyle thought he was a bothan or some other feline species. After another take, he realized he was looking at a harshly decorated mask. Long strips of thin fabric were wrapped around the man's face. A worn rebreather welded over with thin metal scraps gave the appearance of a fanged muzzle. The man's eyes were hidden behind thin goggles. Slitted irises, painted on the lenses, flashed yellow from beneath the stout canopies. Even to a soldier as experienced as Kyle, the effect was unnerving.
The mercenary – Kyle assumed the Empire had outsourced guard duty – glanced idly around. Kyle pressed himself against the dark wall, only peering out when he heard the man shout an all-clear. They turned to resume their rounds. Once they were out of sight, Kyle snuck to the mouth of the container out to see if anyone else was watching. He spotted the tip of another gray-wrapped head vanishing behind a hill.
The near mercenary was continuing his winding check path between the boxes. Kyle followed him to the next clearing, stepping softly. The grass around the boxes had been shredded, pounded into black clay by many feet. It sucked at his boots.
The masked man tucked his head into one of the smaller boxes a couple meters away. Kyle sprinted over, taking advantage of the cover offered by the tall piles of broken farm equipment. By the time the crouching man heard him, Kyle had his pistol in their back. Their armored vest muffled the shot.
There was a holoprojector, no bigger than a human hand, that Kyle had carried for over a decade. In the bowels of decrepit smuggler ships, in shootouts across frozen wastelands, in bunkers a hundred meters behind enemy lines: it had been the only keepsake he afforded himself. It ran on a fusion battery that would outlive his grandkids and had a ROM drive barely big enough to hold five minutes of 2D footage. Most tourist traps in the galaxy sold more elegant models as customizable souvenirs. His was homemade. Etched into its base was the uncomplicated maker's mark of Morgan Katarn. It had been years since he'd last turned it on, but from the moment 88 contacted him, he must have spent a dozen hours staring into the azure recording.
His father had thrown the camera together the morning Kyle left for the academy on Eriadu. He'd dragged the boy to the kitchen table and set it rolling. Kyle hardly noticed. In the days leading up to his departure, all he ever did was talk about his the systems engineering program, the faculty's research publications, the specs of the department computer, the student employment opportunities and on and on. On that last morning, his poor father beamed as he heard the same breathless rant that had been echoing around the estate for weeks.
Morgan had cleaned himself up for the recording. His flour-white beard was freshly trimmed, and his hair was combed back. His dress shirt, cut in the same style as the young Kyle's, was wrinkled from too many trips through the wash. Bulky, insulated suspenders completed the picture of a proud craftsman. In the cobalt light of the hologram, Morgan's eyes shined under his dark brows. His face was stuck in a smile that shined even brighter.
"I want you to remember, son," he said, having finally gotten Kyle to sit and listen, "When you're at the Academy, how very proud I am of you," he squeezed Kyle's shoulder, "What a fine young man you've become."
The boy blushed. He'd finally noticed the camera. His eyes floundered around the floor, drowning in Morgan's jubilant gaze.
"I wish your mother were here to see it," he looked away, just for a moment, letting the old grief pass. For the next few minutes he waffled, lovingly and circuitously, until the projector's memory ran out. The last image was of him leaning in to give his son a long, deep hug – one of many that day.
He died fourteen months later.
The haughty Imperial officer that came knocking on Kyle's dormitory door told him it was a rebel attack. Encouraged by his mentors, the boy had transferred to Imperial intelligence before the semester was out.
After tucking the mercenary's body under some loose packing material, Kyle looked around to make sure he was still alone. The clearing was empty. No footsteps.
The voice echoed, "The man who murdered your father is a great evil."
"Come on, even I knew that one," he clambered up the hull of a busted hover lift and peered out at the entryway. Not a merc in sight. No lights on, either. It didn't take a few years in spec ops to guess that was a bad option. There were some windows around back he could try. Well, there had been. No accounting for renovations.
"I'm guessing you don't have any input?" he whispered on his way down.
Roaring silence hung in the air.
Kicking up mud, he sprinted to the north corner. There used to be some antique moisture vaporators around the bend – leftovers from the estate's colonial roots – and a thin alley that ran between the house and the cliffside. He leaned one eye around the stone wall. Everything was right where he remembered. The small grove of gray-black pylons was cut between by dozens of bootprints. Mostly they were stormtrooper treds, but there were a handful he didn't recognize. Fortunately, nobody was hiding among the old machines. He gambled on a crouched dash to the nearest unit. It was cold to the touch. The air around it buzzed and stunk of ozone.
"You get your fifth gear going good," came a gruff voice from behind the house, hidden by the wind until Kyle was in the lee of the building, "When you hit the turn – WHAM – it's a big ol' comb of mud. Ten meters, easy."
The voice was old and it crackled after too many years spent huffing exhaust. A younger one piped up in a weaselly Corellian accent.
"And it's just off the aqueduct?"
"Beautiful straightaway," added a third, in a butch Raxun quiver, "Goes on until you reach the outskirts. Didn't see anybody out there but a farmer or two. They get out of the way real quick." They all laughed together.
The conversation continued while Kyle snuck from pylon to pylon. Occasionally, a fourth joined, then a fifth, all talking about the best places to ride, how to clean mud off a swoop, where to duck the Imperial radar. That last bit caught his ear. Imperial shuttle, Imperial troopers – unaffiliated mercenaries? Jan would want to hear about this. The remnant was keeping secrets from itself.
He had them in his line of sight. They sat in a loose circle, tucked in the narrow clearing between the back of the house and the cliff wall. Their swoop bikes were parked on the ledge above. They were odd, lopsided things. Their engines tilted upright when they landed, so they looked like stout missiles with padded seats welded to the side. The riders were dressed in a mix of the same blues, blacks and grays as the other two. Everybody wore their own variation of the spike and cloth mask. Only a couple were currently armed, but none were more than a meter from a weapon. Most used the same bowcaster as the merc he'd left in the cargo containers, although he spotted a few Imperial rifles as well. Their employer wasn't above sharing proprietary gear, apparently.
Taking them head-on was out of the question. Time to improvise.
He had just enough cover to get to the wall of the estate and climb the weathered limestone. He paused, listening to make sure nobody started walking his way. There was a growing argument about power converter brands. Everybody had an opinion, thankfully.
The climb was probably the most fun he'd had in weeks. With a non-load-bearing arm, it should have been impossible, but he knew this wall. The crevices between the cyclopean bricks, the natural bubbles in the stone, the jutting edges of unidentifiable fossils – they were all there, exactly where he'd left them. Handholds he'd spent hours memorizing as a boy waited eagerly for his wandering fingers. A gust picked up and he got a lungful of warm summer air. The wind had shifted. Now, over the clover, came the brackish smell of the water purification facility just down the road. Even that chemical aroma was nostalgic.
He kept low as he reached the roof. The surface had a slight incline for runoff, but was otherwise flat. Were he standing, his waist would have been level with the valley wall. The bikes were only a stone's throw away. He didn't have any stones, but he'd pocketed a few souvenirs from 88's goons.
Belly to the brickwork, he wriggled a thermal detonator from his belt and checked the settings. He wasn't looking for anything flashy. Low power would suffice.
"A supernova of stars in a thought," the voice echoed and Kyle nearly jumped off the roof.
"Not. Now," he hissed, trying to get his pulse back in order.
He pantomimed tossing it a few times, scooching around on his stomach to try and get the best angle. He was glad his right arm was still in commission. This wouldn't have been possible with his left, even without the axe wound. It was a gangly angle, and he couldn't comfortably lean up on his free hand. Listening for the voices below, he waited. Someone started shouting about mufflers. He let it fly.
Just above the din of the wind, something popped. Ten meters away, Kyle saw a flash of orange light.
A crunching, screeching noise rumbled over him: a sound like an oversized metal animal being gored. The troupe below burst into a panicked mess of bellows, curses and screams. Two scrambled up the stony cliff face opposite Kyle. Above them, three going on four swoops were falling into each other like expensive and explosive dominoes.
"Come on," Kyle breathed a bit too fast, "Get after your bikes."
Following the first two came a third, then a fourth, then the rest. Their backs were all turned on him as they raced to salvage their machines.
He grabbed the edge of the roof and flung himself around it. He stuck out a foot and hoped that it was going to find a rusted shutter. If he hit limestone, running away was going to be a challenge.
He hadn't told Jan what happened that night on the Redemption. He couldn't. If he didn't put it into words, he could pretend it was just a dream.
Under the dimming lights of the recovery room, as he felt his mind lift away from the last edges of pain, something brilliant and vast swept around it, and he was elsewhere.
The first sensation was of falling – no, flying. Disembodied, Kyle soared through yellow-white clouds. The vibrant mists gave way to the peak of a sandstone monolith, kilometers high. There was a voice: grand, instructive, imploring. It called to him from far away.
"Your path is at a moment of change."
There was a familiar rumble to it, something human, underneath the power.
"Jerec, the man who murdered your father, is a great evil."
The name caught his ear, but the part of his mind that could have asked about it was lost to deeper dreams. He followed the voice. At the very top of the towering structure, there was a bright glass porthole. It channeled light from far below. The speaker continued.
"He searches for the location of a sacred place: the Valley of the Jedi."
That name rang with sublime thunder, and, in a flash of light, Kyle was on the ground – no, under the ground – in an immense vaulted chamber. Statues and bas relief sculptures the size of buildings crowded the colossal domed ceiling. Points of green and blue light, gleaming like stars, spun in slow orbit around a central mound. Standing in front of that mound was a man, made of that same starstuff. His hands were folded beneath the sleeves of a plain white robe. His head was cleanly shaved and he wore a simple goatee.
He continued to speak, but Kyle's mind was too drugged to catch everything. The man seemed familiar, but he couldn't put a name to him. The emotion of his words puzzled Kyle. There was no fear, no desperation, but a gleaming spirit of defiance, as well something hotter that he couldn't identify. They spun a legend of trapped Jedi, of dreadful hidden powers, and a man who, unchecked, threatened to obliterate entire star systems.
The lights around the pair grew brighter, and, for a moment, Kyle wondered if there was another presence here. His mind cleared as if someone had pushed aside the chemical haze, and the words came crisp.
"Your father gave his life to protect this power, and now," he paused, a note of regret threatening to choke him, "It is a place your destiny must take you."
The light grew brighter, but the image shone fainter. The sensation of his body, of the hospital bed and his aching wounds, cut through the dream.
"The disc you have in your possession will lead you to the Ways of the Jedi," the man rushed to finish, a low growl rumbling in his throat, "Remember: it will be your path to the ways of the Force."
He woke up and gasped a single word.
"Rahn!"
The next thing he remembered was digging through the storage lockers. A resolution, a righteous belief, burned through his mind. It spurred him to act without delay. Then Jan came in, and the spell broke. He remembered that he didn't believe in any of that Jedi crap. He'd spent long enough following people that tried to pick his dreams for him.
Just as a fifth swoop came crashing down onto its siblings, an old copper shutter crunched inwards, and a damp and drabby Kyle Katarn smashed into his father's old bedroom.
It was dark, lit only by the cool, cloudy sky that glowed behind the window slits. The smell of his dad – engine grease, aftershave, locally grown incense – was dense in the air. His fingers were bleeding and his new scars had reopened under their bandages, but, for a few precious seconds, he lay still. He breathed in the smell of home, and felt safe.
A flushing sound roared behind him, and a blue-vested mercenary stepped out of the refresher.
For less than a moment, they stared at each other. The merc ran for his gun: a night black bowcaster only two steps away. Kyle's pistol was at his hip.
Two flashes and it was over. The merc collapsed like a hewn trunk. Pungent smoke rose from the Bryar pistol and banished all other scents. No memories came with that smell. Or, perhaps, too many to name.
As he hid the body, Kyle found an old comm unit on its shoulder. Tuning his in-ear link to the swoop racers' frequency, he was greeted by crackling complaints about the pileup outside. With a smile on his face, he crept through the half-darkness of the unlit house, guided by indelible memory and the occasional sunbeam.
Slinking into the parlor, Kyle wondered – not for the first time – whether he should have waited for Jan. Rushing in like this was just the sort of bonehead maneuver that would have gotten him a stunner up the ass at the academy.
Now there's something Jan would have enjoyed seeing.
"The disc you have in your–"
"I'm working on it, you kriffing wizard!" the antique furniture muffled his aside.
He crept to the courtyard door and slid it open. The bearings were soundless on freshly greased tracks.
A cool breeze from the skylight rushed in, carrying the smell of ivy and – explosives? He peaked around the frame.
The hall to his father's workshop was choked with rubble. The roof was partially collapsed and the soil above the subterranean corridor had caved inward. Smoke oozed from the exposed mud.
He swore and slapped the wooden door.
"It is a place your destiny must take you."
"I'm not–" he checked his shouting and leaned against the stone wall, "I'm not in this for destiny. I'm not saving the kvarking galaxy. E chu ta to you and your Force. I'm just a guy with a blaster and a few questions."
Save for the wind, the courtyard was silent.
The only other way into his father's workshop was a roundabout trail involving a hydroelectric pond, three open-air chemical vats and a mailoc-infested vent. He figured it would be a while until the remnant found that one out. It had taken his younger self several months of trying to spy on his dad scratchbuilding his first speeder to piece it together.
There was more chatter in his ear. Someone with a coarse baritone was complaining about abandoned posts. Better move fast.
There was another memory, not saved on any drive, that had been haunting him since the Redemption. He hadn't realized it was there. It seemed to have emerged in reaction to his vision. It was from a time before his departure, before his acceptance letter, before his father had even suggested he fill out an application.
He was a young teenager, using his time between school and chores to harass the poor girl who worked as a clerk in her mother's tech station. It was a ritual that had grown almost into something like a friendship. He would show up, bright and early, and insist on seeing the newest shipments from the core. The other child, nostrils fluttering in annoyance, would bring each sample out and suffer Kyle's endless barrage of questions about the specs and the reviews and what the girl's mother thought about the latest components and the trustworthiness of their manufacturers. Eventually she'd taken to shoving a copy of the latest shipment manifest into his hand the moment he waltzed up to their stand. He arrived that morning, hand stretched out expectantly, only to find she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, several men – pale humans in naval dress – crowded against the counter. Two were pulling sensors from a high shelf and, apparently unimpressed, chucking them over their shoulders. A third kept waving at the storekeeper, Muggsli, demanding she come over and show them where the good stuff was. Kyle heard the nearer men sharing a coarse aside about the store, its quality, and that of the people that ran it. His blood ran cold.
He didn't remember how he wound up on the mesh curtain overhanging the stand, or how the box of hydrospanners – usually tucked neatly behind the counter – had emptied itself on the head of the tallest soldier. What did stick out in his mind were the looks of murderous rage that spread to each of their faces. He legged it. Not fast enough. Moments before they were on him, he stopped. Somehow, he knew there was no escape, and he accepted it.
They pulled him into a covered arcade. There were words, laughs, and throughout it, Kyle could almost feel their anger release itself into something calmer, more self-assured and utterly sadistic. The first one that laid a hand on him broke his lip. The second knocked the wind out of him. It was hard to count after that.
The blows on Kyle's body suddenly lessened but were joined by blows above. Precise, efficient strikes. Powerful. There was another man. Kyle couldn't see him – or anything else. He felt him, though. A sandstone column cracked as one of the navy men fell against it. The man – the blur – stopped.
He said, "You will report to your barracks." His tone could have moved mountains.
In fluttering, gasping voices, the others echoed him, "We will report to our barracks."
And they were gone.
Kyle and the man exchanged no words on the kilometers-long walk to the Katarn Estate. He wore a black flak jacket with a bright cadmium chestpiece. White circuitry veined across his face and scalp in sharp contrast to his dark skin. At every blind corner, his hand reflexively gripped the hilt of a weapon Kyle couldn't quite see.
He knocked furtively on the front door, eyes scanning the surrounding cliffline. Morgan, already greasy with the work of the morning, was unsettled by the stranger, but he stepped into motion when he saw the bruises on Kyle's face.
While Kyle lay on a couch holding frozen fruit to his face, he saw his father whisper with the man. It must have been the concussion, but his dad almost looked terrified. He kept glancing at whatever weapon the man had been hiding. The man – he didn't seem quite put together, either. Kyle had seen Imperial officers before. Had admired them in all the holo stories he'd seen growing up. They were proud, fearless – but this one kept glancing out windows, checking his commlink. He didn't leave, though. His eyes always came back to Kyle. It didn't scare the boy. He was dangerous, but he was also safe. His concern draped over Kyle's mind like a compress. The boy's eyes fluttered as he saw his father sit down and put a steaming mug in the man's hand.
"Thank the Warren Mother you were there," Morgan said, his voice fading as the darkness cradled Kyle's mind and began to lift him away, "You have my thanks. I don't need your name, but–"
"It's Rahn," the man said.
All else was lost to dreams.
One hour, two firefights and three mailoc stings later, Kyle crawled through an unlit shaft. A musky, sour taste hung in the infested air. Just ahead was a sunlit opening, but that didn't make sense. The last stretch was supposed to be a three meter climb down the vent hood. His eyes adjusted to the light ahead and he saw the tunnel now opened onto a range of naked wooden rafters. He gawked. The workshop ceiling had been removed entirely. Crimson midmorning light shone into the room below. Benches were smashed, shelves toppled. Rubble, tools and old parts lay piled at the base of half-completed repairs. The familiar scent of hot metal and degreaser was buried by dust and more of the same explosive chemicals he'd noticed in the courtyard. A thin line of smoke spiraled out of the barred door. Judging by the ugly beading down the frame, it had been hastily welded shut. Perhaps carelessly, he leapt to the workshop floor. He hardly noticed the shock pass through his wounds, old and new. Despite the missing roof, the battered furniture and the unmistakable signs of an Imperial raid, he felt truly safe in this room.
Almost as if it had been waiting for him, he realized he knew where he had to look.
He knelt by an unremarkable pile of debris in the far corner and pulled clear the fried clamps and battered shelves. With a gentle tug, he unstuck a barrel-shaped torso from the rubble. Childhood memories guided his hands as he reassembled the droid. Here an arm, there a motivator, and, minutes later, he rolled the last cylinder into place. He sat back on his ankles and waited for the reboot. Servos buzzed into drowsy life beneath the hull. With electronic precision, Weegee's eye stalk rose off the ground, lenses adjusting in a close approximation of bleary blinks.
Too impatient for introductions, Kyle drew the disc from his belt and plugged it in. A small clicking sped into a dull thrum as Weegee's reader engaged. The holoprojector on his stalk twisted and threw an image into the empty space behind Kyle. He turned to find his father standing in the workshop, cloaked in an aura of brilliant blue light.
Under the soreness of stitches and stings, his heart ached.
The image of Morgan Katarn was beautiful and terrible. His eyes were piercing, defiant. His skin was grayed and hung in gaunt shadows down his face. His shirt was even more darkly stained than usual.
"This message is for my son: Kyle Katarn."
As if he were dreaming again, Kyle couldn't look away. His face couldn't properly express the tumult that was shaking through him.
"Kyle, I have left two very important items for you. The first is a map to the Valley of the Jedi, and is embedded in the stone ceiling above this room. The last is a lightsaber that once belonged to a friend and great Jedi: Rahn."
Rahn! The word echoed in his mind: a beacon above the turmoil. Rahn.
With a hiss, a plate on Weegee's shoulder snapped open and ejected a gleaming pommel. Kyle grabbed it without thinking. On instinct, he flicked a switch and watched as a bold green blade extended, the same color as the rolling fields above.
"Use it well," his father's eyes caught his, and, for just a moment, he was in the room with Kyle – not a hologram, but his living self, full of love and understanding for his only son, "Use it for good."
The blue light shimmered and he vanished. Shaded by the high walls and banisters overhead, Kyle's face caught the cool green light of the saber.
He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He deactivated the saber and laid a hand on Weegee. The droid bobbed imperceptibly.
His father had looked so resolute. So tired. So old.
Kyle was angry. Kyle was heartbroken. Kyle was relieved. Kyle wasn't done yet.
He squeezed the hilt.
"For good?"
A hundred images, terrible and indistinguishable, whirled behind his eyes. His crimes against the people of the galaxy, perpetrated in the name of the Empire, were beyond reckoning. He'd gone so far to avenge his father. But now he knew: he had been desecrating his name, and acting in direct defiance of his final wish.
He thought he had known Morgan Katarn. A skilled mechanic. A passionate father. A grieving widower. He thought he had understood him. After his passing, Kyle had never had any lingering questions. 88 had changed that. If what the droid said was true, it meant his father wasn't some tragic victim of a faceless war: he was a participant. A martyr. A hero.
Kyle, in his third-hand smuggler's ship, with his precious Imperial shields, couldn't face what his father's choice might say about him. So he had to see for himself. Maybe what he'd really wanted was to prove 88 wrong, or find his father had been duped by some careless rebel plant. But he knew – searching his feelings, he simply knew – his father was no rube. He had died in defense of something he loved.
In partnership with a Jedi.
Kyle looked at the saber, rubbed his thumb along its brass plating. It was cold from years tucked into Weegee's mechanical innards, but was otherwise no worse for wear. Every mounting was polished, the grip freshly oiled. He turned it on again, pulled the blade through the air, and listened to its vibrant hum. In his hand, he felt only a faint tremor: the barest hint at the true power it contained.
In his ear, a dozen voices began shouting. Not ghosts, mercs. His comm crackled with the overlapping signals. Two racers had found the body in the bedroom – another was digging through the boxes out front. The oldest voice barked orders to sweep the building.
Kyle looked at Weegee. Its eyes were blank. He turned to the empty space where his father had been. Not just the hologram, but his living father, in years past. He looked around the trashed workshop and up at the shining void where the ceiling once hung. The yellow-crimson sky of Sulon roiled overhead. He imagined himself flying.
Rubble crunched under his feet as he walked towards a grate in the floor. From below, the sounds of mercs crawling through the sewage pipes echoed up.
Kyle's voice was unguarded as he said, "Let's see what this saber can do."
Jedi Knight: Valley of the Lost is an adaptation of Jedi Knight: Dark Forces II and updates on the first Monday of every other month. The cover art is by jordan_jingli on Instagram.
