Author's Note: Hey there folks, once again sorry for the delay, it's been a busy few weeks. Anyways, here's hoping this chapter is to your liking!
With a daring plan, Jedi outcast Kyle Katarn has allied with the renegade Mandalorians known as the Reclaimers of the Way, hoping their combined forces can turn the tide against the First Order and bring him closer to rescuing Polina from the clutches of the Dominion. As Katarn and his allies prepare for their next move, the ruthless Governor Rylik races to uncover the true nature of this growing threat to his control. Meanwhile, across the stars, Polina faces a perilous situation of her own…
Polina's breath caught in her throat as Theron's grip tightened around her, the Mandalorian's jetpack roaring to life and raising them both into the air. The wind whipped against her face as they soared upward, and her mind raced, trying to process the overwhelming rush of fear. She twisted in his iron grip, her eyes desperately searching for Kyle amid the storm of rain and destruction.
"Kyle, Kyle help!" Her voice broke as the words left her, her hands clawing at the air as if sheer will alone could pull him to her.
Amid the torrential downpour and the destruction Kyle, bloodied, wounded, and battered, struggling against the overwhelming forces that surrounded him spotted her. It was then, just as she feared he would let her go, she felt something else—something strange, yet familiar.
Her body stopped rising as suddenly as Theron's grip had yanked her upward. She hovered in the air, suspended, caught between the two opposing forces—Theron pulling her away with brute strength, and Kyle… holding her back through the Force.
Her breath caught in her throat as she realized what Kyle was doing. He had stretched himself to his limit, one hand outstretched towards the floodgates, the other towards her, his focus split between stopping the impending disaster and pulling her back from the Mandalorian's grasp.
The strain on Kyle's face was obvious, his teeth gritted against the effort, rain mingling with the blood of his wound as he stood against the storm. For a moment, she felt the unmistakable tug of the Force surrounding her, as if invisible hands were pulling her back, away from Theron's grip.
Theron, realizing what was happening, cursed under his breath. His jetpack struggled against the pull, jerking and sputtering as he fought to drag her higher. His grip on Polina tightened, but she felt Kyle's presence fighting back, holding her in place despite the Mandalorian's brute force. For a moment, it felt as if she was caught in a tug of war between the two—Theron's armor-clad might and Kyle's desperate, unseen strength.
"No... no, no!" she whispered, her hands outstretched toward Kyle, her body suspended between freedom and capture.
Their eyes met through the rain, Kyle's gaze filled with agony, determination, and something that shattered her heart: doubt. She could see the toll it was taking on him—the tremble in his arms, the blood that kept pouring from his side, the weight of the floodgates bearing down on him. His strength was failing.
Yet, in that moment, she believed in him. His Force-hold on her was strong enough that she could feel herself slipping from Theron's grasp. The Mandalorian growled in frustration, pulling at her with every ounce of power his jetpack could muster, but Polina felt Kyle's presence surging stronger, tugging her towards him.
Then, in a heartbeat, it all unraveled.
A groan of metal tore through the air and Kyle's concentration wavered, the strain of holding back both the floodwaters and Polina too great. Theron managed to slowly drag her further away as Kyle's grip through the Force faltered.
"Kyle, please!" she cried, her voice rising in desperation.
Kyle's eyes locked on hers, and in that single moment of tortured clarity, she saw the decision he had to make. His voice, barely audible through the storm, reached her ears: "I'm sorry, Polina."
And just like that, the Force that had held her in place dissipated.
The weight of those words hit her like a physical blow, the betrayal of it echoing through her chest. He had chosen—and it wasn't her. Tears stung at her eyes, but she blinked them away, choking back the sob building in her throat. She couldn't believe it. Kyle was abandoning her.
"No, no, no!" she screamed, thrashing against Theron's hold as they ascended higher from the rooftop. She couldn't stop the sob now, couldn't hold back the tidal wave of despair that surged within her. She had trusted him. Kyle, her protector, her friend. And now he was letting her slip away.
But then—just as hope seemed completely lost—Kyle moved. Despite his injuries, despite the overwhelming odds, he ran. Through the rain and the sounds of battle, he sprinted towards her with a desperation that reignited that tiny flicker of hope inside her heart.
Her breath hitched as she watched him leap into the air, his hand reaching out for hers, both of them stretching towards each other. Time seemed to slow, the space between them narrowing, her fingers brushing the tips of his.
She thought he might save her. She could feel the warmth of his touch, the force of his will pushing through the rain. He was so close.
But the moment passed, and then, with gut-wrenching finality, Kyle missed. Their hands slipped apart, and Polina's scream of anguish tore through the storm as she was yanked away.
"No!" she cried, watching as Kyle fell back to the ground, his figure disappearing entirely from sight. That flicker of hope died in her chest, snuffed out as quickly as it had appeared.
Her heart shattered. Completely.
Theron dragged Polina onto the ramp of the starfighter, the roar of its engines deafening as it flew away. Her mind swirled in a haze of disbelief, her body too heavy with shock to resist. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. Kyle was supposed to save her. He'd been right there, she had felt his presence holding her, fighting to pull her back. But now, with the cold bite of rain against her skin and Theron's armored grip on her arm, the truth began to sink in. Kyle wasn't coming.
Inside the ship, two Mandalorians loomed over her, their expressions hidden behind expressionless helmets. Their visors reflected her tear-streaked monotone face as they took hold of her arms. Their gauntleted hands were cold, unyielding as if they were shackles. Polina could barely hear them over the ringing in her ears, but their words didn't matter. She didn't care what they were saying.
Suddenly, the numbness began to melt away, replaced by a rising wave of desperation. No, this wasn't right. She couldn't let them take her. As tears dripped from her eyes, falling silently, her heart hammered in her chest, urging her to fight and she did, suddenly resisting the two Mandalorians' hold, using her entire weight against them, even trying to channel the force but this proved much more difficult than before. The Mandalorians tried to force her into a seat, one of them barking orders to the other.
"Get the harness!"
One Mandalorian then let go of her to reach for something behind the seat, and Polina seized the opportunity. Rage and panic surged through her, and before she even knew what she was doing, she lunged. Her hands grabbed at the exposed section of the other Mandalorian's arm, her teeth sinking into the thin fabric between the armor plates.
He screamed in pain, jerking backward, "Kriffing little wretch!" he spat, his free hand slamming against the side of her head to knock her loose. She released him, but not before tasting blood on her lips.
The other Mandalorian was on her in seconds, his arms locking around her shoulders, dragging her back into the seat as she kicked and thrashed.
"Hold her down!" he barked, his voice tight with frustration as Polina kept struggling.
The bitten Mandalorian, still clutching his injured hand, stormed over to her, his anger evident even through the helmet. Grabbing her by the throat forcefully, he squeezed just hard enough to make her gasp for air, her hands clawing at his wrist.
"Let me go!" Polina choked, her voice a broken mix of fury and terror.
The Mandalorian's visor tilted down and back towards her, his grip tightening for a split second before speaking, "With pleasure." His voice was venomous, and with a sharp movement, he hit a button on a console nearby.
A low hiss echoed through the cabin, followed by the grinding of gears as a long hatch opened beneath them. The ship's floor parted, revealing the vast, stormy clouds below—a dizzying drop, wind whipping through the opening.
Polina's heart stopped. The Mandalorian jerked her towards the hatch, and she felt the open air tugging at her feet as he leaned in closer.
"Say goodbye," he snarled, preparing to shove her into the abyss.
Just as his arm tensed to throw her, Theron intervened. With a brutal kick to the chest, he sent the Mandalorian stumbling backward against the wall. "Enough!" Theron's voice was sharp like a blade, filled with command and finality that no sane being would dare question.
The Mandalorian staggered, his chest plate slightly dented from the force of the kick. "What are you—" he began, but Theron's glare stopped him cold.
"She's a foundling!" Theron barked, stepping between Polina and the open hatch. His presence was a wall of authority. "You will respect the creed."
The Mandalorian growled, his hand still on his chest, but he backed away, his gaze dropping in submission. "Yes, Warblade…" he muttered, glancing at Polina one last time before slamming the hatch shut. The ship groaned as it sealed, leaving only the hum of the engines and the rain pelting the hull outside.
Polina, still breathless and trembling, slumped onto the seat, not daring to test the Mandalorian's patience further than she already had as the rage within her settled into caution. She had fought as hard as she could, but she was trapped now, held captive in the hands of people who she knew nothing about and much less where they were heading, but she now knew they were not to be trifled with.
As Polina sat in the seat, her body still trembling from the struggle, her mind began to race with terror and confusion. She felt the bruises forming on her skin, the sharp pain in her throat where the Mandalorian had grabbed her, and the lingering taste of blood in her mouth. Her heart still pounded, though now slower.
Theron stood in front of her, his cold, emotionless visor locking onto her face. His deep modulated voice directed at the young girl, "Unless you want me to be the one to throw you out of that hatch, I suggest you stay quiet from now on."
Polina lifted her eyes toward him, anger flickering behind the tears that had barely dried on her cheeks. She hated him, she despised him, and it took everything she had not to spit out the words that burned at the back of her throat. She knew better now. These people didn't care about her, and if she pushed too far, Theron might actually carry out that threat.
Her silence was her answer, and she glared at him, her eyes unveiled the contempt she held.
Theron tilted his head slightly as if amused by her defiance, "Good to see you can follow instructions," he remarked dryly, clearly satisfied with her submission. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode off toward the cockpit, leaving her under the watch of the other two Mandalorians.
The two armored figures glanced at each other, exchanging looks through their visors. Neither spoke, though Polina could feel their presence looming over her like a pair of silent sentinels. They remained standing, weapons at their sides, clearly meant to ensure she didn't try anything else.
She was trapped, utterly powerless. Her muscles ached from resisting, her mind screamed for a way out, but she found herself sinking deeper into the seat, forced into bitter stillness. Kyle wasn't coming for her. She was on her own.
Her eyes drifted toward the sealed hatch. Despite everything that had just happened, despite the near brush with death, a part of her wondered if being thrown out of that ship would've been better than whatever awaited her now.
The sun of Jabiim-Selim barely peeked over the horizon, casting a faint glow over the rocky terrain. Kyle sat alone, his figure draped in a poncho that blended seamlessly with the jagged landscape. The morning air was cold, an unexpected contrast to Jabiim's typically unforgiving environment. The cool breeze brushed against his skin, carrying with it the subtle, calming noise of nature. It reminded him that life, somehow, continued even in the harshest of places.
His gaze was fixed on the dirt road stretching into the distance, disappearing into the horizon like an endless thread, the convoy would arrive soon and with it the time to set the plan in motion. His mind, however, wandered far beyond that point. It drifted back through the fragmented memories of everything that had brought him here, all the events that had shaped his path to this inhospitable world.
Jakku. It all started there. A planet shrouded in mysteries he couldn't quite solve, where the familiar and the unfamiliar collided. That had been the pattern of his entire venture ever since. The sudden arrival that left him disoriented, searching for answers in a place that felt so familiar yet alien at the same time. He recounted in his mind everything, from meeting Polina to Ord Mantel and then the battle against the Dominion.
The Dominion. His fists tightened beneath the poncho. The confrontation, his choices, the unintended consequences—they'd all spiraled out of control. In facing the Dominion, he had inadvertently created a crisis that now echoed across the galaxy, a crisis he was still entangled in and that had once more made him an outcast to the Jedi. And now, the irony of his situation struck him—working alongside Mandalorians who had turned their backs on the Dominion he'd helped disrupt, outcasts in their own rights bound by their own code, their own sense of honor. He couldn't help but smile at the thought that they shared more in common with him than the very Jedi.
Everything felt strange, wrong in a way he couldn't shake. This galaxy, its history, its people—it was almost familiar, but not quite. As his mind tried to piece it all together, something deep inside nagged at him. It wasn't just when in time he was that unsettled him.
It was also where, within the grand scope of time and space. The visions back at Ahch-To had kept his mind on a constant twirling of thought, the mention by his doppelganger of taking this dimension, it felt like that confirmed what he had suspected for some time.
He had long struggled with this realization, the fragments of his life not quite aligning with this galaxy's history. The faces, the conflicts, even the stars—they were a reflection of something he had once known, but distorted, different. He had wrestled with the timeline, the shifting pieces of this strange puzzle that never fully fit together. But now, as the cold air of Jabiim filled his lungs, Kyle began to accept what his mind had resisted for so long.
This wasn't his galaxy. This wasn't his universe. He was somewhere else entirely.
A place where the rules he knew didn't apply, where the Force felt just as strong but different, like a familiar song played in a different key. It explained so much, and yet brought so many new questions. The weight of this realization settled heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time in a long while, he felt adrift. Not in battle, not in the heat of conflict, but in the quiet spaces between—the moments where there was nothing but his thoughts to occupy the silence.
Kyle exhaled, watching as his breath faded into the morning air. The path seemed endless, as did the questions in his mind. But now, he at least had one answer, even if it wasn't the one he'd been searching for.
Kyle's wandering thoughts were abruptly interrupted as his senses stirred—someone was approaching from behind. He didn't flinch or reach for his weapon; instead, he remained still, feeling the familiar presence get closer. It was Ragnar.
The Mandalorian walked quietly over the rocks, his heavy boots muffled by the dirt, before taking a knee beside the Jedi. They sat together, overlooking the dirt road that stretched far into the distance. There was silence between them for a moment, only the sound of the cool morning breeze filling the space.
Kyle glanced sideways at Ragnar, his expression thoughtful. Breaking the quiet, he attempted conversation, "What did Hexa mean back there, when she said you'd lost more than we thought?"
Ragnar didn't respond immediately. He kept his helmeted gaze fixed on the horizon, the visor reflecting the distant light of the rising sun. A heavy sigh seemed to escape him as the silence stretched, then he spoke, voice low and even as always.
"One of our brothers died," Ragnar said at last. "We lost him when we went to get you and Skywalker out of that hangar," He didn't say it with bitterness, just fact, as if he were retelling something typical.
Kyle's face tightened, genuine sorrow settling in, "I'm sorry," he said sincerely, his voice almost a whisper. "If I had known… if there was anything I could've done…"
Ragnar turned slightly, giving the Jedi a small glance from behind his visor, "I know you didn't want this, Jedi." His tone carried a calm acceptance, "Death comes for us all. It was his time."
Kyle's regret lingered, the sting of knowing that someone had paid the ultimate price for his survival gnawing at him, "Still, I…" He hesitated, searching for the right words, "I'm truly sorry for the loss. No one should have to die because of me."
Ragnar remained silent for a moment, his helmet dipping ever so slightly, "He died as a Mandalorian should—in battle. It was a good death."
Kyle looked at him, uncertain whether to speak again. The weight of what Ragnar said didn't quite settle right with him. For the Jedi, death was a natural part of the cycle of life, but to him it always felt… different. Something that came with loss, not to be glorified or looked upon as a necessity. Yet for Ragnar, there seemed to be a sense of peace, even honor, in that loss.
"It's how my father passed," Ragnar continued, a slight edge of pride creeping into his voice, "He fell in battle, just as his father before him. A warrior's end. It is the way of my clan, of the Vizslas."
Kyle listened attentively, though part of him wanted to comment on the matter he knew better than to insist his own view upon someone who clearly would not share his. He simply listened.
"It's how I hope to go, too," Ragnar added, as if the thought brought him comfort, "Fighting, not fading."
Kyle gave a slight nod, understanding in some measure.
"I respect that," Kyle said after a beat, "Even if I'm still trying to make sense of this galaxy, I can respect that."
Ragnar turned his head slightly again, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them. There was no need for further words.
As they sat there, watching the sun rise higher over the horizon, the Jedi and the Mandalorian could only wait.
Polina sat quietly in the passenger bay, her eyes wandering to the two armored figures seated across from her. Their faceless visors revealed nothing, only amplifying her sense of isolation. Her thoughts swirled, contending with everything that had happened in such a short span of time. Anger towards Kyle flared again within her, the bitterness and sense of betrayal kept gnawing at her. But it subsided when she remembered how hard he had tried to save her. She couldn't deny that.
Her mind drifted to the moment at the town hall, the memory vivid and strange. How had she done it? Sent Varic flying back across the floor by a simple motion of her hand. Polina looked down at her hands now, turning them over, fiddling with her fingers as if trying to make it happen again, to grasp that power, but nothing. It was as though the moment had slipped away, just out of reach.
The sudden tremble of the ship shook her from her thoughts. She blinked, realizing the vessel was descending. Her eyes flickered up as Theron, red-clad Mandalorian, emerged from the cockpit. His presence commanded immediate attention as the two Mandalorians seated across from Polina stood up without hesitation, awaiting his orders.
"Get the foundling to Protector Saj-Tel," Theron instructed, as he passed by the two.
The two Mandalorians bowed their heads, "Warblade."
Theron didn't waste a second, striding out of the ship without uttering another word. As soon as he was gone, the Mandalorian Polina had previously bitten approached her, his hand hovering near his blaster.
"You gonna play nice this time, or are we doing this the hard way again?" His voice dripped with impatience, the threat clear.
Polina hesitated, her mind racing and her glare filled with obvious resent. She knew she wasn't in any position to resist and with a heavy sigh, she stood up. Fighting wasn't an option.
"Good choice," the second Mandalorian muttered, gesturing for her to follow.
Before she could take more than a few steps, the one she had bitten gave her a rough shove forward, his hand still close to his weapon. Polina stumbled but kept her footing, her eyes looking back at her assailant with growing disdain. She had no choice but to comply as they led her off the ship.
Polina stepped out of the ship, her feet hitting the cold metal floor of the docking bay. Her eyes widened as the scene before her unfolded—a massive, bustling hub of activity. Mandalorians, clad in their iconic armor, moved all around the bay among rows of Gauntlet Starfighters. Some were refueling, others performing maintenance, their movements precise, efficient. The entire area was vast, filled with the hum of engines, the clanking of tools, and the faint hiss of pressurized air.
She had been inside plenty of crashed derelict Star Destroyers on Jakku, but seeing the interior of one like this—a Resurgent-class now under the control of the Mandalorian Dominion—was an entirely different experience. It was both intimidating and awe-inspiring, the sheer scale of it all overwhelming her senses. She couldn't help but let her eyes roam, trying to take in every detail. The way the Mandalorians operated, the control they exerted over this space, it spoke of a military lifestyle she hadn't seen before. They were not just warriors—they were organized, tactical, and prepared for anything.
For a moment, she forgot her situation, lost in the sheer magnitude of it all. But the harsh shove from the Mandalorian behind her quickly snapped her back to reality. She stumbled slightly, shooting a glare over her shoulder at the one she had bitten earlier, his expression remained unreadable behind the visor.
"Keep moving," he muttered, his hand shoved at her again.
Polina exhaled sharply and turned back around, her heart racing as she fell in line, following the Mandalorian ahead of her.
Polina was led through a labyrinth of hallways, each one blending into the next. Rows of Mandalorians marched past her and as she was pushed along she caught glimpses through open doors—warriors sharpening and readying weapons in armories, others tinkering with machinery in dimly lit mechanical rooms. Everything had a purpose, every Mandalorian seemed driven by a singular goal, and it left her feeling even more out of place.
They finally reached a large sliding door. The Mandalorian leading the trio stepped forward, looking directly at a camera perched above the door.
"Foundling," he stated simply.
The door slid open with a mechanical hiss, revealing a Mandalorian of a distinctly feminine form, stepping out as the passage parted. Her armor was a striking bronze, gleaming under the ship's artificial lighting, and her helmet bore a curious set of symbols. The design formed a V-like emblem, though Polina couldn't place its meaning. The two Mandalorians flanking Polina straightened their posture.
"Protector Saj-Tel," they greeted in unison, voices formal and respectful.
Saj-Tel nodded in acknowledgment, her visor slowly turning to rest on Polina, taking in the sight of the disheveled girl. After a brief pause, she spoke with a cool tone.
"Who has saved this lost one?"
"Warblade Theron," replied the lead Mandalorian.
Saj-Tel's head tilted slightly in surprise. "Theron?" she mused, her voice carrying a tone of mild astonishment, "That is... unexpected, but welcome." She stepped closer to Polina, her gaze assessing the foundling with a measured curiosity.
"She's a troublemaker," the Mandalorian Polina had bitten earlier interjected, his voice betraying his irritation.
Before Saj-Tel could respond, the other Mandalorian, clearly enjoying the moment, chuckled softly, "Litt's just mad because the kid got the better of him."
Saj-Tel's helmeted head turned toward Litt, "Is that so?"
Litt's posture stiffened "It won't happen again," he said sharply, turning away with a huff. "She's on your watch now."
The other Mandalorian chuckled again, giving a playful nod to Saj-Tel. "Call if you need anything."
Saj-Tel nodded, her focus still on Polina, "I'll manage."
With that, the other Mandalorian turned and followed after Jexton, leaving Polina alone in the presence of Saj-Tel.
Saj-Tel's visor lingered on Polina, observing the subtle shifts in her posture, the way her hands clenched slightly at her sides. But it was the look in her eyes, a quiet defiance mixed with resentment, that drew her full attention.
"I see that fire in your eyes," Saj-Tel remarked, her voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of intensity, "Good. That will make you a strong warrior one day, if you learn to wield it properly."
Polina's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Her mind was a swirling mess of emotions, but outwardly, she maintained her silence. There was no point in talking, she knew nothing she said would change her situation.
Saj-Tel took note of Polina's quiet resistance, her head tilting slightly in contemplation, "Not a word, hm?" she murmured, stepping aside as the door to the chamber slid open once more.
"Silence is good for now. But know this—your anger can be a weapon. Don't let it consume you before you've learned how to use it."
With a soft hiss, the door opened fully, at the simple gesture of Saj-Tel, Polina stepped forward.
Polina stepped into the room, her guarded demeanor momentarily softened by the surprising comfort of her surroundings. Several plush chairs lined the walls, all encircling a small, sturdy table in the center. Her eyes were drawn to the two banners hanging on opposite ends of the room—one crimson red, adorned with the unmistakable symbol of the Mythosaur skull, and the other brown, emblazoned with the image of a strange creature bearing a horn.
As her gaze wandered, she noticed a large window screen dominating the far side of the room. Beyond it, the dark void of space shimmered faintly, and Polina's heart quickened as her eyes locked on the lush green sphere far below, Ajan Kloss. She hurriedly approached the window, her breath catching as she pressed her hands against the glass, trying to get a better look. Her thoughts raced, consumed with worry about Kyle. Was he still alive? She had no way of knowing, and the uncertainty gnawed at her.
Her fingertips tapped gently against the glass, her mind flooded with images of him—his determined face as he fought to protect her, the way he had always seemed to stand firm no matter the danger. Her anger toward him dulled, replaced with a desperate hope that he was still fighting, that somehow he had made it.
But then, something else caught her attention—a smell, faint but enticing, broke through her worried thoughts. Polina turned, her senses now keenly aware of the pleasant aroma wafting through the air. It was the smell of food. Her stomach, forgotten in her anxiety, twisted with hunger as she spotted Saj-Tel casually entering the room, carrying a large metal plate.
The plate held a steaming portion of what looked like roasted meat, along with a side of blue-colored produce that Polina had never seen before, and a round, dense-looking piece of bread. Saj-Tel moved with the ease of someone entirely at home in this environment, setting the meal down in the center of the table. She then sat cross-legged at the far end, her visor still trained on Polina.
"Sit," Saj-Tel said, her voice steady but not unkind. She gestured to the seat across from her, "You need your strength."
Polina hesitated, still unsettled by everything, but the gnawing hunger and exhaustion won out. She approached the table cautiously and lowered herself into the seat opposite Saj-Tel, her eyes flicking between the Mandalorian and the meal before her. She didn't know if this was a test, a trap, or some strange Mandalorian custom, but for now, it seemed safe enough.
Saj-Tel remained quiet, watching her, as if waiting to see what Polina would do next.
Polina stared at the steaming plate in front of her, the tantalizing smell making her stomach ache with longing. She felt a surge of hunger that was impossible to ignore, her gaze locking onto the roasted meat and strange blue produce. Her body practically screamed for sustenance, but her mind recoiled. The idea of accepting anything from these Mandalorians made her seethe with resentment. They were captors, not benefactors. Even so, the longer she looked, the more her resolve began to waver.
Her fingers twitched slightly as if tempted to reach out, but she clenched them into fists on her lap, her pride demanding that she resist. She couldn't let them think she was weak, that she was dependent on their scraps. Defiance welled up inside her, staving off the hunger for a moment longer.
Saj-Tel's visor had been resting on her in quiet observation the entire time. Finally, the Mandalorian broke the silence.
"Eat," she said plainly, "I don't wish to see you starved. That's not how good warriors are formed."
Polina blinked, the simple words cutting through her internal struggle. She hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then with a sharp exhale, her will cracked. She reached forward, snatching a piece of meat and tearing into it hungrily. The moment the food touched her lips, her manners abandoned her completely. She devoured the meal with no grace, stuffing pieces of bread and blue produce into her mouth, barely pausing to breathe.
The entire time, she kept her eyes locked on Saj-Tel's helmeted face, her gaze burning with anger, though her hands moved in a blur of frantic eating. When she finally slowed down enough to swallow a bit more steadily, Polina spoke, her voice harsh.
"I'll never be one of you," she spat, her glare filled with bitter contempt.
Saj-Tel remained still for a moment, then a low, amused chuckle escaped her, "Is that so?" she mused, "I said the same thing... a long time ago."
Polina's scowl deepened, but Saj-Tel's reaction wasn't one of insult. If anything, it seemed as though the Protector found her defiance entertaining—perhaps even expected. The Mandalorian leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed, as if the whole exchange had been part of a familiar routine.
A few moments passed in silence as Polina's ravenous eating slowed to a more measured pace. Saj-Tel remained seated, her posture still and calm, watching the girl with quiet curiosity. After a pause, the Mandalorian Protector spoke again, her voice probing yet oddly gentle.
"If you don't wish to be part of the greatest warrior race the galaxy has ever seen," Saj-Tel began, her visor trained on Polina, "then what, or rather who, do you want to be?"
Polina paused mid-chew, her eyes flickering with thought. She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the question. Her gaze drifted to the window, staring into the distant void of space before slowly returning to the Mandalorian. With a deep breath, she met Saj-Tel's masked gaze and spoke with conviction.
"I'll be a Jedi."
Saj-Tel didn't laugh, nor did she mock Polina's answer. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, the gesture conveying genuine interest.
"Interesting," Saj-Tel mused, then added "But ironic."
Polina's brow furrowed, her face tightening with confusion, "What's that supposed to mean?"
Saj-Tel leaned forward a little, her tone carrying a hint of sarcasm but nothing overly harsh, "You say you don't wish to be a great Mandalorian warrior, yet here you sit, wanting to be a Jedi warrior."
Polina shot her a glare, defiance flaring in her eyes, "Jedi aren't warriors," she retorted sharply, "they're defenders of the innocent, guardians of peace."
Saj-Tel let out a thoughtful hum, clearly indulging in the exchange. She leaned back in her seat, allowing the words to ride in her mind before speaking again.
"Not warriors, huh?" she spoke, her voice taking on a subtle edge, "Then who was it that fought in the Clone Wars all those years ago? Who destroyed the Sith? Pummeled the First Order? And…" she paused, her voice dropping an octave, "Who subjugated my people? The Mandalorians... and the Nightsisters of Dathomir."
Polina froze, her mouth slightly open as she struggled to respond. Her eyes widened as her mind raced to find a counter. But no words came, she just sat there, speechless.
The Mandalorian's gaze remained fixed on her, as though waiting to see how Polina would reconcile this contradiction.
"The Jedi help people," Polina finally blurted out, her voice trembling with a mix of uncertainty and defiance, "They protect those who can't protect themselves. A Jedi saved me—saved me from Jakku, where I was abandoned." Her voice softened for a moment, recalling the desperation of her past, "If it wasn't for him, I'd still be there..."
Saj-Tel tilted her helmeted head, as if she were arching a brow beneath it, her tone remaining cool but taking on a more pointed edge. "You mean your friend down on Ajan Kloss? The one causing all this trouble?" She let out a chuckle, though there was no warmth in it, "If that's your Jedi hero, then he's doing a terrible job of 'protecting the innocent.'"
Polina's fists tightened even more, her knuckles turning white. Saj-Tel wasn't done.
"The people of Ajan Kloss were fine before he showed up," Saj-Tel continued, her voice now laced with disdain, "They had bountiful food, peaceful lives, protection under the Dominion. It's far more than what the Jedi have ever offered the galaxy. What did they do? They preserved a corrupt, rotting Republic, the very Republic that became the Empire."
Polina winced as she listened, her body tense, Saj-Tel leaned forward, her voice growing darker.
"The same Empire that tried to eradicate my people. And where were the Jedi when that happened?" She paused, her words deliberate, "Gone. Destroyed by their own arrogance. And when they returned, they let the First Order rise and take over the galaxy again. What kind of defenders of peace allow that?"
Polina's face twisted with frustration, her heart pounding rapidly but she remained silent as Saj-Tel continued.
"Your friend, this so-called Jedi, is no different than the fabled Luke Skywalker. He turned his back on the galaxy when they needed him most. Came back just to disappear again like a coward, leaving everyone to suffer in his absence. It was his own nephew who became leader of the First Order, destroying even more of the galaxy!"
Saj-Tel's words hit Polina like a blow. Her chest tightened, her breathing growing heavier as her anger began to boil over. She clenched her fists further, almost clawing her nails into her palms, struggling to keep her composure as the Mandalorian pushed her further.
"And now your friend has doomed the citizens of Ajan Kloss by inciting pointless defiance when there was no need for it," Saj-Tel continued, leaning forward slightly, "The Jedi aren't protectors of peace. They're murderers, disguised as heroes."
Polina's composure finally cracked. She shot to her feet, her fists trembling with rage as she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Kyle is NOT a murderer!"
The room seemed to shiver with her outburst, as though a ripple of energy had passed through it. For a moment, even Saj-Tel seemed taken aback, not by Polina's anger, but by the subtle tremor that accompanied it.
Polina stood there, breathing heavily, her fists shaking at her sides as her anger surged. But beneath her rage, there was something else—something stirring inside her, something she couldn't quite control.
Saj-Tel's helmet tilted ever so slightly, a hint of surprise hidden beneath her visor. This was exactly what she had been aiming to incite—but the slight shiver that passed through the room wasn't something she had expected.
"Remarkable…" was all she could say.
The ground trembled beneath the weight of the convoy as it moved through the dusty road beyond Jabiim-Selim. The formidable sight of six hover tanks gliding across the terrain marked the convoy's military might. Long and rectangular, each tank had pairs of turbines at the back and four engines pointed downward, keeping them afloat. Twin turrets bristled at the front of every tank, with a larger, multi-barreled cannon dominating the center, all manned by alert troopers.
Creeping along the middle of the convoy was a massive squared shaped vehicle, its spindly legs moving in a precise, insect-like crawl. It looked more like a giant mechanical beetle than a transport, with its segmented body and armored panels. This all-terrain heavy hauler lumbered forward, its legs clicking into the earth in a rhythmic motion, supporting the weight of whatever cargo it carried.
Two towering AT-ATs led the front of the convoy, their long strides leaving deep imprints in the dirt road. At the back, casting an imposing silhouette, the AT-M6 followed like a silent overseer, its massive bulk more menacing than anything in the line.
It was a display of power meant to intimidate and most importantly dissuade any attack by insurgents. It would seem that even the Mandalorian dated not to combat this seemingly impenetrable work horse of war. But the convoy was far from impenetrable.
Just behind the last hover tank, the ground stirred. Dust shifted as a figure emerged from the dirt in silence, timing his movements with the passing tank. Clad in a poncho, his face hidden beneath a ragged mask and goggles, the figure quickly darted forward, his boots barely leaving a mark as he sprinted toward the rear of the tank.
It was at the very back of the convoy, just behind the massive AT-M6. Here, there were fewer eyes, and fewer chances to be noticed.
With hurry, the figure leapt onto the back of the tank, gripping the rear handhold and pressing his body flat against the vehicle. The hum of the tank's hovering engines drowned out the faint sound of his landing.
One of the troopers manning a turret briefly turned, perhaps alerted by a flicker of sound. But seeing nothing out of place, the soldier resumed his watch.
Kyle removed his goggles and mask, glancing toward the AT-M6 looming only slightly ahead of the tank. His expression was focused but his mind was riddled with thoughts of everything that could go wrong with this plan. He knew the risks, but there was no turning back now.
Kyle steadied his breath, bracing against the constant rumble of the hover tank beneath him. His fingers clung tightly to the edge as he inched along its metal surface, staying low to avoid detection. The convoy was an armored fortress in motion, each vehicle going in formation as it pushed through the barren landscape. Above him, the troopers kept their vigil, their helmets slowly sweeping over the horizon, scanning for threats.
Kyle knew he had precious little time. He reached into his poncho, pulling out a grappling hook launcher, its metal glinting even amidst the dust. His head leaned out of the corner of the tanks backside and his eyes looked at the target, the massive rear legs of the AT-M6, moving in a steady rhythm just beyond the tank. The towering walker's armored feet crushed the earth with each stride, keeping pace with the convoy like a mechanical giant.
Kyle paused, his eyes narrowing as he sighted the legs of the AT-M6. With a decisive breath he aimed the grappling hook but just as he prepared to fire it the tank beneath him jolted sharply, the sudden shift nearly sending him sliding off and he narrowly held onto the ledge. The tank's hover engines struggled briefly as it passed over uneven ground, bumping and shaking against the terrain. Kyle gritted his teeth, his left hand holding on tightly as the vehicle righted itself.
The troopers on board exchanged glances but remained silent, their focus remained on scanning the empty horizon for any sign of attackers. Little did they know one was already riding with them.
Kyle exhaled, shaking off the momentary disruption. He raised the grappling hook again, this time locking onto one of the AT-M6's massive legs. The wind whipped against his face as he steadied his aim. He couldn't afford another misstep.
With a sharp breath, he fired. The hook shot forward, the cable unspooling with a soft whirr as it zipped through the air, wrapping securely around the upper section of the walker's leg. Kyle tugged at the line, feeling it tighten. A secure grip.
He wasted no time, fastening the cable to his belt and preparing to make the next move. The towering walker continued its march, unaware of the lone figure now tethered to it. Kyle took no time to waste as with one swift pull he hoisted himself off the hover tank, his body suspended in midair as the cable pulled him toward the AT-M6. The wind howled around him, and the ground below became smaller as he swung toward the walker's giant frame, closing the distance and finally holding on as the leg kept moving forward.
Kyle's heart pounded, but his mind was focused. He was nearly there. Now, it was all about making it onto the walker—and staying unseen.
Kyle gripped a bundle of cables running along the AT-M6's massive leg, feeling every vibration and jolt as the walker's powerful strides carried it forward. Each step caused a lurch that threatened to throw him off, but he tightened his hold and kept climbing, his eyes fixed on the hulking mass of metal above him. The wind whipped against his poncho, making it harder to maintain his balance. He muttered to himself between breaths, "This seemed a lot easier in my head…"
The mechanical tubes and ridges lining the walker's legs offered a few makeshift handholds, and Kyle used every inch of them as he worked his way upward, his muscles straining against the constant movement of the walker. Each time the leg swung forward, his body was pulled along in a dangerous arc, but he kept his focus, inching closer to the top with every pull. His fingers were aching, and his heart pounded, but this was nothing compared to the dangers he'd faced before.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kyle reached the upper section of the walker, just below the massive turbo laser hump near its back. He clung the hook line of his grappling hook to a metal rod and had some time to catch his breath as the leg movement below became less treacherous. For a moment, it felt like a victory.
Then, a noise cut through the air, distinct and unmistakable. The whine of TIE fighters.
Kyle froze, his eyes darting to the sky just as two TIEs screamed past the convoy, their wings slicing through the dusty air in perfect formation. "Great," Kyle muttered, watching them curve around the convoy, their dark silhouettes ominous against the pale sky, "Ragnar didn't mention those..."
His grip tightened on the side of the walker as the TIE fighters disappeared beyond the horizon. They weren't here for him, not yet at least, but their presence made things more complicated. If they were patrolling this route, it meant trouble was coming. It also meant he had less time than he'd thought.
Kyle shifted his position, hanging precariously from the side of the walker as he looked ahead toward the road. His eyes narrowed at the sight of an obstacle. There, up the path, a mess of rock debris covered the convoy's route, as if a hillside had collapsed directly onto the road. The convoy ground to a halt, the heavy hauler at the center of the formation creaking to a stop along with the tanks and the lead walkers.
He smirked slightly—this was part of the plan. The debris wasn't a random accident; it had been placed there intentionally to slow down the convoy, giving him a window of opportunity. The timing was perfect, but now he had to act quickly before anyone figured it out.
Polina sat quietly in the corner of the small room, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. It wasn't quite a cell, but it felt close enough. She hadn't tried to leave; the door remained shut, and she had nowhere else to go. Every now and then, her eyes darted upward to the camera in the corner, its lens fixed unblinking on her. The sterile, almost claustrophobic environment gnawed at her nerves, though she kept her face impassive.
On the other side of the camera, Protector Saj-Tel stood still, arms crossed, her armored figure looming silently over the monitors. The helmet masked her expression, but beneath it, her mind was racing. This new foundling, this small and seemingly fragile child, had stirred something in her that she couldn't quite put to rest. Saj-Tel had extracted a lot from her, pushing the child to her emotional limits just to see how malleable she could be. And yet, that moment with the tremor in the chamber, the sudden burst of raw energy that had come from the girl, it stayed with her. It was powerful, unsettling even, especially from a creature so small.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door sliding open behind her. The monitoring crew, ever alert, rose to their feet as the towering figure of Warblade Theron entered.
"Warblade!" His presence was announced with the reverence that came naturally to the Mandalorians around him, though Saj-Tel herself didn't engage in such formalities. Her focus remained on Polina, eyes locked on the screen.
"She's an odd case," Saj-Tel said, her voice calm but betraying the flicker of uncertainty she felt, "Though, that's fitting, given you brought her in."
Theron stepped closer, curiosity stoked by the comment, "Odd, how?"
"She's young, fragile, but… there's more to her. The questioning went as expected. I pushed her, challenged her. But there was a moment… a powerful display," Saj-Tel's voice lowered, her mind replaying the event, "It was like something inside her snapped—raw power, unexpected. It's not normal for a foundling this age."
Theron raised his helmet, his gaze now fixed on the girl through the monitor, "What did she reveal?"
"Nothing conclusive," Saj-Tel continued, "She's been through a lot, obviously. Orphaned in Jakku, that Jedi you encountered… Katarn, she seems to have been taken in by him. She aspires to be a Jedi and seems to have been indoctrinated by him, but she's been taught enough to be of use and for us to eliminate those leanings in due time. Still, her energy is... complicated. There's something she's holding back, I have to dig deeper."
Theron's gaze remained fixed as he considered Saj-Tel's words, "So, the question is whether she could be of use, or if she'll break before we can find out."
"She could be a great Mandalorian, just as much as she could also be a dangerous Jedi, perhaps more than that…" Saj-Tel responded, her eyes still on the girl.
Theron remained silent for a moment, studying the screen before him. Without turning, he spoke "Get the foundling ready. A retrieval ship will take her to Bastion."
Saj-Tel's visor tilted slightly toward him, and her voice was firm but respectful as she responded, "I'll accompany her."
Theron turned his head slightly, a hint of reluctance in his posture, "That won't be necessary. The journey is-"
"There's still much to uncover," Saj-Tel interrupted, her tone unwavering. "I've only scratched the surface with her. She needs further observation, and I need to be the one to continue that."
Theron paused, weighing her words. His gaze lingered on the screen for a moment longer before he gave a short nod. "Very well," he said, conceding to her insistence, "But I need to speak with the Mand'alor directly."
He turned sharply, walking out of the monitoring room. As he made his way down the hallway, Saj-Tel turned her head around, calling to Theron.
"And the Jedi?" she asked, her tone slightly curious.
"He'll be dealt with," Theron replied without breaking stride. He didn't offer any further details, and Saj-Tel knew better than to press the matter. Her focus returned to the screen, her thoughts back on the child she was about to escort.
Sergeant AL-2377 sat rigid in the hover tank, his gaze fixed ahead as the convoy continued its steady advance through the rocky terrain of Jabiim. The hum of the engines and the low chatter of his troopers filled his ears, but his focus never wavered. He had been in service to the First Order for as long as he could remember, practically since birth, and this mission, like all others, was to be executed flawlessly. Insurgents, Mandalorians, whoever dared to challenge them, none of them would disrupt the convoy's course. His orders were clear: get the shipment to the facility. Failure wasn't an option.
The crackle of the comm system broke through his thoughts. "Commander-9," the voice came through. It was one of the drivers from the lead AT-AT, "There's an obstacle on the path ahead. Looks like debris from a collapsed hillside, the cargo can't move forward."
Sergeant 2377 had expected as much, insurgents never fought head-on. They preferred these underhanded methods, trying to slow down the inevitable.
He immediately keyed into his tank's communication relay, issuing commands, "Copy that Crimson One, All units, form a perimeter. Shield protocol." This wasn't the first time he had led a convoy through hostile territory, and he knew exactly what needed to be done.
The hover tanks began to shift, their engines whirring as they broke formation and started to create a circular perimeter around the convoy. The vehicles fanned out, their turrets swiveling to cover every angle. 2377 watched as his troopers took their positions, creating a protective 360-degree barrier. Nothing would get past them.
He switched frequencies, reaching out to the massive AT-M6 looming behind the convoy. Its call sign was Iron Fist. "Iron Fist, advance to the front and clear the rubble," 2377 ordered. The reinforced front legs of the AT-M6 were more than enough to handle the obstruction. It could clear a path without breaking stride.
Iron Fist began to move forward, its towering frame dwarfing the smaller hover tanks as it advanced through the convoy and towards the front. The ground beneath it trembled as its legs slammed down in powerful steps.
As the tanks completed their circle, Sergeant 2377 scanned the horizon. His visor remained fixed on the barren terrain beyond the perimeter. His instincts told him this obstacle wasn't just a coincidence. Something was out there, watching, waiting. But no one, insurgent or otherwise, would disrupt this convoy. Not under his watch.
He gripped the handle of his blaster, ready for anything.
The massive Iron Fist lumbered forward, its reinforced legs easily smashing through the rubble blocking the convoy's path. Rocks and debris were sent scattering in all directions as the walker cleared the way with brute force, the obstacle seemingly nothing more than an inconvenience.
Sergeant 2377 watched from his hover tank as the AT-M6 cleared a wide enough path for the hauler and the rest of the convoy to pass through. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction—things were moving smoothly, just as planned.
But then, something strange happened.
Iron Fist began to slow its advance, its hulking form pausing for a brief moment before the massive walker started turning around. The movement seemed deliberate, its bulk pivoting on its powerful legs, rotating back toward the convoy. Confusion flickered across Sergeant 2377's face beneath his helmet. Why was the walker turning? This wasn't part of the plan.
He quickly opened his comm channel, "Iron Fist, what's your status? Why are you turning? Maintain position!" His voice was sharp, expecting an immediate response.
There was only static.
"Iron Fist, respond!" 2377 barked again, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. Still nothing but dead air. His fingers tightened around his blaster as he tried switching frequencies, hoping to reach any of the troopers on board the AT-M6.
The walker continued its turn, ignoring all orders. Its massive frame now fully faced the convoy, its imposing silhouette looming over the hover tanks and the remaining AT-ATs.
Then, without warning, the AT-M6's top-mounted turbo laser activated with a loud whirr, the massive barrel swinging toward one of the leading AT-ATs.
Sergeant 2377's eyes widened in horror, "No!"
Before he could react further, a bright flash erupted from Iron Fist's turbo laser, and a deafening blast followed. The beam struck the AT-AT squarely in its front, tearing through its armored hull. The impact was catastrophic—explosions rippled through the AT-AT's frame, its legs buckling under the force. In moments, the towering war machine collapsed, crumbling to the ground in a twisted heap of burning metal and debris.
The blast wave shook the ground, causing Sergeant 2377's hover tank to tremble as he stared in disbelief at the wreckage of the AT-AT, smoke and fire billowing into the sky.
The convoy, once organized and disciplined, was thrown into chaos. The sound of alarms filled the air as troopers scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.
Sergeant 2377 didn't waste another second. He gritted his teeth and shouted into his comm, "All units, Iron Fist has been compromised! Engage!"
Something had gone terribly wrong, and whatever it was, the enemy was already inside their ranks.
Within the now compromised waker Kyle gripped the control levers of Iron Fist, his breath steady as he glanced over at the unconscious crew behind him, tied up and slumped against the back wall of the cabin. Their helmets and weapons lay discarded in a corner, leaving them defenseless for the moment. He couldn't afford to worry about them, though. The entire convoy was now focused on him, and the battle had only just begun.
The narrow slit of the view screen ahead gave him a clear view of the chaos unfolding below. The AT-AT he had just hit was still burning, its body a heap of smoking debris. His heart pounded as he scanned the rest of the convoy. The remaining AT-AT had already begun to react, its cannons swiveling in his direction, preparing to open fire on the now-hijacked Iron Fist.
Kyle quickly worked the controls, his fingers moving over the console as he directed the walker's head guns toward the second AT-AT. He could hear the hum of the turbo laser charging up, it could obliterate anything in its path if given enough time to fully charge. But time was something Kyle didn't have as the enemy walker was already firing, and the rest of the convoy wasn't far behind.
The first volley struck Iron Fist with a loud clang, and Kyle flinched as the walker rocked under the impact. The armor held, but it wouldn't last forever under that kind of firepower. The tanks were already starting to move, advancing slowly toward his blind spots, their cannons sending explosive rounds crashing against the AT-M6's hull.
"Come on, come on…" Kyle muttered, working furiously at the controls. He finally got the walker's head guns aimed directly at the second AT-AT. Without wasting a second, he fired.
The front and side turrets lit up, spitting bolts of searing red plasma across the battlefield. The shots struck the opposing walker in its side, causing a massive explosion to ripple along its armored frame. Kyle watched through the view screen as the AT-AT staggered, its legs momentarily faltering under the impact.
But it didn't fall.
The AT-AT responded with a vicious counterstrike, its front cannon unleashing a volley of laser fire directly at Iron Fist. Kyle barely had time to brace himself before the shots slammed into the walker's head, causing the entire control cabin to shudder violently. He was thrown against the console, his vision momentarily blurred as sparks flew from the control panels around him.
The walker groaned under the strain, and for a brief moment, Kyle feared the head might tear off entirely. But the AT-M6 held, its reinforced structure absorbing the brunt of the attack. He quickly steadied himself, gripping the controls once more.
Outside, the hover tanks were closing in. They had started to circle around the Iron Fist, positioning themselves in the walker's blind spots, firing their cannons relentlessly at its joints. Explosions rocked the hull from all sides, and Kyle could hear the metal groan under the relentless assault.
"Sithspit, this is getting worse by the second," he muttered to himself, eyes darting between the targeting display and the view screen.
Sergeant AL-2377's eyes were locked on the massive hijacked AT-M6. It was clear that this was no mere insurgent attack, it was a full-blown infiltration. The entire mission was on the verge of collapse unless he could take control of the situation, and quickly.
"All tanks, focus fire on the AT-M6's legs!" 2377 barked into his comm, his voice sharp and unyielding, "We bring that thing down now!"
The hover tanks responded in unison, their turrets swiveling to target the AT-M6's massive legs. Bolts of red plasma erupted from the tanks, firing in coordinated volleys toward the walker's joints and support struts. Explosions rippled across the walker's legs, but the reinforced armor held firm under the assault. 2377's watched as his tanks' firepower failed to cripple the behemoth.
This wasn't a standard AT-AT. The AT-M6 was built for heavy combat, and its armor was thicker, its weapons far more destructive. The smaller hover tanks were struggling to deal any significant damage. But they had to try, they had to keep hammering at it.
2377 switched frequencies, connecting to the remaining AT-AT, "Crimson Two, concentrate fire on Iron Fist's upper body. Keep it distracted while we go for the legs."
"Yes, Sergeant," came the quick response, and Crimson Two opened fire, its cannons unleashing another volley of laser fire. The shots pounded into the side of the hijacked AT-M6, causing the already damaged armor to spark and groan, but still, the walker remained standing.
2377 cursed under his breath. It was only a matter of time before the AT-M6 managed to line up another shot with its turbo laser. And that was when it would all fall apart.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw it. The charging mechanism of the AT-M6's top-mounted turbo laser beginning to glow. The massive weapon was primed and ready to fire again, and 2377 knew all too well what that meant.
"Crimson Two, evasive maneuvers! Get out of its firing arc!" he shouted into the comm. But it was too late.
The AT-M6's turbo laser let loose a blinding blast, the powerful shot piercing through the air with a bright glow. It struck Crimson Two square in the middle of its chassis, the force of the impact tearing through the walker's thick armor like it was paper. The explosion that followed was instantaneous and violent, ripping the AT-AT apart from the inside.
Screams erupted over the comm channel as the crew inside Crimson Two cried out in agony, but the transmission was cut short as the walker's systems went dark. The AT-AT collapsed to the ground, its legs buckling as it crumbled into a burning wreck.
Sergeant 2377 felt a cold shiver run through him as he watched the destruction unfold. Crimson Two was gone. Both of their back up walkers had been destroyed, and all that remained were the hover tanks and the vulnerable hauler. They couldn't afford another loss like that.
"Damn it," he muttered. "That thing's too strong for a direct assault…"
He quickly keyed into the command frequency, his mind racing. The hover tanks wouldn't be able to stop the AT-M6 on their own. They needed to change tactics.
"All units, switch to Plan B," he ordered, "Deploy ascension lines, we'll retake the walker from the inside!"
There was a brief pause before several acknowledgments came through the comms.
The hover tanks shifted positions once more, keeping their turrets aimed at the AT-M6's legs while troopers inside prepared their ascension cables.
Sergeant 2377 watched as his men quickly set to work, firing their ascension cables which stuck onto the upper platforms of the walker, preparing to scale the massive AT-M6. This wasn't the first time they had needed to take down a rogue vehicle from the inside, but it was by far the most dangerous situation they'd faced in recent memory.
The tanks kept firing at the AT-M6, their plasma bolts hammering the walker's legs, while the stormtroopers took cover, waiting for the right moment to begin ascending.
"Ascension teams, once you're aboard, disable the weapons systems first," 2377 commanded, "We need to neutralize that turbo laser before it can fire again!"
With that, the stormtroopers began their ascension. One by one, they began their perilous ascent and Sergeant 2377 watched them go. This was it—their last shot at bringing down the hijacked walker before it wiped out the entire convoy.
Kyle exhaled a breath of relief as the AT-AT crumbled under the blast from the AT-M6's turbo laser, its burning wreckage collapsing in the distance. The threat from the enemy walkers had been neutralized—for now. He wiped sweat from his brow and leaned back in the pilot seat, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
Grabbing his commlink, he pressed the button, "Ragnar, the walkers are down. I repeat, the walkers are dealt with. What's your status?"
The only response was static. Kyle frowned, tapping the device, "Ragnar, do you copy?"
Still nothing. He cursed under his breath. Something was wrong.
Before he could think further, a sudden, loud thud echoed from the side of the AT-M6's hull. Kyle froze, his eyes darting toward the source of the noise. The distinct sound of metal clanging under pressure followed—a battering on the side doors.
Grabbing his Enforce blaster pistol from the holster, Kyle stood up from the pilot's seat, his muscles tensing as he approached the door cautiously. His footsteps echoed through the cold, metallic interior of the walker, passing by the bound and unconscious crew members he'd incapacitated earlier. Their bodies were slumped in their restraints, heads drooping with no apparent sign of awareness. One unhelmeted trooper had blood slowly trickling down his forehead from the earlier fight, but they all seemed down for good, at least, that's what Kyle thought.
The pounding on the side door grew louder. Whoever was out there, they weren't waiting for an invitation. Kyle raised his blaster, ready to take on whatever or whomever was about to come through, when suddenly, he was yanked backward.
Kyle's vision blurred as something tightened around his neck, a set of thick, crude binds wrapping around him. One of the pilots had regained consciousness, sneaking up from behind and launching a desperate attack. The binds tightened, cutting off Kyle's air as the pilot used their body weight to drag back to the piloting area.
Kyle gasped for breath, his fingers instinctively clawing at the rope around his throat. The blaster clattered to the ground as they both struggled, the pilot grunting with effort. Darkness crept into Kyle's vision, but his instincts took over. Summoning his strength, Kyle twisted violently, using his momentum to slam the pilot hard into the control board.
The crack of impact was harsh, the pilot's body slamming onto the controls, sending a shower of sparks across the console. The pilot groaned, stunned from the blow. Kyle, finally free of the chokehold, staggered back, gasping for air as he grabbed his fallen blaster from the floor.
Without hesitation, Kyle aimed the blaster directly at the pilot's head, his chest heaving from the struggle. The pilot, now slumped down against the control panel, blinked in a daze.
"Stay down," Kyle hissed, his voice hoarse but cold, keeping the blaster trained on the pilot, ready to fire at any sign of resistance.
The trooper, no older than his twenties, raised his hands slowly, his breath ragged and his expression weary, "I'm done... I'm not fighting anymore," he said, his voice trembling. "I never wanted to be in the First Order. None of us did."
Kyle kept the blaster trained on him, glancing briefly at the unconscious crew to ensure no one else stirred. The trooper leaned back, exhausted, his body slumped in surrender, "This... this is all we know. Hell, I've never even met my family..." He looked up at Kyle with a mix of bitterness and envy, "You... insurgents... rebels, whatever you are. You probably have people waiting for you. Someone to go back to… I've never had that…"
Kyle's grip on the blaster faltered slightly. The words hit him in a place he didn't expect. He had been there, trapped in the faceless ranks of the Empire, indoctrinated and manipulated. He knew what it was like to feel like you had no choice, no future. For a moment, he empathized with the trooper in front of him, the same system that had once trapped him now doing the same to this young man.
His mind wandered, and without fully realizing it, Kyle began to lower the blaster, thoughts of his own time as a stormtrooper clouding his focus.
That moment of hesitation was all the trooper needed. In a flash, his hand darted toward Kyle's weapon, trying to wrestle it from his grasp.
Kyle reacted instantly, pulling the trigger. The blaster fired, the shot hitting the trooper squarely in the chest. The young man gasped, his body jolting from the impact, and he staggered backward into the terminal. His body slumped against the control board, his dying breath triggering a series of sparks as his weight hit the movement controls.
Suddenly, the AT-M6 lurched violently, the entire walker shaking uncontrollably as it began to move forward in an unsteady march.
Kyle cursed, his hand gripping the edge of a nearby console to steady himself. The walker wasn't just moving—it was charging forward in an erratic, unpredictable pattern. Alarms blared inside the cockpit, warning lights flashing as the massive machine struggled to maintain its balance.
And then, with a deafening clang, the door on the side of the walker was forced open. The stormtroopers outside had breached it, and as the AT-M6 rocked back and forth, Kyle saw them spilling in through the opening, ready for a fight.
Kyle raised his blaster once again, firing rapidly and causing the troopers to stay in cover.
Blaster fire rattled the inside of the control cabin, causing sparks to fly as the stormtroopers outside relentlessly pounded the view screen with shots. Kyle pressed himself against the console, feeling the heat of the bolts whizzing past him, each one threatening to hit its mark. His options were limited, pinned down by a barrage of fire, and the erratically moving walker only added to the chaos.
He took a breath, his mind racing. The troopers had the advantage here. They were steadily advancing, pouring fire into the cabin, and any movement on his part risked exposing him to a deadly shot. The cracks on the view screen were getting worse, spider-webbing across the transparent panel.
Kyle knew he had to act fast. He readied his blaster, gripping it tight, preparing himself for a desperate attempt to break their line and fight his way out. He could hear the stormtroopers moving closer, their footfalls heavy against the metal floor, their voices barking orders as they closed in.
But then, something strange happened.
The blaster fire abruptly stopped, replaced by the sounds of grunting and scuffling just outside the cabin. Kyle tensed, his blaster still raised, but instead of the continued assault, there was a short exchange of blaster shots, different ones, rapid and with a distinct thumping sound. Then, silence.
Cautiously, Kyle peeked out from behind the console, his eyes scanning the area. The cabin was littered with scorch marks from the stormtroopers' assault, but to his surprise, two of the white-armored soldiers now lay on the ground, lifeless, blaster wounds smoking on their chests.
The rest of the tied-up crew remained where they were, unconscious, their bodies slumped against the far wall. None of them had moved.
Slowly, Kyle moved toward the open hatch, blaster still at the ready. His eyes scanned the outside as he approached, and that's when he saw him.
Standing near the edge of the walker, Ragnar, his armor scratched but intact, was kicking the last of the stormtroopers off the side. The unfortunate trooper tumbled down into the canyon below with a desperate, drawn-out scream, his voice echoing as he disappeared from sight.
Ragnar glanced over his shoulder at Kyle, who was still catching his breath. A smirk crept across the Mandalorian's face, though his helmet hid the expression.
"Got yourself in a bit of trouble, didn't you?" Ragnar called out, wiping his gauntlet clean against his thigh.
Kyle shook his head, stepping out fully from the cabin and holstering his blaster, "You have a real sense of timing, you know that?"
Ragnar chuckled lightly, turning back to face Kyle as he walked up to the open hatch. "I figured you'd need a hand. First Order troopers aren't much, but they sure like to swarm..."
Kyle allowed himself a brief smile before the reality of their situation sunk back in. The walker was still moving, and it wasn't under control. The AT-M6 lurched forward again, swaying as it marched with no clear direction, heading straight for the hauler in the convoy.
"We've got to stop this thing before it runs straight into the cargo," Kyle said, rushing back into the cabin.
Ragnar followed him inside, eyeing the unconscious crew and the damaged controls, "I take it you didn't plan for the walker to be on autopilot?"
Kyle shot him a look as he began working the controls again, trying to regain some measure of control over the walker's movement, "Not exactly."
Ragnar took a place beside him, helping to assess the situation, "You keep this thing steady, and I'll deal with the rest of the convoy. We need to make sure we don't lose that cargo."
Kyle nodded, his hands working furiously over the control panel. The AT-M6 shuddered under his touch, but slowly, it began to respond, its chaotic path starting to steady.
Ragnar gave him a firm nod before turning to head back out the hatch, "Try not to get into any more trouble, Jedi…"
Kyle grinned despite the stress, but his focus remained on the controls. The erratic movement of the walker was starting to stabilize.
Kyle's hands tightened on the control levers as he steered the walker away from the hauler, the controls felt stiff but at least they were still somewhat responsive. For a brief moment, it felt like things were back under control, at least as much as they could be in the middle of an ambush.. The walker's erratic movement had settled, and the cargo was no longer in jeopardy.
But then, a shrill beep cut through the cabin.
Kyle's eyes snapped to the sensor display just as it flashed a warning—incoming. His heart skipped a beat, and before he could fully process what was happening, a deafening explosion rocked the AT-M6. The walker lurched violently, the force of the hit causing the entire structure to sway.
The unmistakable roar of TIE fighters screamed past the walker, the sound sending a chill down Kyle's spine. The rest of the First Order had figured it out, they knew the walker was compromised, and they weren't going to let it remain operational for long.
Kyle's mind raced. There was no way they could hold this position with air support bearing down on them. The walker had gone from being an asset to a death trap and he knew it, he needed to move, now.
Abandoning the controls, he bolted toward the exit hatch, his feet pounding against the metal floor. He could already hear the faint hum of the TIEs as they looped back around for another pass.
Just as Kyle reached the hatch, the walker was hit again. The force of the blast knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing back into the cabin. The entire AT-M6 groaned as if the metal itself was crying out, and then Kyle felt a sharp, disorienting shift.
The walker was falling.
His world tilted violently as gravity took hold, and in a moment Kyle and the unconscious crew were bolted around. He tumbled to the side, the sound of tearing metal filling the cabin as everything around him spiraled out of control.
There was no time to react, no time to brace for the impact.
The walker went down.
Polina walked in silence, flanked by two Mandalorians as they guided her down the cold endless hallways of the Star Destroyer. Their armor clanked softly against the durasteel floors, but she barely registered the sound. Her feet moved cooperatively, her body following without resistance, yet her mind felt far away, trapped in a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions that she couldn't seem to escape.
Kyle. Her mind kept circling back to him, to what he had tried to teach her. She could almost hear his voice in her head, calm and patient, explaining the dangers of giving in to anger, of letting your worst impulses guide you. But his words felt distant now, almost unreal. Everything was jumbled—what she had done in that room with Saj-Tel, how the walls had trembled with her outburst, the raw power that had come from somewhere deep inside her.
She felt afraid, her fingers twitching as she walked, her arms held tightly to her sides. What had she done? She didn't know what she was capable of anymore. The thought of losing control, of that energy inside her flaring up again, made her stomach twist. She could still feel the anger, though, boiling just beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over. Bitterness. Hatred. Every time she thought of how Kyle had let her be taken, how helpless she had felt in that moment, it reignited that fire inside her.
She bit her tongue, hard, trying to push it all down, trying to hold on to whatever calm she could muster. But how long could she hold it? How long before she lost control again?
They finally reached a larger corridor, the hallway widening as they approached what Polina recognized as the star destroyer's underside port. Through the windows that lined the walls, she caught glimpses of the void outside, stars scattered like distant embers, and below, a ship docked right underneath the Star Destroyer. It was a design unlike anything she had ever seen before. Angular and sharp like an arrow, it seemed to bristle with weaponry at the side, it had a wide backside with a thinner front. The shape was unfamiliar to her yet there was something undeniably Mandalorian about it.
Polina's gaze lingered on the ship as she walked, her curiosity drawn to it, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. She was soon led into the docking tube that connected the Star Destroyer to the ship below.
Just ahead, near the entrance to the docking tube, stood the Mandalorian who had taken her, Theron. His crimson battle scarred armor stood out immediately, and next to him was Saj-Tel, her bronze armor gleaned against the hallways lights. They were speaking to each other, what about, Polina could not hear though she suspected it had to be in part about her.
Polina slowed slightly as they neared, her mind sharpening once again, though the swirling emotions inside her still churned. She didn't know what was coming next, but she tried her best to show continued defiance in the face of all odds. She glanced toward Theron and Saj-Tel, her face now turning from a dissociated monotone glare to that of a scowl of fuming resentment and hostility, especially towards Theron.
Polina's scowl deepened as she approached Theron and Saj-Tel. Her eyes narrowed, focusing her resentment on the crimson-clad Mandalorian who had taken her. She barely registered the hum of the ship around her, the noise falling away as her frustration simmered inside.
As they came closer, Polina faintly heard Theron finishing a sentence, his voice low and calm, "They will have to act quick…" Saj-Tel nodded in response but her gaze shifted toward Polina as she approached.
"Ah, young one," Saj-Tel greeted her, the bronze of her armor still reflecting the light as she stepped forward. Her tone carried a strange mixture of warmth and authority, but to Polina, it felt hollow. The Mandalorian placed a firm hand on Polina's shoulder, a gesture meant to be paternal, but it only made Polina stiffen in discomfort.
Saj-Tel's touch might have been intended to comfort or reassure, but to Polina, it was a reminder of her captivity, and her resentment only grew.
"We will be heading off now," Saj-Tel continued, addressing Theron but keeping her attention on Polina, "I'll notify you once we've completed the journey."
Theron gave a slow nod, his helmet tilting slightly as he looked back at Polina, his visor seemingly piercing through her defiant glare, "I expect as much," he said to Saj-Tel before turning his attention fully to Polina.
There was a brief silence as Theron studied her, then he spoke, his voice calm "I see the disdain and hatred in your eyes, young one. It may stay with you forever, and that's fine. It'll make you stronger... a stronger Mandalorian."
Polina's anger finally found a voice, her hands clenched at her sides as she shot back, "I will never be like you."
Theron paused for a moment, the air between them thick with tension. He seemed to consider her words before replying, "I hope not," he said quietly, though there was no malice in his voice, "I hope you'll be better."
With that, Theron walked away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, leaving Polina momentarily stunted by his words. She didn't show it, though—her scowl remained, her defiance still burning bright. Yet, deep down, his words lingered, leaving her unsettled. She had expected mockery, but not that.
Saj-Tel's hand left her shoulder, and she gestured for Polina to follow as they made their way toward the hatch leading into the docked ship.
Polina descended the boarding ladder and stepped into the ship, her boots clanking against the metal floor. The interior was a stark contrast to the sleek, orderly corridors of the Star Destroyer. This place felt rougher, more utilitarian. The walls were lined with tightly packed consoles, adorned with switches, screens, and various tactical displays. It wasn't dirty, just clearly designed with usability in mind rather than appearances.
The crew aboard the ship was sparse, no more than a dozen or so moving about. Some of them glanced briefly in Polina's direction as she entered, but none lingered. There didn't seem to be any kind of ceremony to the girl's arrival or that of Saj-Tel. The crew were focused on their tasks, calibrating systems, securing equipment, speaking quietly among themselves.
Saj-Tel followed closely behind her, giving Polina a slight nudge to keep her moving toward a set of doors at the back of the ship away from the crew. Polina obliged, her feet moving almost automatically. She walked through the passage, catching brief glimpses into rooms as they passed.
In one, a Mandalorian sat on the lower bunk of a bed, his helmet resting beside him. He was speaking with someone through a flickering blue hologram. Polina's gaze lingered for just a moment before moving on, not registering whatever they were talking about. Further down, she caught sight of two Mandalorians sharpening their blades in silence, their helmets sitting on a nearby table. One of them, an older warrior with a deep scar running across his eye, looked up as she passed, his gaze stern and unflinching. Polina quickly turned her eyes forward, not wanting to meet his stare for too long.
Saj-Tel walked up beside her, her voice breaking the silence, "You'll find that life as a Mandalorian is more than just war and hardship," she remarked, her tone conversational, "There's a rhythm to it, a purpose."
Polina didn't answer, her expression neutral, though her mind was anything but calm. She didn't want to think about what it meant to live this life, the path they expected her to follow. All she felt was a growing sense of frustration, a simmering anger she was trying hard to keep at bay.
Noticing Polina's silence, Saj-Tel chuckled softly, "Suddenly quiet now, are we? You didn't seem to expect Warblade Theron to dismiss your hostility so easily." She glanced at Polina, her tone teasing, "Rest assured, he's rather fond of you."
Polina's jaw clenched, her thoughts replaying the words Theron had spoken to her. She didn't know whether to believe it or not, but the idea of someone like him being "fond" of her only made her more determined to resist. She wasn't going to let herself be molded into what they wanted her to become. Not if she had anything to say about it.
Polina was led further into the shop until eventually, they reached a larger set of doors and as they slid open, Polina's eyes widened at the sight. Inside were about a dozen other children, some human, others alien. They sat around a makeshift area in the cargo hold, beddings strewn across the space, with tables and crates turned into chairs. It wasn't a formal setting, but it had an odd sense of permanence, like this was where they were meant to be.
The quiet chatter among the children died almost immediately when Polina and Saj-Tel appeared. The room fell into a thick silence, all eyes turning toward the new arrivals. Despite the stillness, Saj-Tel greeted them with casual ease.
"Greetings, young ones," she said, her tone steady as she placed a firm hand on Polina's shoulder, gently nudging her forward, "This is another of the Chosen, just like all of you."
Polina shifted uncomfortably at the title, but Saj-Tel continued, her voice calm and authoritative.
"You all have been chosen to embark on a great journey. A journey that will take you beyond the inconsequential and into something far greater than what you once knew."
As Saj-Tel spoke, the children remained silent, their expressions unreadable. Some glanced at each other, while others kept their gaze fixed on the floor. Polina noticed that most of them seemed to be around her age, though a few appeared older, maybe by a year or two. None of them seemed eager or excited by the words being spoken, their faces reflecting a quiet acceptance, or perhaps resignation.
But something else caught Polina's attention.
Toward the back of the room, sitting under a flickering light, was a lone Mandalorian. His armor was a patchwork of colors, mismatched pieces that created a jarring, incohesive appearance, one of his shoulder pieces had the skull of an unknown creature adhered to it. He sat still, watching the scene unfold but making no move to engage with the children or the conversation. Despite his muted presence, there was an air about him that made him stand.
Saj-Tel seemed to notice him too. Her hand fell away from Polina's shoulder as she moved deeper into the room, her voice conveyed surprise, "Well, well, do my eyes deceive me?"
The Mandalorian at the back stirred, slowly standing up from his seat. He stepped forward, emerging from the shadows, his armor clinking softly with every movement. As he approached, the flickering light above him cast long, distorted shadows across the room.
"No, they do not," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. He walked up to Saj-Tel, the two of them meeting in the middle of the room. Without hesitation, they clasped forearms in a handshake, a gesture of mutual respect and familiarity.
Saj-Tel chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief, "I hadn't expected to see you here, Jexton."
The name caused a few of the children to glance up, curious but still silent. Jexton grinned beneath his helmet, his voice casual as he responded, "The core gets boring fast, Protector."
Polina watched the exchange, her mind trying to piece together this encounter. By the way Saj-Tel regarded him it was clear that her and Jexton two had history.
"So, are you heading to Bastion as well?" Saj-Tel asked with a curious tone.
Jexton nodded, his posture relaxed, "That's the plan. Heard there were some problems with Jedi in this sector though." His tone shifted slightly, alluding to deeper interest.
Saj-Tel gave a curt nod, confirming his suspicions without offering much detail, "There were."
Jexton folded his arms, his gaze moving briefly to the children before returning to Saj-Tel, "Haven't seen a real Jedi in a while. They're a rare breed now, unlike those Unchained ones running around. Though at least the true Jedi are easy to spot." His voice carried a hint of amusement, they both chuckled lightly.
Saj-Tel gestured toward the ship's bridge. "Care to join me on the bridge? Always better company than the console handlers."
Jexton shook his head, waving off the invitation with a slight shrug, "I'll pass for now. Someone's got to keep an eye on these foundlings, make sure they don't get into any trouble."
Saj-Tel glanced at Polina, who stood quietly, observing the interaction, "This one," Saj-Tel said, referring to the girl with a tilt of her head, "has quite the fighting spirit."
Jexton glanced at Polina, his eyes narrowing slightly under his helmet as he assessed her. A faint chuckle escaped him, "She's a bit on the skinny side."
"Looks can be deceiving," Saj-Tel remarked with a knowing tone, her gaze briefly resting on Polina before she stepped away, "You should join us on the bridge later, when you're relieved. Don't get too comfortable here."
Jexton gave a half-nod, smirking under his helmet, "I'll swing by when I'm done here."
Saj-Tel turned back toward the door, her gaze flicking toward Polina one last time, giving her a slight tilt of her helmet in acknowledgment. It wasn't warm, nor was it condescending, just a gesture, a subtle recognition of the girl's presence and potential. Polina returned the look, her face neutral but her mind buzzing.
With that, Saj-Tel departed, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss, leaving Polina alone with the other foundlings and Jexton.
Jexton's gaze lingered on Polina for a moment, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He stood tall, his mismatched armor giving him an unpredictable air. After a moment of silence between them, he broke it with a soft, joking tone, "So, are you going to be a problem, or are you just going to keep glaring at everyone?"
Polina didn't reply, her expression set in defiant silence.
Jexton tilted his head slightly, an amused chuckle escaping him. "Fair enough," he muttered before turning away and walking back to his spot beneath the flickering light. He lowered himself onto the crate he had been sitting on earlier, resuming his casual, watchful position.
With Jexton no longer paying direct attention, the other children slowly began to shift their focus back to Polina. There was a mix of curiosity and uncertainty in their eyes. One of the girls, a human with dark skin and wavy hair that fell to her shoulders, was the first to speak.
"Where'd they get you from?" she asked plainly, her tone not unkind but direct.
Polina hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She felt the weight of the other children's stares, but her lips remained tightly pressed together.
A boy, slightly older than the rest, with short-cropped hair and a faint scar on his cheek, snorted, "What, loth-cat got your tongue?"
The girl with the wavy hair shot him a sharp glare, "Sin, shut up," she snapped, her voice low but firm. Sin rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he leaned back against a stack of crates.
The girl then stepped closer to Polina, her expression softer, more understanding. "Hey," she said gently, "I get it. You're scared. We all were at first." She paused, her voice a bit quieter, "I'm Yuna. I'm from the Core, originally."
Polina looked up at Yuna, her eyes searching for any sign of deception, but there was none. Yuna seemed genuine, her presence unexpectedly reassuring.
"That one," Yuna said, nodding toward Jexton at the back, "he's not so bad. He saved me from some pirates a while back. Seems rough, but he's alright."
Polina's guarded expression softened just a fraction. The sincerity in Yuna's eyes made her feel less alone, at least for the moment.
"Polina," she finally said, her voice low but clear, "My name is Polina."
Yuna smiled warmly, taking a step closer. "Nice to meet you, Polina," she said simply.
Though still reserved, Polina felt a small sense of comfort forming. At the very least she didn't feel so alone.
Kyle's ears rang loudly, the sound muffled as if submerged underwater. His vision was blurry, and everything around him seemed disjointed. He blinked hard, trying to bring some clarity to the world as he slowly regained consciousness. The cabin of the fallen AT-M6 was in shambles, turned into a mess of burning wreckage, shattered consoles, and twisted metal.
His head throbbed, a dull, relentless pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He reached up instinctively, feeling a warm, wet sensation on his scalp. When he pulled his hand back, he saw blood smeared across his fingers. But other than the gash on his head, he seemed relatively unharmed. Whether it was sheer luck or the Force intervening again, he didn't have time to dwell on it. He couldn't afford to.
With a groan, Kyle struggled to get up, his entire body aching. The impact from the fall had taken its toll, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to move. He winced with each step, navigating through the ruined cabin. Sparks flew intermittently from damaged control panels, and small fires were spreading across the floor and walls.
As he staggered forward, he spotted a few stormtroopers scattered across the floor, their bodies motionless. Some were slumped against the walls, others sprawled across the ground. The memory of the surrendering trooper flashed in Kyle's mind: "I've never even met my family." It stirred something inside him, a pang of guilt that he pushed aside with a sharp exhale. There was no time for reflection now.
Kyle shifted from crawling to scaling the interior of the cabin, his eyes searching for the hatch leading out of the burning walker. He reached down, retrieving his Enforcer blaster from the debris. The weapon was still intact, thankfully, and he holstered it quickly as he squeezed through the narrow hatch, forcing it open with sheer will.
The outside air hit him like a shock. The acrid smell of burning metal mixed with the harsh scent of scorched ground, filling his lungs. He found himself on top of the fallen AT-M6, the hulking war machine now a heap of sparking wreckage. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, and as he looked around, he saw the smoldering remains of a few hover tanks and the two AT-ATs, smoke billowing up from their wrecked frames.
Kyle steadied himself before dropping down from the walker, his feet landing hard on the scorched earth. He was about to push forward when he heard the distinct roar of a jetpack overhead.
Ragnar descended rapidly, landing just a few feet away with a heavy thud, twin blaster pistols in hand and his armor coated in soot and dirt but otherwise unscratched. He approached Kyle with a mix of casual confidence and mild concern.
"I knew you'd make it, Jedi," Ragnar called out.
Kyle wasn't in the mood for banter. He brushed some dust off his face, his expression weary but focused, "We don't have time for this, Ragnar. We need to reach the cargo before those TIE fighters return."
Ragnar's eyes scanned the battlefield as he nodded, his voice more serious now. "True enough. But we still have a few tanks roaming around..." He pointed toward the smoldering convoy, where several tanks were still operational, their turrets swiveling as they regrouped.
"Persistent little kriffers, aren't they?" Kyle readied his blaster, "Then we take them out and secure the cargo. No other choice."
Ragnar's helmet tilted slightly, a grin probably hidden beneath it, "That's what I like to hear."
Ragnar adjusted his grip on the blasters as Kyle shifted uneasily, feeling every ache and bruise from the battle so far. He was exhausted, but the fight wasn't over yet. "You take the skies, keep them distracted," Kyle instructed, his voice firm despite the pain. "I'll handle the rest."
Ragnar gave a single nod, his tone casual but focused, "Got it."
With that, he ignited his jetpack and soared into the air, the roar of the thrusters fading quickly as he maneuvered upward. Kyle exhaled deeply, taking a moment to center himself. He closed his eyes, trying to clear the fog in his mind. He reached out with the Force, searching for guidance, for a sense of calm amid the chaos. For a brief moment, he felt something strange—a flicker of energy, as if he wasn't alone in this battle, like an unseen presence fighting alongside him.
It was a fleeting sensation, but it brought a surge of strength he hadn't expected. He looked back toward the battlefield, his eyes sharpening. In the distance, he could see Ragnar gliding across the sky, twin blasters in hand, firing down at the tanks below. Blaster bolts from the tanks streaked upward in response, a barrage of red cutting through the smoke-filled air. Ragnar dodged most of the incoming fire with quick, agile movements, but a few bolts struck his chest plate, sending him tumbling back midair.
Kyle felt a rush of urgency. He pumped himself up and began to run. His speed was average at first, each step labored as he tried to find his rhythm. But as he pushed himself, he felt the familiar pull of the Force. His pace quickened, his strides growing longer, faster. As he rushed through the smoke of destroyed tanks, his senses sharpened with every heartbeat and soon enough he moved at an incredible speed.
Above, Ragnar regained his balance, twisting in midair and firing rapid shots back at the tanks. Red bolts flew around him, the remaining tanks would not fall so easily to the Mandalorians attack. Just then, a blue bolt from Kyle's blaster cut through a stormtrooper manning one of the tanks, the soldier crumpling forward on the controls and the tank began to swerve uncontrollably.
Kyle leapt onto the tank, his blue lightsaber igniting with a sharp hiss. The troopers manning the turrets at the front barely had time to react before Kyle sent his lightsaber spinning through the air. The weapon sliced cleanly through both troopers, who slumped over their controls as the blade returned to Kyle's outstretched hand.
The other two tanks quickly redirected their weaponry, their cannons swiveling toward the compromised tank. Kyle felt a sudden surge of danger and sprang upward just in time, the tank he had been standing on getting obliterated by friendly fire. The explosion roared beneath him, sending shards of metal and debris flying off.
Ragnar took the opportunity and fired off a gauntlet rocket, the projectile streaking toward one of the remaining tanks. It struck the main cannon with a resounding thud, causing a violent chain reaction. Flames erupted from the tank's interior, consuming the vehicle in a ball of fire as its ammunition rods detonated.
Kyle landed onto the last tank, immediately kicking down a stormtrooper at the controls. The trooper fell hard, hitting the ground below as Kyle's lightsaber hummed in a defensive stance. The other trooper, manning the main gun, barely had time to register what was happening before Kyle's blade slashed across the cannon's barrel disabling the weapon, the trooper now had the blue energy blade right across his helmeted face.
With two quick steps, Kyle turned his attention to the two remaining troopers on the tank, his Enforcer blaster leveled at them.
"Give up," he demanded plainly, his voice leaving no room for doubt on how serious he was with the threat. He didn't want to kill anymore than he had had to today, he hoped these troopers would listen to reason.
The troopers looked at each other, hesitation etched on their masked faces. The battle was lost, and they knew it. Slowly, they began to raise their hands, their turrets in front of them no longer manned.
Kyle exhaled, a mix of relief and exhaustion settling over him.
With his lightsaber still hovering dangerously close to the gunner trooper's helmet and his Enforcer blaster trained on the other two, Kyle's voice was clear in his instructions, "Move to the side," he ordered.
The troopers hesitated but complied, stepping slowly over to the edge of the tank. Their hands remained raised, their weapons discarded on the metal floor. The tank kept hovering lightly, its engine sputtering. Thick smoke continued to bellow from the destroyed tanks nearby, creating a hazy battlefield backdrop.
As the troopers moved, Kyle kept his blaster up though he deignited the lightsaber and set it back onto his belt underneath his poncho. Then, with a roar of jetpack thrusters, Ragnar landed on the front end of the tank, his twin blaster pistols aimed squarely at the surrendering troopers.
"Step aside, Katarn!" Ragnar said sharply, the intent clear in his voice, "These bucket heads don't deserve to walk away."
Kyle's eyes narrowed, and he extended a hand toward Ragnar, signaling him to stop. "No, Ragnar. We're not executing prisoners."
Ragnar's helmet tilted slightly in disbelief, the blasters still raised, "Prisoners? These are murderous slaves to the last breath of the damn Empire. They don't stop. They don't change."
"That's exactly it," Kyle replied, his tone edged with urgency, "They are slaves. These troopers aren't fighting because they want to, they're fighting because they've been forced to."
Ragnar's grip on the blasters remained firm, but his posture shifted slightly, "You think that matters now? They'll kill you without hesitation, just as they didn't hesitate to destroy your New Republic."
Kyle's eyes softened, "Maybe. But I won't become what we're fighting against. Everyone deserves a chance to change…"
The Mandalorian's shoulders seemed to sag, his frustration clear. He slowly lowered the blasters, though he kept them trained on the troopers, his intent now no longer to kill. "I don't agree with you," Ragnar admitted, his voice cold, "But it's your call."
Kyle's expression remained solemn, but a slight nod of appreciation showed in his eyes, "Get to the cargo. I'll handle them."
Ragnar's gaze lingered on the surrendering troopers for a moment longer, his jaw visibly tense beneath the helmet. Finally, he holstered his blasters, muttering under his breath, "You better be right about this."
With a final look, Ragnar ignited his jetpack and soared off toward the cargo, disappearing into the haze of smoke and wreckage. Kyle watched him go, then turned his attention back to the three troopers.
"I was a stormtrooper just like you three," Kyle's voice was steady and calm as he spoke, "it's never too late to do what's right, go…"
The troopers stood motionless, uncertainty
visible in their hesitant movements. Kyle's expression remained calm, though the urgency in his voice was clear as he gestured once more, "Go. You have a choice now."
Slowly, they obeyed. One by one, they backed away, stepping toward the edge of the tank. As they reached the ground, they began removing their helmets and tossing them aside. Soon, they were running into the wasteland, disappearing into the haze of smoke and debris.
Kyle watched them leave, not with a sense of triumph but with a lingering heaviness. His mind turned back to the stormtroopers he'd killed before, the lives he had ended in the heat of battle. Even if it was in self-defense, the thought gnawed at him. Every life taken weighed on him, and the faces beneath those helmets weren't just faceless enemies—they were people caught in a war they never truly chose.
He tried to push the guilt aside, reminding himself that he had done what was necessary. But the burden remained, a constant shadow he couldn't shake.
Suddenly, Ragnar's voice crackled over the commlink, "Jedi, you need to see this. It's the cargo."
Kyle glanced back toward the direction of the cargo hauler, his expression sharpening. Using the last functioning tank he quickly reached Ragnar.
The Mandalorian was standing at the edge of the tank, blasters holstered, but his stance was tense.
"What did you find?" Kyle asked as he boarded the hauler.
"See for yourself," Ragnar said, his tone grim as he turned, revealing the open cargo hatch of the hauler. What lay inside caused Kyle's breath to hitch—rows of stasis chambers, each one glowing faintly in the dim light.
Kyle's eyes widened as he looked further inside, his eyes scanning the chambers, each containing a person. Some were adults, others were children. All of them were unconscious, trapped in cold suspension.
The cargo wasn't weapons or supplies.
It was people.
"They're trafficking people," Kyle muttered, his voice a mix of disbelief and anger. The realization hit hard; this wasn't just a standard supply run.
Ragnar's voice was cold, his disgust palpable, "Not just people." He pointed toward one chamber that stood out from the rest. It was fully encapsulated, different from the others, its surface more reinforced and emitting a stronger hum.
Kyle stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. "What's in there?"
Ragnar shook his head, his helmet tilting slightly. "No idea. But it's something they wanted kept separate. Could be more valuable… or more dangerous."
Kyle's gaze remained fixed on the rows of stasis chambers. The sight was overwhelming, the realization of what was happening here sinking deeper with every passing second.
"These people," he muttered, "we have to get them out of here."
Ragnar, however, seemed more interested in the sealed container. The Mandalorian entered the cargo bay, bypassing the stasis pods entirely. His eyes were locked on the encapsulated device at the center, its reinforced shell distinct from the other equipment.
It was a long, cylindrical tube, about the size of a large briefcase, its design sleek but heavily secured. Ragnar crouched beside it, inspecting its locking mechanisms.
"Ragnar," Kyle called out, still outside of the bay, urgency in his voice, "We need to prioritize the people. They're trapped, probably taken against their will!"
Ragnar's focus didn't waver from the container, "This is the priority," he said flatly, moving back up to the doors.
A sharp wave of pain surged through Kyle's body, the aches from the fall returning with full force. He winced, taking a moment to steady himself before speaking again, "You really think that's more important than freeing them? We don't even know what's inside."
Ragnar arrived back at the top of the hauler, his fingers began working around the reinforced locks, attempting to open the container.
"Whatever's in here," he said through his modulated voice, "the First Order wanted it more than anything else in this shipment. There's a reason for that."
Kyle's frustration mounted. "Fine," he said, exhaling sharply, "Do what you want. But I'm not leaving these people behind."
He turned and made his way into the cargo bay, his eyes scanning the rows of stasis chambers. As he approached one of the pods, he activated its HUD, a series of readings illuminating the screen. His eyes focused on the vitals displayed: heart rate, oxygen levels, and something else—an "M-Count" meter.
Kyle's eyes narrowed in confusion, M-Count?
The meter showed medium to high levels across several chambers, each individual's count slightly varying but all notably elevated. The term was not one Kyle was familiar with but he was familiar with something else, something that if he was right about could unveil further of what the First Order was up to.
His mind raced as he began piecing together the implications. Before Kyle could process further, a sudden blaster shot rang out from outside the hauler.
Kyle's senses sharpened at the sound of the blaster shot, instincts kicking in. He hurriedly made his way to the open hatch, blaster in hand as he peered out to assess the situation.
There, on the ground near the cargo hold, was Ragnar. He was down, clutching his side, blood staining the metallic panels beneath him. Standing over him, blaster raised, was a lone stormtrooper. His armor was charred and scorched, clearly bearing the marks of the battle that had unfolded. His stance was shaky, but his grip on the blaster was firm.
Kyle stepped out, his presence immediately drawing the trooper's attention. The stormtrooper's helmet turned sharply toward him, his blaster shifting to target Kyle.
"You're both under arrest," the trooper's voice was hoarse, strained through the helmet's modulator, "In the name of the First Order."
Kyle's eyes remained focused, his tone calm but insistent, "Look around," he said, gesturing to the smoldering wreckage and lifeless bodies scattered across the battlefield. "There's no First Order left here."
The trooper's hand trembled slightly, struggling to keep his aim steady.
"You don't know what you've done," he growled, his voice filled with anger and desperation. "My men… my convoy… my mission. You've ruined everything..."
Kyle felt the familiar tug of empathy, despite the situation, "I know what it's like to lose everything," he said quietly, taking a slow step forward. He lowered his blaster and neared it to his holster, "I was a stormtrooper once, just like you. I lost friends, I lost my father, and the Empire gave me nothing for it."
The trooper's posture wavered, his head tilting slightly as if considering Kyle's words. His blaster dipped ever so slightly, doubt creeping into his stance, "My superiors…" he began, his voice cracking with exhaustion and something akin to bitterness. "They've never done anything for me. It's just orders, just missions. I lost my boys. I lost everything."
Kyle nodded, his voice soft but clear. "You don't have to keep fighting for something that's only taken from you. You have a choice, right now."
The trooper seemed momentarily swayed, his grip on the blaster loosening further as his exhaustion took hold. His shoulders slumped slightly, a spark of vulnerability breaking through the hardened facade.
But then, as if some remaining resolve reignited within him, the trooper straightened, his grip tightening on the blaster once more.
"No," he muttered, almost to himself, "I still have a mission."
In an instant, he raised his blaster and prepared to fire at Kyle. But Kyle was ready. His finger was already on the trigger of his Enforcer blaster, and with a swift, precise movement, he pulled it free and fired.
A shot rang out.
The blaster bolt struck the trooper squarely in the helmet, the impact knocking him back. He fell to the ground, the weapon slipping from his grasp as his body went limp, the armor now utterly still.
Kyle took a breath, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away as he lowered his blaster. The trooper's death was a necessity, but it still weighed heavily on him, just like all others.
Ragnar, still on the ground and wincing from the wound, looked up at Kyle, "Should've spared the sermon," he muttered with a mix of pain and amusement, "and just shot him from the start."
Kyle's expression was weary as he approached Ragnar, "I'm not one to shoot a man in the back," he replied, extending a hand to help Ragnar up.
Ragnar grunted as he took Kyle's hand, his voice rough but grateful, "Fair enough, Jedi. Fair enough."
Ragnar had barely risen to his feet, still clutching his side, when his helmet's sensors picked up something incoming—fast.
"Get down!" he yelled, shoving Kyle aside. Ragnar dove out of the hauler's roof just as an explosion rocked it, flames and debris erupting around them. The blast sent the sealed container tumbling through the air, its reinforced shell bouncing violently across the ground as Ragnar hit the dirt hard, grunting with pain.
Kyle, meanwhile, lost his balance entirely. The shockwave sent him sprawling against the panels of the hauler, his hands instinctively reaching out to grab onto anything to stop his fall. But the effort was in vain as his grip slipped, and he tumbled down the hauler, landing with a bone-jarring impact onto the ground below.
He rolled to a stop on the road just in front of the hauler, his body aching from the rough landing. Dust and debris settled around him, but before he could even process what had happened, a new presence loomed above him.
A heavy thud resonated on the hauler's roof, followed by the sound of metal boots. Kyle looked up to see the hulking figure clad in dark gray armor standing tall and imposing just as he had been on that hangar, the figure's visor locked onto the Jedi.
This was Commander Tempest.
Kyle, covered in dirt and irritation, muttered under his breath, "Well this should be interesting..."
Tempest didn't waste time with words. His jetpack flared to life, propelling him upward with terrifying speed. He descended with a powerful fist aimed at Kyle, his entire form resembling a missile in motion. Kyle barely managed to roll to the side as the armored commander's punch cratered the ground where Kyle had been just a moment ago.
Kyle's body was worn from the battle, and every move was accompanied by a dull ache. He staggered to his feet, drawing his lightsaber with a staggered motion. The blue blade ignited, its hum filling the air as he assumed a defensive stance.
The hulking Commander, however, was relentless. He lunged at Kyle with a brutal roundhouse kick, the force of which sent the Jedi sprawling backward. Kyle struggled to regain his balance, his mind racing. The trooper's combat style was overwhelming, ruthless power behind each blow.
Kyle tried to counter with a series of rapid slashes, but to his surprise Tempest's heavy scale patterned gauntlets absorbed each hit, sparks flying as metal clashed with plasma. The hulking figure retaliated with brutal efficiency, swinging wide strikes that forced Kyle to dodge desperately. The weight behind each attack was enough to rattle Kyle's grip on his lightsaber.
Gritting his teeth, Kyle attempted to put some distance between them. He leaped back, landing in a crouch a few meters away. His breathing was ragged, his limbs heavy. It was clear he was pushing his limits, the exhaustion from the earlier battles wearing him down.
Tempest however, showed no signs of slowing down as his jetpack propelled him forward again, closing the distance in an instant. Kyle managed to block another heavy strike, but the sheer force behind it sent him stumbling. Punches, kicks, and even short bursts from Tempest's wrist-mounted blaster, which Kyle barely deflected in time with his blade.
Kyle's instincts screamed at him to retreat, to find a way out of the overwhelming fight. He adjusted his stance, aiming to create enough of an opening to make an escape. But Temp est seemed to sense Kyle's intentions. With a sudden shift, the commander deployed a hidden weapon: a crackling surge of electricity that erupted from his gauntlet, surging toward Kyle.
Kyle's eyes widened as the shockwave of electricity struck him, his body convulsing from the surge. His muscles locked up, and his grip on the lightsaber faltered as the blue blade extinguished. The pain was searing, his vision flickering as he collapsed to the ground, unable to muster the strength to rise.
Tempest stood over the fallen Jedi, his imposing figure casting a shadow over him. His voice, filtered through the modulator, was cold and unfeeling, "Resistance is pointless, Jedi…" he declared, his gauntlet still crackling with residual energy.
Kyle tried to respond, to summon some last reserve of defiance, but his body refused to cooperate. He could only watch as Tempest reached down, his armored hand gripping onto him tightly. It was then that Tempest formed a fist, and with a single blow everything went dark.