Darian's quarters within the medical facility were modest, consisting of a small room that was difficult to keep warm during the colder cycles. Heating units were a luxury in the depths of the planet-spanning city, and Energy was a precious commodity. To conserve energy, he converted an old maintenance alcove, lined with salvaged durasteel panels, into a small chamber where the residual heat from the surrounding power conduits kept the space livable. He called it his "meditation chamber."
The meditation chamber, like the rest of the facility, was sparsely furnished. A repurposed supply crate served as a table, and there were a few makeshift seats—old cargo containers draped with worn synth-fabric or the bench from a salvaged hover-taxi. His main living space held only the barest essentials: a low sleeping mat, a simple shelf lined with a few ancient texts, a small hydroponic garden, and a meditation rug.
Many of Coruscant's weary and desperate souls—refugees, outcasts, and former soldiers—had tried to gather credits to provide him with better accommodations. They had pooled funds for a proper meditation rug, one worthy of a Jedi. Each time, Darian had thanked them, accepted their offering, and then used it to feed the hungry or repair a leaking shelter. He believed that material possessions were of little importance compared to the pursuit of knowledge and the service of others. He often reminded those around him that true wealth lay not in material possessions, but in the richness of one's spirit and the strength of one's connection to the Force.
He believed that material possessions were of little importance compared to the pursuit of knowledge and the service of others. "The greatest temple," he would say, "is a heart that has found peace."
His designated meeting area contained only two kneeling cushions and a single durasteel chair, its surface worn smooth with age. On rare occasions, Darian would receive groups of visitors from other sectors of the undercity. When visitors arrived—perhaps representatives from local communities, information brokers and merchants seeking wisdom, or a small gathering of hopeful youths eager to learn—chairs had to be gathered from all over his quarters. One was taken from the meditation chamber, another from his sleeping area, and the rest from an old storage closet down the corridor.
If, by chance, more than ten or twelve beings arrived, Darian would simply stand, leaning against the doorway if it was cold, or pacing the catwalks outside his quarters if it was warm. He would often joke that his hospitality was limited only by the availability of seating.
There was another chair in a side alcove, though it had lost one of its legs and could only be used when propped against a wall. M-4G had once offered to wedge its frame under the broken leg to provide the needed support, but Darian had waved it off with a quiet chuckle. Anya had in her room a much finer chair. It was large, made of polished wood from the Core Worlds, and once bore intricate carvings of Nabooan flora. However, when they had moved into these quarters, it had been too wide for the narrow corridors of the undercity. They had hoisted it in through a service hatch, and so it remained there, in her room, forever immovable.
Anya's quiet dream had once been to furnish their quarters with a proper sitting area—a small lounge lined with cushioned seats, perhaps with a table of polished durasteel, even a decorative holo-lamp to cast a soft glow across the room. She had envisioned something comfortable, something reminiscent of the Jedi Temple's meditation halls, before everything fell apart. But such luxuries were a distant fantasy. Over the years, she had only managed to gather a few odd credits, salvaged from small jobs and bartered exchanges, but nowhere near enough to transform their dwelling. Eventually, she let go of the idea. After all, who ever truly attains their ideal?
It was easy to picture Darian's living quarters. A rusted blast door led to the dimly lit corridor outside. Opposite the entrance sat his bed—nothing more than a simple pallet on the floor, covered with a worn thermal blanket, its edges frayed from years of use. A simple curtain, salvaged from an abandoned shop, hung to one side, shielding a small washing station that still bore the marks of its former life—a repurposed refresher unit from an old transport hub.
The room had two doors—one leading to the meditation alcove, where Darian often sat in silent contemplation, and the other to the common space where they shared meals. Against one wall stood a large, battered storage unit with transparisteel panels, filled with worn datapads and aged scrolls. The texts varied—some were remnants of Jedi philosophy, others historical accounts of the Republic before its fall. In one corner, a deactivated training remnant—a worn-out remote droid—sat dormant, a relic of days when training younglings was more than just a memory.
Two holoportraits adorned the wall on either side of the bed. Small inscriptions, barely legible, identified them. One displayed Jedi Master Varlo Sen, a historian of the Order, and the other, a portrait of Master Kela Ren, a Jedi healer. Darian had discovered them in an old archive vault years ago and had kept them, feeling a strange kinship with these long-passed Jedi. They were scholars, guardians of knowledge—two reasons to honor them. The only thing he knew for certain was that both had perished when the Jedi were hunted down.
One day, M-4G had taken it upon itself to clean the holoportraits, and Darian had noticed a note embedded in the data file of Master Ren's image. It was a record, dated just before the Clone Wars—a simple log noting a discussion on lost Jedi archives, now scattered across the galaxy. It was a discovery of little immediate use, yet Darian had kept it, a silent reminder of what had been lost.
The only covering over the window slit was a draped fabric of rough, faded synthweave. It had grown so thin over time that, in a moment of resourcefulness, Anya had stitched a patch directly across the center to keep it from fraying further. The repair roughly formed the shape of the Jedi Order's symbol.
Darian had smiled when he noticed it. "How fitting," he had remarked
The walls of the medical facility were stark and bare, stripped of any ornamentation. The cold, metallic surfaces reflected the dim, artificial light, creating a sense of sterile bleakness. The lack of color gave the place a stark, utilitarian feel, much like the forgotten military barracks and clinics scattered throughout Coruscant's lower levels.
However, in their later years, M-4G had unearthed something unexpected beneath the layers of grime and rusted wall panels—traces of old murals, faded but still visible. These intricate designs, likely remnants of an older civilization before the sector's decay, adorned what had become Anya's modest sleeping space. Before this structure had fallen into disrepair, it had once been a gathering hall for a merchant's guild, a place where trade and community thrived. Now, it was merely another remnant of the life centuries ago before the first sacking of Coruscant.
The floors were cracked ferrocrete, swept clean when time allowed, with makeshift rugs fashioned from discarded tarps and repurposed fabrics laid near their sleeping spaces. Despite its rough state, the hideout was maintained with meticulous care by Anya and M-4G, the only indulgence Darian permitted. He had once remarked, "Clean space, clear mind. Besides, the Empire has stolen enough from us—our dignity doesn't have to be next."
It must be admitted, however, that Darian had held onto a few relics of his past—six finely crafted eating utensils made of polished durasteel and a deep-bowled serving ladle. Anya often eyed them with amusement, remarking on how they stood out against the mismatched, dented plates they used. And since we aim to present Darian as he truly was, it must also be noted that he had once admitted, "I find it difficult to abandon certain comforts entirely… even if they belong to a world that no longer exists."
To these utensils must be added a pair of small lightstands, crafted from solid electrum, and each powered by the Kyber crystals of both Darian and Anya's lightsabers. This lantern provided a warm, steady light in the otherwise dim sanctuary. M-4G had taken to placing them near their small meal table when they had visitors, the glow within their frames cast a soft, flickering light.
In Darian's own quarters, tucked within a secure compartment near his bed, lay a small lockbox where these remnants of the past were stored. M-4G secured them each night with an old-fashioned manual lock, though it was never actually engaged.
The small courtyard, once a service bay before the surrounding structures collapsed inward, had become a hidden refuge amid the ruins. It was enclosed by fractured duracrete walls, their surfaces marred with ancient scorch marks and creeping vines that had somehow taken root in the cracks. A narrow path wound its way through the space, forming a rough cross-shape around a shallow, repurposed water basin—once part of an old filtration system, now serving as both a reservoir and a quiet centerpiece. A second walkway traced the perimeter, following the uneven boundaries of the ruined enclosure.
In three of the four makeshift garden plots, Anya and M-4G had managed to cultivate a handful of practical crops—edible greens, small root vegetables, and a few hardy herbs that could withstand the undercity's damp air. The fourth plot, however, was different. Darian had planted some colorful fungi. Here and there, a few bioluminescent plants cast a soft glow in the dim space.
M-4G had once remarked, with a series of concerned beeps and whistles, "Master Darian, you who are so resourceful, have nevertheless, one unproductive plot. It would be more efficient to cultivate additional food there than these glowing mushrooms."
"M-4G," replied Darian, "you are mistaken. Beauty is as vital as sustenance." He added, after a pause, "More so, perhaps, in these dark times."
This plot, consisting of three or four rows of nutrient tubes, occupied Darian almost as much as did his datapads. He liked to spend time there, adjusting the nutrient flow, monitoring the growth of the fungi, and making adjustments to the rudimentary system. He was not as concerned with maximizing yield as a dedicated hydroponics technician might have been. He held no illusions of expertise; he wasn't a botanist, nor did he pretend to understand the science of growth in such an inhospitable place. He was not interested in categorizing or optimizing the growth of the plants. He simply enjoyed tending to them, finding solace in their quiet growth. He did not study plants; he appreciated their beauty.
He had no quarrel with the scavengers that sometimes crept into the space—tunnel lizards, stubborn root-diggers, or even the occasional swarm of glowing undercity gnats that hovered near the basin. They were simply part of the cycle. And so, every evening, Darian would take up a battered, rust-streaked watering can—its original green paint long faded—and quietly tend to his flowers, letting them remind him that even in the depths of the undercity, something beautiful could still take root.
The sanctuary had not a single door that could be locked. The main entrance, which, as we have said, opened directly onto the bustling corridor, had once been equipped with a security lock, a relic from the days when the sanctuary was a Jedi outpost. Now, however, the old blast door was rusted so as to prevent it from fully closing, permanently wedged open. Any would-be intruder wouldn't need to force their way inside; a simple push would do.
At first, Anya had been uneasy about it. She and M-4G had scavenged spare security latches and even a control panel, insisting they should at least reinforce the entrance. But Darian had only shrugged, offering a quiet response: "Activate a security field in your chamber if that will ease your mind." They had eventually come to share his trust, or at least to act as though they did. M-4G alone occasionally expressed concern, its vocabulator sputtering with anxious beeps and whistles.
On one of the few datapads he kept, Darian had once jotted down a note in the margin of an old Jedi text:
"A healer does not refuse the wounded. A counselor does not block out the forgotten."
Elsewhere, in an aged volume on galactic philosophy, another passage was scrawled in the faded ink of a stylus:
"Do not ask the name of the one seeking refuge. The man burdened by his own name is the one who needs shelter the most."
One evening, an old spacer, I do not recall whether he was the one from Sector 7 or the one from Sector 9, felt compelled to ask him one day, probably at the prompting of M-4G, whether Master Darian was certain of his choice. He had gestured toward the unsecured doorway with a bemused shake of his head.
"You're either fearless or foolish, kid. Anyone could walk right in. What if trouble finds you first?"_
Darian touched his arm with a gentle gravity and said to him, "If I let fear build my walls, I will have already lost the battle. Fear is a path to the dark side."
Then, without another word, he had moved on to another topic.
He was fond of saying, "There is courage in compassion as well as in combat, but the courage of a master must be rooted in serenity."