Seth adjusted the collar of his red spacer jacket, making sure his lightsaber was safely tucked inside and out of sight. Juhani and Bastila had dressed similarly, their gray tunics blending in better with the neutral crowd. Drea, too, had swapped her Republic fatigues for a plain civilian tunic, though Seth caught the glint of an armored vest peeking from beneath the fabric. She was prepared—just in case.

"That di'kut spy better not have been lying to us," Seth muttered as they neared the Sith Embassy's entrance. "This better be the right code."

"He wasn't," Drea assured him, her voice quiet but firm. "That's the right code."

Seth glanced at her, tilting his head slightly. He hadn't realized before just how much taller he had gotten since their time in basic training. "How are you so sure?"

Drea bit her lip, offering a small shrug. "I can just tell."

"Hush, both of you," Bastila hissed, cutting a sharp glance between them. "You're asking to get caught."

Drea quickly snapped to attention. "Yes, ma'am."

Seth hesitated for a fraction of a second before muttering, "Yes, ma'am," just under his breath. Bastila arched an eyebrow at him, but for once, she let it slide.

The team stepped toward the reception desk outside the embassy, where a Sith officer—a human man in his forties—barely looked up from his console as they approached.

"Welcome to the Sith Embassy here on Manaan," he droned. "For questions, please direct them to the protocol droid behind you."

"Actually," Seth interjected, keeping his voice calm and casual, "we need to get inside. We've got a pickup—supplies waiting for us."

The officer barely glanced at him before sighing. "Password?"

"Red 47," Bastila said smoothly before Seth could even open his mouth.

The officer shrugged, keying the entry code into his terminal. A soft chime sounded, and the heavy durasteel doors slid open with a hiss. "Proceed."

Seth exhaled slowly. Too easy.

Juhani led the way inside, and the others followed, stepping into the elevator that would take them down into the embassy proper.

The moment the doors shut, Seth rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to stay loose. "I hate how smooth that was. Feels like a setup."

"Be grateful for the lack of resistance," Bastila replied. "It won't last."

She was right. It never did.

The elevator ride was mercifully short. As soon as the doors opened, the team stepped into a circular lobby—only to be met with the sharp voice of an alert, no-nonsense Sith receptionist.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, eyes narrowing as she took them in. "Identification. Now."

Seth's stomach tightened. Damn.

"We're new here," he tried, attempting to sound bored.

Bastila pressed gently against the woman's mind with the Force, nudging her thoughts, steering her toward compliance. "You don't need to see our identification."

The woman's expression twisted in frustration. "Yes, I do." She straightened, reaching under her desk. "Who do you think you are, making demands like that?"

Her hand came back up—holding a blaster pistol.

"Identification, or I call security."

Bastila sighed, her patience snapping. In one fluid motion, she unclipped her lightsaber and ignited it, the golden blade casting a sharp glow against the durasteel walls. With a clean slice, she severed the barrel of the pistol in half.

The receptionist gasped, stumbling backward. Her hand slammed down against a hidden panel on the desk, and suddenly the room was filled with the wailing sound of an alarm.

Seth clenched his jaw. "Boring conversation anyway."

The heavy clanking of armored boots echoed down the corridors. Silver-armored Sith soldiers poured into the room, weapons raised.

Three lightsabers ignited in unison—Seth's blue blade joining Juhani's violet and Bastila's gold.

Drea hesitated, her blaster trembling in her hands. "I—I thought we weren't expecting much trouble?"

"Welcome to a Jedi mission," Seth muttered. "Stay behind cover."

Bastila lifted her chin, voice unwavering. "Hold your positions."

Blaster bolts erupted through the air, streaking past Seth as he lunged into the fight. The room ignited into chaos, red and blue flashes illuminating the durasteel walls. Bastila and Juhani had already taken up their positions, expertly cutting through the wave of Sith troopers pouring in from opposite doors.

Bastila fought with measured, disciplined precision. Every movement was calculated, her double-bladed saber spinning like a deadly staff, slicing through armor with brutal efficiency. The force of her strikes sent troopers reeling before they could even react.

Juhani, on the other hand, was pure aggression. She moved like a storm, a blur of violet light as she twisted and slashed, claws raking through enemies when she was too close to swing her saber. Sith bodies crumpled around her in a growing heap.

Seth exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on his saber. This was his first real fight where it was all on him. No simulations, no training droids—just real enemies trying to kill him. He planted his feet, deflecting a bolt that nearly grazed his arm, then surged forward.

His blade cut through the first trooper's rifle, the second blow finishing the job. Another charged him, but Seth pivoted smoothly, ducking under the attack and slashing upward in a clean arc. The hum of his saber became a rhythm, each swing instinctive, each block an extension of his movement.

And he was winning.

But as the fight raged on, more and more soldiers pressed in, and Seth found himself backing up. He hadn't realized how deep he had pushed until he noticed Bastila and Juhani farther away, their paths blocked by bodies and incoming reinforcements.

Then, a Sith trooper in crimson armor stepped into his path.

Bigger than the others. More experienced. And armed with a cortosis sword.

Seth's muscles tensed as the soldier swung, the blade crashing against his saber with a force that nearly knocked it from his grip. The vibrations from the impact sent pain shooting up his arms. Kriff—he's strong.

The next attack came fast. Seth barely had time to parry before the soldier came at him again, unrelenting. He was on the defensive now, struggling to keep up with the sheer power behind each blow. He could feel the heat of the battle pressing in from all sides, but this one opponent had locked him in a personal duel, and it was one he was starting to lose.

His breathing turned ragged as he tried to gain the upper hand. Just one mistake. One opening.

And then he saw her.

Drea, standing just beyond the reception desk, blaster raised, a clear shot lined up.

Shoot, Drea.

She didn't.

Seth's stomach twisted as he risked a glance at her—her hands were trembling, her expression frozen in horror. Why isn't she shooting?

The soldier swung again, and Seth barely managed to dodge in time. The edge of the blade grazed his jacket, cutting through fabric. I can't hold him off forever.

"Drea! Shoot him!" Seth gasped, straining against the force of the next blow. He saw her flinch at the sound of his voice, but she still didn't pull the trigger. "Kriff, Drea, I need you!"

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her fingers flexed around the grip of the blaster. And then, she shook her head.

A pang of betrayal shot through Seth's chest, stronger than the fear of the soldier currently trying to gut him. She's not going to help me.

"Dammit!" Seth snarled, shoving back against the Sith trooper with everything he had. He felt the Force surge inside him, raw and desperate, and he let it explode outward in a pulse.

The impact sent the trooper flying backward, crashing hard into the far wall, his head slamming against the durasteel with a sickening crack. His body slumped, motionless.

The room fell eerily silent for a moment. The last of the Sith soldiers lay defeated, and Bastila and Juhani were already sweeping the area, making sure no reinforcements remained.

Seth stood where he was, chest heaving, hands clenched tight around his saber. Drea was still standing there.

Her blaster hung limply in her grip now, her wide eyes locked onto him with something between guilt and terror.

"Seth, I—"

Seth stormed toward Drea, his hands still shaking, his entire body thrumming with leftover adrenaline. "What the hell was that?"

Drea took a step back. "I—I froze."

"No kidding!" Seth snapped, voice rising. "You had a shot. You had a clear shot. And you just—just stood there! I could have been killed!"

"I'm sorry!" Her voice cracked, her hands curling into fists. "I couldn't do it!"

Seth let out a harsh, humorless laugh, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "You're a Republic soldier, Drea! You're trained for this!"

"It's not that simple!" Drea's voice rose to match his now, her face red with frustration and shame. "You think it's all black and white? Us versus them? It's not! Not all of them are monsters!"

Seth stared at her, his anger giving way to something colder. "How would you know that?"

She was shaking now. She opened her mouth, hesitated. And then, finally, she forced the words out.

"Because I love one of them."

Silence.

Seth's fingers slackened. His lightsaber slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a dull clunk.

For a moment, he thought he misheard her. Thought that the battle had left his ears ringing, and that she had said something—anything—else.

But she hadn't.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "You're joking."

Drea didn't laugh. Didn't smirk. Didn't do anything to suggest this wasn't real.

"His name is Trevin," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "We met off-duty in the cantina one night. I didn't even know he was an officer here. A computer tech. He's not a murderer, Seth. He's just—he's just trying to survive, like the rest of us."

Seth felt like the floor had been yanked out from under him. The girl he once thought he knew was in love with the enemy.

He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to stand taller, even as something inside him cracked.

"You should've told me," he muttered. "You should've told me before you let me trust you out here."

Drea flinched, but said nothing.

"Bastila's gonna want to move soon," he said, his voice flat. "Get yourself together."

He turned sharply and walked away, leaving Drea standing there—shoulders trembling, eyes brimming with tears.

And Seth? He didn't look back.

Mission sat in the main hold of the Ebon Hawk, her knees pulled up to her chest, fingers tracing an idle path along a dent in the durasteel table. She wasn't thinking about much—just existing, her mind an unhelpful blur of emotions she couldn't even begin to untangle. Anger. Hurt. Something in between.

She didn't want to cry. Not over this. Not over him.

She heard the sound of heavy boots approaching, each step carrying the weight of a man who was far too large to sneak up on anyone. She didn't bother looking up when Canderous Ordo dropped into the seat across from her, setting something solid and heavy on the table between them.

Mission glanced at it. A blaster rifle.

She frowned. "I think you're confusing me with Zaalbar. I'm a pistol girl."

Canderous smirked. "Not a gift. Training. Come on."

Mission groaned, dropping her forehead against her knees. "Not in the mood, Mandalore."

"Doesn't matter what you're in the mood for. I'm in the mood for getting you off your ass and doing something productive."

She sighed, lifting her head just enough to glare at him. "Why?" She gestured vaguely. "I didn't say I wanted help."

"You didn't have to," Canderous said, leaning back, arms crossed. "You're sulking like a rookie who got her ass handed to her in their first battle. And you're wasting time feeling sorry for yourself when you could be getting better."

Mission scowled. "I'm not sulking."

"Oh yeah? Then what do you call sitting here, staring at the wall like it wronged you?"

"Thinking."

"Thinking is useful when it leads to something," he countered. "When it doesn't? That's just self-pity."

Mission opened her mouth to argue but snapped it shut, narrowing her eyes. "That's a lot of words for a guy who usually just threatens to punch people when they're annoying."

Canderous snorted. "Would it help if I threatened to throw you out the airlock?"

"A little."

He grunted in amusement, then pushed the rifle toward her. "Come on. And keep up."

Mission sighed heavily but stood up, dragging her feet as she followed him down the ramp and into the far side of the Ahto City hangar. The cool sea air was thick with salt, the muffled hum of city life filtering into the usually quiet docking bay.

"See those bottles?" Canderous gestured toward a set of empty juma juice bottles stacked on top of a crate. "You're gonna shoot them."

"Let me guess," she said flatly. "If I miss, I owe you drinks. If I win, drinks are on you."

"Something like that," he said, smirking. "Except you're not just hitting them. You're stacking them with your shots. One at a time, bottom to top."

Mission squinted at the crates. "That's not even—"

"You scared?"

She scoffed, lifting the rifle to her shoulder. "Not even close."

She lined up the shot, took a steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck just beside the bottom bottle, missing by an inch. Mission groaned, adjusting her stance as Canderous let out a low chuckle behind her.

"You're gripping too tight," he said, stepping beside her. He reached out, correcting her hold on the rifle. "Relax your shoulders. Let the rifle do the work."

Mission huffed but followed his instructions, rolling her shoulders back and trying again. The second shot struck the edge of the bottom bottle, sending it spinning rather than shattering. Canderous gave an approving grunt. "Better. Now follow through."

She inhaled sharply, exhaled slower, and fired again. This time, the bottle shattered cleanly. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in her chest, though she kept her expression neutral. She moved to the next bottle, hesitated, then fired. Another hit, though not perfect.

"Not bad," Canderous said, stepping back with his arms crossed. "Fast, but you're still trying to force it. Let your aim settle before you pull the trigger."

Mission narrowed her eyes at the remaining bottles. She lined up her next shot more carefully. One by one, she worked her way up the stack, each shot landing cleaner than the last.

By the time the last one landed, she exhaled, lowering the rifle. She turned to Canderous, hands on her hips. "Alright. That was kind of fun. But if you tell anyone I said that, I'm stealing your credits while you sleep."

Canderous chuckled, stepping forward to examine the crate. "Not bad, kid. You're fast. Precise."

She shrugged. "I had a good teacher."

"Damn right you did."

They stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then, in a softer voice, Canderous said, "You're not as alone as you think you are, Mission."

Mission blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. "I never said I was."

"Didn't have to." He tilted his head toward the ship. "You think everyone on that rust bucket doesn't see what's going on? Doesn't notice that you've been quieter? That you've been keeping to yourself?"

Mission hesitated, gripping the rifle a little tighter. "I just…" She inhaled sharply. "I just don't want to talk about it."

"Then don't. Shoot instead."

She turned back to the crate, considering. Then, without another word, she lifted the rifle and fired again.

Canderous smirked. "That's more like it."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Mission smiled. Just a little.

The halls of the Sith Embassy were eerily silent as Seth, Bastila, Juhani, and Drea moved deeper into the facility. The battle in the reception area had drawn out most of the security, and now only the occasional patrolling officer remained between them and their goal. The stolen Republic data was supposedly housed in a secure room near the back of the complex—guarded, but not impossible to reach.

Seth gripped his lightsaber tightly, every step forward making him feel more aware of the quiet tension settling over the group. The air was thick with the metallic tang of ionized ozone, the lingering scent of burned circuitry from the earlier firefight.

Bastila held up a hand, signaling them to stop. "This should be it."

Ahead, a reinforced durasteel door loomed, its access panel blinking steadily. Seth shot Drea a glance. "Think your Republic access codes will get us in?"

Drea exhaled, stepping forward. "If they haven't been changed yet, maybe."

She keyed in a sequence, the soft beeping of the console filling the air. For a long second, nothing happened. Then—

Access Denied.

"Great," Seth muttered. "So much for the easy way."

Drea frowned. "Wait, let me try something else." Her fingers moved rapidly over the console, bypassing the primary lockout. Bastila folded her arms, watching with interest but saying nothing. Juhani, however, was clearly impatient. "If this fails, I can cut through the door," she offered.

"I've almost got it," Drea murmured. "Just a few more—"

The door hissed open.

Seth blinked. "Huh."

Drea smirked. "You were saying?"

Before Seth could retort, movement inside the room drew their attention. A half-dozen Sith technicians sat at their consoles, their eyes snapping up at the intruders. One of them—a young man with dark, tousled hair—stood abruptly, recognition flashing in his gaze.

"Drea?"

Drea's breath hitched. "Trevin?"

The room froze.

Seth's stomach sank as Drea shoved past him, her hands gripping the other man's shoulders. Trevin's eyes searched hers, relief flooding his features. "You're okay," he exhaled. "I was worried—when I heard about the Republic activity—"

"We don't have time for this," Bastila interjected sharply. "We need that data."

Trevin pulled back slightly, looking between Drea and the rest of the team. "Wait—you're with them?"

"Trevin, listen," Drea said quickly, keeping her voice low. "You need to give us the data. It's over. The Republic knows what you stole. We're here to take it back."

A flicker of uncertainty passed over Trevin's face. He took a step back, his hands clenching at his sides. "If I do that, I'm dead."

"You'll be dead if you don't," Juhani said bluntly, stepping forward. "You think the Sith will protect you if this operation fails?"

Trevin hesitated. Seth could see the internal war playing out in the man's eyes.

Then, finally, Trevin moved. He stepped toward the nearest console, fingers flying over the keys. The screen flickered as data was copied onto a small encrypted drive. "This has everything," he said, voice tight. "If the Republic gets it back, they'll know every movement the Sith have planned on Manaan."

Seth stepped forward to take the drive, but Trevin pulled it back at the last second, his gaze locked onto Drea. "Come with me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can leave together. You don't have to stay with them."

Drea inhaled sharply. Seth saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the battle waging inside her. He felt his stomach twist. Was she actually considering it?

"No," she whispered, her voice barely steady. But there was pain in her tone, regret in her eyes.

Trevin's face fell. "Drea—"

"I can't," she said, firmer now. "I made my choice."

Behind them, the other techs had been watching in tense silence. One of them—a younger man with wide, uncertain eyes—finally spoke. "Trevin, if they take the data, we're done. The Sith will kill us for this."

Another technician, an older woman, nodded grimly. "He's right. We can't stay here. If we surrender now, the Republic might offer protection."

Juhani stepped forward, gaze sharp. "The Republic will offer you amnesty if you defect now. But if you stay, the Sith will see you as a liability." She let the weight of her words settle. "You know what they do to liabilities."

Trevin's fingers clenched around the drive before he exhaled sharply. He turned to his fellow techs. "We go with them," he said. "If we stay, we're dead."

A murmur ran through the group, but one by one, the techs nodded. Trevin turned back to Seth, jaw tight, and finally handed him the drive. "This has everything. You get this to the Republic, and they'll have the upper hand on Manaan."

Seth pocketed the drive, nodding once. Bastila's expression remained impassive, but Seth could feel her approval through their bond. "Let's move."

As they turned to leave, Seth stole one last glance at Drea. Her face was unreadable, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists. Whatever emotions she had been holding back, she wasn't going to show them now.

The Ebon Hawk was quiet when Mission stepped back aboard, the cool air of the ship a stark contrast to the humidity of Manaan. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, stretching her arms over her head before making her way toward the main hold. The weight in her chest wasn't gone, but it was lighter. Manageable.

Canderous was already there, a large bottle of Juma Juice sitting on the table in front of him. He looked up as she entered, then, without a word, slid an empty glass toward her.

"You sure you don't want any, kid?"

Mission scoffed, picking up the glass only to push it right back toward him. "No thanks. I lived on Taris without booze, and I was fine. Alcohol's not really my thing. I'll shoot up the bottle when you're finished with it, though."

He chuckled, pouring himself another drink. "Suit yourself." He took a slow swig before leaning back and shouting toward the cockpit. "Onasi! I'm feelin' friendly today, come unwind!"

Mission arched an eyebrow. "I thought you hated him."

"He's a Republic wuss, but I don't hate him. Like I said, I'm feeling friendly today. I blame you."

Carth appeared in the doorway, shaking his head with amusement. "Don't blame her for anything," he said, grabbing a glass and pouring himself a drink. He took a long gulp before patting Canderous lightly on the shoulder. "You're just going soft."

"Like hell I am!" Canderous shot back, downing his drink as if to prove the point.

Mission laughed. "He ridiculed me plenty today for the way I held a rifle," she pointed out. "But he's getting there."

Canderous glared at her. "Don't make me regret this."

She smirked. "Nah, I won't. But I am gonna go finish up a pazaak game with Big Z if you don't mind. Have your little war-related chats." She grinned, then stepped forward and, before he could stop her, wrapped her arms around the Mandalorian in a tight hug.

Canderous stiffened, clearly unprepared for the contact. His hands awkwardly patted her shoulder before he huffed. "Alright, alright, get out of here before I start thinking you're getting soft too."

Mission pulled back, her grin widening. "Thanks again," she murmured. "I really needed that today."

Without another word, she disappeared down the corridor.

Carth watched her go, then smirked into his glass. "Softie."

Canderous scowled but clinked his drink against Carth's. "Wuss."

Seth slowed his pace as he walked through the Republic Embassy, exhaling slowly. The mission was over, but it hadn't settled. The tension still clung to his shoulders, and no amount of deep breaths was making it lift. Maybe it was the battle, maybe it was Drea. Maybe it was just the realization that too much had shifted in too little time.

"Seth."

He turned. Drea was standing nearby, arms crossed, watching him carefully. "Heading back to the Ebon Hawk?"

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his neck. "Look… I was out of line earlier. I shouldn't have snapped like that."

Drea exhaled. "It's fine. I should've told you sooner."

Seth nodded. The words felt too simple for what had happened, but he wasn't sure what else to say. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said—about you and Trevin. He's a good guy. You deserve someone like that."

Her smile was small, guarded. "Thanks. And… for what it's worth, I'm glad you got him to defect. If anyone could've convinced him, it'd be you."

He huffed, trying to make light of it. "Yeah, well. I'm told I have a way with words."

Drea gave him a long look, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes before she shook her head, lips quirking slightly. "I wouldn't have let just anyone set the standard."

Seth shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond to that. "Guess that's a compliment."

She hesitated, then stepped forward, pulling him into a quick, firm hug. "Take care of yourself, okay? When you go down in that sub tomorrow, come back up."

He nodded against her shoulder. "I will."

She stepped back, offering one last nod before turning away. Seth stood there for a second, watching her go, until Bastila's voice pulled him back.

"Seth."

He turned, falling into step beside her as they made their way toward the exit.

She glanced at him. "Your emotions got the better of you more than once today," she said carefully. "But your focus never wavered."

Seth frowned. "Is that—your way of saying I did okay?"

Bastila sighed, shaking her head. "I'm saying I'm proud of you. Just take the compliment."

He fought back a grin, but it crept up anyway. "Fine. Thanks."

For the first time that day, the weight on his chest finally began to ease.

It was late by the time Seth stepped onto the Ebon Hawk, the ship quiet, save for the soft hum of the engines. The weight of the day had settled in fully now, heavier than his pack, heavier than his lightsaber at his side. He was drained—physically, mentally—but there was still one thing left unfinished.

His boots barely made a sound as he made his way toward the crew quarters. He didn't know what he was expecting when he passed Mission's door. Maybe it would open. Maybe she'd be standing there, waiting for him, arms crossed, ready to tear into him for everything he'd done wrong.

But the door stayed shut.

And somehow, that was worse.

Seth exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before stepping into his own bunk. His mind was buzzing, the words he wanted to say running in circles, but none of them seemed enough. "I'm sorry" felt too small. "You were right" felt too late.

He sank onto his cot, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He needed to say something. Even if she never wanted to hear it.

With a quiet sigh, he grabbed his datapad from his pack and started typing.

Mish,

Hey. I realized a lot today. I won't go into details—I doubt you care right now. But I'm heading down to the Hrakert Rift tomorrow to look for the Star Map, and there's no one I'd rather have by my side than you.

I messed up. I know that. I've been a huge idiot, and it's about time I accept the blame. All of this—it's on me. So, this is my apology. I don't expect it to fix anything. But you deserved better from me, and I'm sorry I didn't see that sooner.

-Seth

P.S. I don't know what I want. But I know I don't want to lose you.

Seth stared at the message for a long moment before sending it to her private inbox. The words felt incomplete, but at least they were something.

He set the datapad down and leaned back against the bulkhead, exhaling slowly. Maybe she'd read it. Maybe she wouldn't.

Either way, it was out of his hands now.