Stealing the prototype turned out to be more time-consuming than challenging.
The Vulkars, despite their reputation, were little more than well-armed thugs—most of whom seemed to have joined the gang for the sole purpose of having a roof over their heads that wasn't covered in garbage. They were undisciplined, unorganized, and barely posed a threat beyond sheer numbers.
The only real fight they had encountered had been with a middle-aged Twi'lek who, ironically, had no interest in fighting at all. He had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with the gang's current leadership and even handed over a security pass without argument.
"Just do me a favor and wait until I'm out of here before you start blasting the place," he had said before disappearing toward the exit.
After making their way to the garage and relieving the chief mechanic of an important-looking access card, the group stumbled into what appeared to be a makeshift lab. Inside were a handful of disheveled thugs, a well-dressed Twi'lek, and his personal bodyguard—who seemed to be interested in more than just protecting him.
The Twi'lek introduced himself as Kandon Ark and wasted no time trying to recruit Talan into his cause. Ice, already exhausted and at the end of her patience, listened to several minutes of back-and-forth before raising her blaster and putting two shots clean through Kandon's head.
A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the room as the bodyguard wailed over her darling.
Talan turned to Ice, incredulous. She merely shrugged and holstered her blaster.
Delivering the prototype to Gadon had gone smoother than expected.
Talan had been personally asked to fly in the swoop race, which, considering his role in the operation, was not entirely unexpected. When he revealed the real reason for his interest in the race, Gadon invited him to remain at the Hidden Bek base as their guest for the night. Since he was the only one allowed on the track anyway, the others saw no reason to stick around. They returned to the apartment to rest, clean up, and, in Ice's case, endure a sleepless night on the ancient sofa.
The sofa itself wasn't the problem.
Neither were the snoring sounds coming from Carth and Zaalbar—though how Mission had managed to sleep through that was beyond her.
No, what kept her awake was something far more irritating.
The thought of seeing her again.
After all this time, Bastila still managed to get under her skin, and Ice hated that.
It had been nearly fifteen years since they had last seen each other. Ice had been five, Bastila nine. Their family had traveled to Dantooine to visit Bastila one final time before she was fully inducted into the Jedi Order.
Ice shook her head, shoving the thought away. She had no interest in dwelling on that particular memory.
Sometime during the night, the weather had taken a turn.
By morning, the sky was a blanket of thick gray clouds, and heavy rain pounded against the windows. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the dimly lit apartment in brief flashes of white light. Ice stood by the window, arms crossed, staring blankly at the cityscape beyond.
How had she ended up here?
She had vowed never to see her sister again. And yet, here she was, actively taking part in a rescue mission to save her.
She wondered if their parents had any idea what had happened. If they knew that their perfect daughter had gotten herself captured.
Then again, their mother had never been the type to care.
"Ice?"
The voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned to see Mission standing nearby, looking uncertain.
"Can I ask you something?"
Ice studied the girl.
She still hadn't decided how she felt about her. On one hand, she was loud, impatient, and had the irritating habit of always thinking she knew best. On the other hand, Ice couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, in some ways, she reminded her of herself at that age. Maybe it was the way she acted tough around others, putting up a front, even though her eyes betrayed an uncertainty that ran deeper than she was willing to admit.
Ice wasn't sure which realization bothered her more.
"If you must," she said with a shrug.
Mission hesitated before speaking. "Why do you hate your sister so much? I mean, sure, there's always sibling rivalry, but… hating your own family? That's a little extreme, don't you think?"
Ice exhaled slowly. "You've asked your question. Anything else?"
"Hey! You said I could ask you!"
"And you have," Ice replied. "I never said I would answer."
Mission groaned. "Then what was the point of letting me ask if you weren't going to say anything?"
Ice pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to ease the headache that was beginning to form. "Because," she said, keeping her voice calm, "it's not a simple answer. But I can assure you that her feelings toward me hold no more love than mine do for her."
Mission seemed to accept that, at least for now. She nodded and turned to leave, but then stopped.
"Hey, Ice?"
Ice met her gaze.
"What's your real name?"
For the first time in the conversation, Ice hesitated.
She held Mission's stare for a moment before answering.
"That died a long time ago."
Mission, for once, knew when to let something go. She gave a small nod and walked away, leaving Ice alone with thoughts she had tried so hard to forget.
Talan leaned against the swoop bike, eyes fixed on the time board as the final racer crossed the finish line. His time still stood uncontested. He had dominated the last two heats, and now all he had to do was wait for the results to be made official.
At first, he had been uneasy about the race. He had never handled a swoop bike before, and the Iridonian mechanic's instructions had been vague at best. But the moment he ignited the engine, something clicked. It felt strangely familiar, as if he had done this a hundred times before. The controls felt natural beneath his hands, his feet instinctively knowing how to maneuver through the track's deadly obstacles. He wasn't sure why—he had no memory of ever piloting a swoop before—but he had pushed the machine to its limits with ease.
His final time had shattered the previous record by five seconds. The mechanic had been stunned, mumbling something about how no amateur had ever handled a bike the way Talan had. Sure, the prototype generator had given him an edge, but that didn't explain this.
Talan drummed his fingers against the side of the bike as the last race's final time flashed across the screen.
"That does it!" the mechanic called, grinning. "You won it for us!"
"Yeah, great," Talan muttered, barely listening.
His attention was locked on the other side of the track where Brejik was in the middle of a furious meltdown. The Vulkar leader was barking at his racers, gesturing wildly, but Talan's focus drifted past him to the large steel cage looming just behind. Inside, barely visible, was Bastila.
From what little he could see, she wasn't just restrained—she was immobilized. And, if he wasn't mistaken, wearing a humiliating excuse for an outfit.
Ice would have had a field day with this.
"People of Taris, hear me!"
Talan sighed. Here we go.
He had been expecting something like this. Street gangs hated to lose, and Brejik, having just suffered a humiliating defeat to his most hated rival, wasn't going to take it well.
Brejik turned toward the crowd, voice rising with self-importance. "As a result of the obvious cheating, I am withdrawing the Vulkars' share of the winnings!"
Talan took a slow step forward. "Well, Brejik, seeing as how I already won, possession of your share of the 'winnings' has passed to me." He nodded toward the cage. "So that makes her mine now, doesn't it?"
"Fool!" Brejik spat, his face twisting in rage. "I am the future!"
Talan raised an eyebrow. "That's not very reassuring."
Brejik jabbed a finger toward Bastila's cage. "I am taking this woman and selling her on the slave market, and there's nothing you or the Hidden Beks can do to stop me!"
"I might have something to say about that, Brejik."
The new voice silenced the entire track.
Talan turned toward the cage, eyes widening as Bastila straightened, her expression calm—too calm.
Before anyone could react, the reinforced door of the cage ripped from its hinges, flying outward and slamming into the two Vulkars guarding it. The impact sent them crumpling to the ground in an unconscious heap.
Bastila stepped forward, raising an arm. The fallen blade of one of the guards flew into her open palm.
"Impossible!" Brejik's face twisted in horror. "You were restrained by a neural disruptor!"
Bastila's expression was impassive. "And you are a fool for thinking you could hold a Jedi hostage. A mistake you won't live to regret."
She launched herself forward, a blur of motion as she struck down the nearest Vulkars.
Talan barely had time to react before Brejik roared and swung his blade toward his head.
Talan twisted, dodging the strike and countering with his own. Brejik stumbled back, eyes flashing with frustration. Then something strange happened—his expression flickered, momentarily vacant, like he had forgotten what he was doing.
Talan wasted no time. He struck fast, slicing his blade across Brejik's throat.
The Vulkar leader choked on a strangled gasp before crumpling to the ground, lifeless.
Talan wiped his blade clean, frowning. Something about that fight wasn't right. Brejik had been skilled—he should have been a challenge. Instead, he had left himself completely open, as if something had dulled his instincts.
Before Talan could dwell on it further, a blade clashed against his own.
He turned, eyes locking onto Bastila, whose sword was pressed against his.
"You!" she snapped, her voice sharp. "If you think you can claim me as a prize—"
She trailed off, her expression shifting. Recognition dawned in her eyes.
"You…" she breathed. "You were with the Republic fleet."
Talan held her stare, keeping his weapon raised. It wasn't a question—she was certain. But how had she recognized him so easily? They had only crossed paths briefly on the Endar Spire, and even then, only in passing.
After a tense moment, they both stepped back and lowered their weapons.
"How did you end up racing with swoop gangs?" Bastila asked.
"It's a long story."
"Well, we don't have time for it now. We need to find a way off this planet." She straightened, scanning the battlefield. "Are we the only ones left alive?"
"No. Carth Onasi is alive. We've been holed up in an abandoned apartment, trying to figure out how to get you out."
"Carth is alive?" For the first time, she actually looked relieved. "That's wonderful—wait. Rescue me? Is that what you were attempting to do?" She folded her arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I just rescued you."
Talan let out a dry laugh. "Come again? Refresh my memory—who was locked in a metal cage in a near-catatonic state five minutes ago?"
Bastila's expression didn't falter. "And yet, I managed to free myself, did I not? If anything, you were an unnecessary addition to my escape."
"You're welcome," Talan muttered.
Bastila's gaze hardened. "And I am still your commanding officer. You would do well to remember that."
Talan rolled his eyes. "Starting to see her point about you," he mumbled.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Look, we don't have time for this. Carth and the others are waiting, and I'm sure everyone will be thrilled to be reunited."
Bastila didn't respond. She turned and walked toward a nearby storage locker, no doubt retrieving her lightsaber and Jedi robes.
Talan exhaled and shook his head, glancing down at Brejik's corpse before turning his attention to the other fallen Vulkars.
Might as well grab something useful.
As he searched the bodies, he couldn't help but wonder—what the hell have I gotten myself into?