The guard at the Bek base door glanced at the heavy pack on Seth's back—then at his exhausted stance. Her expression shifted from neutral to impressed. Without a word, she stepped aside, opening the door.
The moment they stepped inside, the entire base seemed to react at once.
Word spread fast.
By the time they reached the main hall, Beks were crowding around them, clapping Seth on the back, shaking hands, grinning like they'd just won the war. Someone—Mission, of course—was the first to throw an arm around Seth's shoulders, half-laughing, half-cheering. Zaalbar got his fair share of attention too—gang members exchanging wary glances with the massive Wookiee, nodding in mutual respect.
Seth could barely get through the crowd.
By the time they reached Gadon's office, he was exhausted. Seth didn't place the accelerator on the desk so much as drop it. Then he dropped himself onto Gadon's desk as well, arms sprawled. "Next time, sir, you get the honor of carrying that," he gasped.
Gadon chuckled, reaching into the bag and pulling out the cylindrical prototype accelerator.
"Nice work," he praised. "I'll get my mechanics installing this right away."
Zaerdra took the accelerator from him, walking it out of the office.
Carth, arms crossed, wasn't interested in celebration. "Now… about our deal, Gadon."
Gadon nodded, all business again. "Right. I promised you a spot in the swoop race, and I never go back on my word. And I'll even go one better."
He met Seth's eyes.
"You're going to race with the prototype accelerator on it."
Seth stared. "I'm sorry, what?"
Gadon smirked. "You have the look and feel of a racer about you. While you won't have time to practice, you can at least get a feel for the kind of bike you'll be riding."
He gestured toward Mission. "Take him down to the maintenance bay, tell Tor-Fy to give him the basics."
Mission's eyes lit up. "Can I stay and watch?"
"You can stay, Mission. Just don't go wandering off."
Mission folded her arms. Her excitement faded slightly. "Yeah, yeah. I know."
Seth caught the shift in her tone but didn't press.
She waved for him to follow, leading the way out of the office.
The moment Seth and Mission disappeared down the hall, Carth turned back to Gadon.
His stance wasn't casual anymore.
He took a step forward, crossing his arms. "Alright," Carth said, voice low. "Let's cut the crap."
Gadon raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You don't just hand a prototype swoop engine to an inexperienced racer unless there's a reason," Carth pressed. "And you already said it's unstable. How unstable?"
Gadon exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Look, I won't lie to you. We never had time to totally eliminate the overheating issue."
Carth's jaw tightened. "Bottom line."
Gadon met his stare. "If he pushes it too hard, it could overheat and explode."
The captain saw red. "So you're just gonna let a kid race a death trap?"
Gadon didn't waver. "My mechanics are working on the accelerator's stability as we speak. It should be safer by morning. But let's be real—do you have a better option?"
Carth clenched his fists. "I could race it." His voice was quieter now, but deadly serious.
The gang leader sighed. "You could. And then what? Let's say you win. Let's say you get Bastila. You're the Republic's top priority right now. You think they want you dead?"
Carth flinched, but Gadon wasn't done.
"You know it as well as I do—he's the best shot you've got."
Carth exhaled through his nose, fists clenching, then releasing.
Damn it.
He hated that Gadon was right.
He hated that Seth was the best option.
And he hated even more that, for the Republic, for Bastila, for everything that depended on this mission—he had to let him do it.
He took a slow, steadying breath.
Gadon watched him carefully. "I respect that you're looking out for him. But you know what's at stake."
Carth turned away, jaw tight.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I know."
Mission walked ahead of Seth, leading him deeper into the Bek base, past shelving units cluttered with old swoop parts and pipes humming with the flow of unused water. The air was different down here. Not in a bad way—just different.
Less like a gang hideout, more like something lived-in.
But it didn't feel like home. Not really.
Seth rolled his shoulders, still flexing his hands from gripping the accelerator strap for so long. "So," he said finally, "how'd you end up with the Beks?"
Mission hesitated. He'd asked it casually, like it wasn't a big deal, and maybe to him it wasn't. But she felt something tighten in her chest.
She almost brushed it off. Almost made a joke. Instead, she shrugged. "My brother ran with them for a while."
Seth caught the change in her tone. She wasn't saying it like it was a good thing.
He treaded lightly. "Did he quit the gang, or…?"
Mission snorted, shaking her head. "Yeah. Left the planet, actually. With some two-bit schutta named Lena." Her hands clenched into fists before she even realized it.
Seth raised an eyebrow. "Just took off?"
Mission nodded. "Met her at a cantina one night, fell hard, and next thing I know, he's gone. Told me he'd be back for me someday."
A dry laugh.
"That was six years ago."
Seth frowned. "He never even tried to check in?"
Mission shook her head. "Not a word. Not a message. Not even a lousy 'hey, still alive?'"
And stars, she wanted to be angrier about it. She wanted to hate him for it. But she couldn't.
Because Griff had taught her everything.
How to pick a lock. How to fix a blaster when it jams. How to walk into a cantina and blend in like you belonged, even when you didn't.
He had kept her safe. Had made her laugh when the streets of Taris weren't kind.
And then he'd just left.
But it wasn't his fault.
It was Lena. She was the one who lured him away. She was the one who pulled him out of her life. Griff wouldn't have left if not for her.
…Right?
Seth's voice cut into her thoughts.
"That's kriffed up."
Mission blinked. She had expected a lot of responses. Some attempt at comfort. Some empty, placating phrase about how things happen for a reason.
But Seth just said it like it was.
And for some reason? That made her laugh.
"Yeah," she said, shaking her head. "Yeah, it is."
Seth shoved his hands in his pockets. "For what it's worth? You're worth a lot more than getting left behind on Taris."
Mission froze.
For a second, she didn't even breathe.
Because no one had ever said that to her. Not the Beks. Not Griff. Not anyone.
And stars, she hated how much that got to her.
So she rolled her shoulders, glancing away. "Yeah, well. It's not like I'm sitting around waiting." She picked up the pace.
Seth didn't press. But she felt it.
That unspoken understanding.
That stupid warmth creeping into her chest.
And she didn't like it.
Didn't know what to do with it.
So she did what she did best. She changed the subject.
"Well," she said, suddenly grinning, "I'm way more interested in seeing you try to ride a swoop bike without crashing."
Seth arched an eyebrow. "Oh, you think I can't handle it?"
Mission gave him an exaggerated once-over.
"I dunno, Hotshot. You look a little fragile."
Seth chuckled. "Alright, just for that? I'm winning that race tomorrow."
Mission laughed, shoving open the garage doors. "Good. At least then I'll get a front-row seat."
The garage smelled like fuel, coolant, and burned metal. It was cluttered with half-disassembled swoop bikes, tools scattered across workbenches, grease stains smeared across durasteel walls. She led Seth inside, grinning wide. "Welcome to the heart of the operation."
Seth let out a low whistle. "You know, I expected something a little cleaner."
A gruff voice snorted from behind a swoop bike. "[If you want clean, go ride a speeder]" a Rodian in grease-stained coveralls muttered as she straightened from her work.
Mission grinned. "Seth, meet Tor-Fy—head Bek mechanic and all-around miracle worker."
Tor-Fy folded her arms, looking Seth up and down. "[So, you're the Republic kid who's about to risk his neck on my bike.]"
Seth smirked. "That's the plan."
Tor-Fy huffed, shaking her head. "[Hope you've got a strong stomach, rookie.]"
She patted the swoop bike beside her, a sleek-looking model with exposed wiring and a fresh coat of blue paint. "[Climb in. Let's see if you even know how to start it.]"
Seth stepped forward, running a hand over the frame. It wasn't a starfighter, but... it wasn't far off. He swung a leg over the seat, settling into the cockpit.
Mission leaned on the workbench beside him, watching with eager curiosity. "Alright, let's see what you got, Hotshot."
Seth took a second, fingers brushing over the controls. Yeah. This was familiar.
He pressed the ignition. The swoop roared to life, vibrations humming through his body.
Mission whooped. "Look at that! He's not totally useless!"
Tor-Fy made a thoughtful noise, tilting her head. "[Hmph. Not bad. Now, let's see if you can handle the throttle.]"
Seth tapped the accelerator and the bike lurched forward—hard. Mission burst out laughing as Seth snapped backward, gripping the handles with a grunt.
Tor-Fy shook her head. "[Too much torque, rookie. It's not a starfighter.]"
Seth gritted his teeth, adjusting.
Slower this time.
He tested the acceleration, getting a feel for the thrust. The swoop settled into a controlled hover.
Tor-Fy nodded. "[Better. But you're still stiff. Relax your grip—you need to feel the bike, not fight it.]"
Seth exhaled, adjusting his hands. The tension eased slightly.
Mission smirked. "You having fun yet?"
Seth chuckled. "Oh yeah, this is just how I wanted to spend my night—getting thrown around by a death trap."
Mission grinned. "Well, you better figure it out fast, 'cause tomorrow, you're riding at full speed." She turned to the mechanic "You think he's ready, Tor-Fy?"
The Rodian shrugged. "[Ready enough. If he listens, he won't die.]"
Seth arched an eyebrow. "Wow, stellar vote of confidence."
Tor-Fy shrugged. "[Call it motivation. What do you think of the bike?]"
Seth grinned, revving the engine slightly.
"Does it come in black?"
There was no crack of dawn in the Lower City. No golden light spilling over rooftops. No soft morning breeze. Just the same dim glow of neon signs, the same stagnant, recycled air, and the same twilight haze that never fully lifted.
Mission pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, staring out over the Tarisian Swoop Circuit. The track stretched wide and open before her—a massive, oval-shaped death trap, lit only by industrial floodlights.
She exhaled sharply. She usually loved this place. But today was different.
The roar of swoop engines had yet to fill the stadium. The grandstands were mostly empty, save for the few early die-hard fans who had already taken their seats, eager for the carnage to come.
Mission's eyes flicked down to the Bek pit area, where the mechanics were pushing Seth's swoop bike into place.
She almost laughed.
Of course he got exactly what he asked for.
True to his vision, it had been painted jet-black, streaked with bold orange and yellow lightning bolts running down its twin pontoons. The number 95 was painted over the bolts in aurebesh, standing out against the darkness of the frame.
It would fit in with the other swoops just fine.
Except for one thing. Mission's gaze drifted to the small, unassuming canister hooked near the main engine. The prototype accelerator.
The thing that could win Seth the race.
The thing that could kill him before he reached the finish line.
Gadon had tried to reassure her that the chances of it exploding were small.
But they still existed.
Mission swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside. She was here for a reason.
She had expected to find Seth running drills, double-checking his swoop, maybe arguing with a mechanic.
Instead?
She found him asleep behind a stack of crates.
An amused smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
Seth lay stretched across a pile of spare swoop parts, arms folded behind his head, breathing slow and even. His jacket and undershirt were tossed to the side, leaving him in just a tight-fitting white tank top, his toned arms and chest rising and falling with each breath.
He looked… at ease. Like this was just another day, just another mission.
Mission hesitated, watching him for a moment longer than she meant to.
She had never really stopped to notice before.
The way his body had been shaped by years of training.
The way his muscles weren't just for show, but built for endurance, for combat.
The way he looked so much older than sixteen.
He wasn't a kid playing soldier.
He was one.
She wondered—not for the first time—what exactly he had been through. Not just small fights in the Lower City, not skirmishes like the Vulkar base. Real battles. Blaster fire screaming past him, explosions shaking the ground, people dying around him.
Had he seen friends killed?
Had he buried them?
She didn't know.
And suddenly, she wasn't so sure she wanted to.
She sighed, a little louder than intended, and in an instant, Seth's breathing changed. His eyes snapped open and in one swift motion, he was upright, alert—posture rigid, trained.
Mission jumped back, startled by the suddenness of it.
Seth blinked, then let out a sheepish chuckle. "Oh—sorry. Trained reaction."
Mission shook her head quickly, trying to pretend she hadn't just been staring.
"Nah, it's okay," she said too fast. Then, before he could question it—"I wanted to talk to you."
Seth arched an eyebrow. "About what? Trying not to get my hide blown into orbit? Yeah, I think the Captain already covered that."
Mission rolled her eyes. "No, actually. Well… okay, yeah, maybe a little."
He sighed dramatically. "I told you guys, I can do this. You don't need to work yourselves into such a fuss."
Mission put her hands on her hips. "I am not 'working myself into a fuss!'"
Seth just looked at her.
She scowled. "Okay, maybe a little. But I just wanted to make sure you'll be careful."
Seth exhaled, softening slightly. "Alright. I'll be careful and do my best not to get myself killed."
Mission crossed her arms. "Actually, I was talking about the bike. Don't mess up that paint job."
He grinned. "Alright, fine, I swear by my unparalleled collection of Krayt Freedom Core-World Tour data disks that I won't scratch the paint job." He paused, then winced. "Oh wait… that kinda went up with the Endar Spire."
She snickered. "Krayt Freedom?"
Seth's expression turned deadly serious. "Only the greatest Outer Rim Rock band ever."
Mission shook her head. "Stars, you are a nerd."
Seth winked. "A nerd that's about to win a swoop race."
Mission's amusement faded slightly. She shifted her weight. "Seth," she said, quieter now. "You know that humans don't race swoops."
Seth quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, humans don't get off Taris when there's a Sith blockade, either. I like breaking trends."
Mission didn't smile.
"The ones who tried before you?" she pressed. "They didn't just lose. They didn't make it off the track."
Seth's smirk faded.
Mission glanced toward the mostly empty grandstands, then back at him. "In about two hours, those seats will be packed. The cantinas will be full, watching the live feed." She exhaled, hazel eyes locking with green. "They're expecting you to crash. And they can't wait to see it."
Seth went still.
Mission hated the look that crossed his face.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Just understanding.
Like he'd known from the start.
Like it had never even been a question.
Mission swallowed. "You don't have to do this, Seth."
Seth met her gaze. "Yes, I do."
Mission sighed, rubbing her temples. "Fine," she muttered. "Just… don't die, okay, Hotshot?"
Seth smirked again, but it was softer this time.
"I'll do my best."
Mission waited a beat, then reached into her pocket. "Here," she said, pulling out a thin silver chain. A small, winged star-shaped charm dangled beneath her fingertips.
Seth raised an eyebrow. "What's this?"
Mission shrugged. "Apparently, a pilot's good luck charm. Carth wanted me to give it to you."
Seth hesitated, then took the chain, turning the charm over in his fingers. It was simple. Worn. The edges smoothed from years of handling. Something about that made him pause.
"Carth wore this?" he asked.
Mission nodded. "Yeah. Said he had it on during his flight exam. Passed with flying colors."
Seth huffed a quiet laugh. "Of course he did."
Mission smirked. "So, you putting it on, or are you gonna make me go tell Grandpa you rejected his heartfelt gesture?"
Seth chuckled quietly. "Yeah, I'd like to live to see the race, thanks." He slipped the chain over his neck, tucking the charm beneath his shirt.
Mission's expression softened.
For all of Seth's confidence, for all his reckless bravado, she knew he wasn't stupid. He knew what he was up against.
And that made her even more nervous.
Seth started to say something—but a voice called his name from across the pit.
He glanced over to see Zaerdra waving him down.
"Guess that's my cue."
Mission clapped his shoulder. "Good luck. We'll be cheering for you."
Seth nodded, offering her a quick smile. Then he turned and jogged toward the other Bek racers.
Mission watched him go, arms crossed tightly.
In just a few hours, the stands would be full. The track would be deadly. And there wouldn't be a thing she could do but watch.
Zaerdra tossed a bundle of dark fabric into Seth's arms.
"Suit up."
Seth unfolded the material, inspecting the Bek racing jumpsuit. It was a dark gray, red accents running down the arms and legs, the Hidden Bek emblem stitched across the chest and back.
It felt... heavier than he expected.
"Whose was this?" he asked.
Zaerdra crossed her arms. "Kyudjai's."
Seth frowned. "He one of your riders?"
Zaerdra's expression didn't change. "He was. Vulkars killed him outside Javyyar's Cantina five days ago."
Seth stilled. The suit in his hands suddenly felt colder. He swallowed, glancing at the fabric again. There was no blood. No stains.
But stars, it might as well have been a body bag.
Seth clenched his jaw and pulled the jumpsuit on. Zaerdra watched him, nodding in approval once he zipped it up.
"Fits well," she noted. Then, matter-of-factly—"Try not to die in it."
Seth grit his teeth. "Yeah, I'll do my best."
Zaerdra motioned for him to follow, leading him toward the swoop lineup. "Listen up," she said as they walked. "Vulkars don't play fair. They'll try to ram you into the wall, spin you out, throw you into the track barriers. If you want to make it out in one piece, hit them first."
Seth arched an eyebrow. "So, my strategy is 'be more of a bastard than they are'?"
Zaerdra allowed a rare smile to cross her features. "See? You're catching on."
Seth exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
Try not to crash.
Try not to get killed by the Vulkars.
Try not to explode from the unstable accelerator.
Easy.
Seth had barely adjusted to the weight of the jumpsuit when a voice rang out behind him: "Well, look at you—fitting right in already."
He turned to see a red-skinned Twi'lek grinning at him, her sharp eyes flicking up and down his frame like she was already making an assessment.
Before he could reply, she smacked a hand against his back, knocking him forward a step. "I like you already," she said, crossing her arms. "Try not to die, huh?"
Seth chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll do my best."
The Twi'lek gave a sharp two-fingered salute. "Name's Livana. And this," she gestured beside her, "is Go'lung Shrookut. But don't ask him to say his full name, it'll take all day."
The Bith beside her sighed heavily. "It's not my fault your Basic doesn't accommodate proper pronunciation."
Livana rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, not my fault your name sounds like a malfunctioning engine."
Go'lung ignored her, instead giving Seth a measured glance. "First time racing?"
Seth nodded. "Officially? Yeah."
Go'lung grunted. "Then you better hope your instincts are good, rookie."
Livana snickered. "Oh, he's got instincts, alright. He's either gonna win or we're all about to witness the best crash in swoop racing history."
Seth huffed. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Livana grinned. "I mean, look—you're new, you're human, and your swoop's got 'unstable prototype' written all over it. The odds aren't exactly in your favor."
Go'lung crossed his arms. "But if you do survive, and if you do win? You'll make history."
Seth's smirk returned.
"Good," he said, cracking his knuckles. "I love breaking records."
Seth barely had time to continue his conversation with Livana and Go'lung before he felt it—the weight of a gaze locking onto him from across the pit. He turned just in time to see a hulking Nikto approaching, heavy boots scraping against durasteel.
The smell hit him first. Like old sweat, cheap alcohol, and something vaguely reptilian.
Redros, Vulkar champion.
And walking garbage fire, apparently.
The Nikto sniffed the air, curling his lip.
"So, you be new rider old Gadon gets," he muttered, Basic thick and guttural. His black, beady eyes narrowed. "Little male huuuuman be stinking of fear..."
Seth arched an eyebrow. "Nah, that's just you, buddy. Smells like you've been bathing in nerf piss."
Go'lung snorted. Livana choked back a laugh.
Redros' grin twisted into a snarl.
"You talk big for human! You should know why humans don't race in Swoop Circuit—they always crash and burn."
Seth tilted his head. "Right, right, and let me guess—you're the one that usually makes sure of that?"
The Nikto barely contained his amusement. "Maybe me should be breaking you now," Redros growled, cracking his knuckles. "As favor."
Seth's hand instinctively twitched toward his blaster—
But he didn't have it.
Didn't need it, either.
He could tell, just from the way Redros stood, the way his weight shifted, that he was used to people backing down. Seth wasn't about to give him that satisfaction.
He took a slow step forward. "Try it," he said, voice calm. Even. "See how many teeth you have left when you hit the track."
Redros' nostrils flared.
Before the tension could snap, a smooth, cutting voice cut between them.
"That's enough."
Both Seth and Redros turned.
Brejik.
The leader of the Vulkars stood a few feet away, arms folded, an infuriatingly smug look on his face. He wasn't big like Redros. But he didn't have to be. The confidence in his stance, the ease in his expression—this was someone used to getting what he wanted.
And right now?
He was enjoying this.
"You must be Mike Fure," he said, the alias Seth and Carth had come up with the night before falling from Brejik's lips like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Seth held his gaze. "And you must be Brejik. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance."
Brejik's smirk didn't falter. "The pleasure is all yours."
Seth tilted his head. "See, I don't think it is."
Brejik let out a low chuckle. "You know," he mused, "you are the first human in a long time to attempt this race."
Seth rolled his shoulders. "I hear we don't have the best track record."
"Mm." Brejik nodded. "The ones who tried before you? Didn't just lose. They died."
Seth didn't flinch. But he felt the air shift.
Go'lung and Livana had gone quiet behind him.
Redros' smirk had returned.
Brejik stepped forward slightly, voice dropping.
"I won't be expecting to see you get through five laps, let alone complete the full two hundred."
Seth exhaled slowly. "Well, guess I'll have to disappoint you, then."
Brejik's smirk deepened. He looked past Seth, toward the Bek stands. And his expression turned amused. "You've got quite the cheering section," he noted.
Seth didn't need to turn.
He knew exactly who Brejik was looking at.
Mission.
A sharp pulse of anger hit his chest.
Brejik glanced back at him, eyes cold.
"Shame she's about to watch you die."
Seth's fingers curled into fists.
Redros chuckled darkly.
Brejik held Seth's gaze a moment longer, then turned to leave, motioning for Redros to follow. "Good luck, rookie," he called over his shoulder. "Try not to make it too easy for us."
Seth exhaled slowly, jaw tight.
He heard Livana let out a low whistle. "Well, you're just making so many friends today," she teased, though her usual humor was a little forced.
Go'lung crossed his arms. "They'll try to kill you out there, you know."
Seth didn't look away from where Brejik and Redros had disappeared.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I know."
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Seth stood at the edge of the pit, his helmet tucked under one arm, fingers drumming against the visor.
The stadium had transformed. Where there had been empty seats just hours ago, now thousands of bodies packed the grandstands, a sea of movement and flashing banners. The air thrummed with energy, vibrating through the durasteel beneath his boots.
This was it.
The Taris Season Opener.
The biggest race of the year. Of his life.
Seth exhaled slowly, tuning out the chaos, forcing his focus inward. The swoop bikes were being rolled into position, their engines already purring like caged beasts waiting to be unleashed. He felt it in his bones—the hum of power, the weight of expectation, the slow crawl of time before everything exploded into motion.
Seth glanced toward the Bek stands. Mission, Zaalbar, and Carth were up there somewhere.
Mission was probably chewing her lip, bouncing her leg. Carth? Arms crossed, jaw tight, regretting every life choice that led to putting a sixteen-year-old into this death trap. And Zaalbar? Seth didn't have to guess that he was already halfway through the spoils of his third trip to the concession stand.
He grinned to himself.
His gaze shifted back to the track.
The Vulkars were already in position, lined up across the pits, Redros adjusting his gloves, Brejik watching from the sidelines.
Waiting.
Seth rolled his shoulders, then climbed into his swoop. The cockpit was tight, but familiar. His hands found the controls on instinct, fingers brushing over the throttle, the stabilizer, the accelerator. His pulse matched the rhythmic hum of the bike. He pulled his helmet over his head until it firmly clicked into place. His visor dimmed, adjusting to the harsh floodlights overhead.
The noise of the crowd muted, leaving only the sharp sound of his own breathing inside the enclosed space.
Focus.
Tor-Fy's voice crackled in his ear as the helmet's comms system booted up. "[Everything's set, rookie. How's the bike feel?]"
Seth grinned, shifting his grip on the controls. "Like a dream."
Tor-Fy snorted. "[Try not to wake up in a hospital.]"
Seth let out a breath, gripping the accelerator. His muscles felt coiled, ready. Like his body already knew exactly what to do.
The starting lights flashed red.
A slow inhale.
The crowd noise dulled, fading into the background.
Orange.
His fingers twitched.
Yellow.
His heartbeat slowed.
Every second stretched, drawn out like a wire pulled to its breaking point.
Green.
Seth flicked the throttle.
And launched forward.