The desert spares no one. Not even those who think they can outlast it.
Tatooine. Twin suns blazing like twin gods of vengeance. An endless sea of sand.
And a crash — violent, messy, almost deliberate.
It had been swift and clean — professional bounty hunters, sent by the Empire.
The message? Crystal clear:
The Emperor forgets nothing.
The ship went down on a tongue of dry land, far from any settlements. Doc, who'd pulled a last-second emergency maneuver, got slammed hard in the cockpit. Illaoï rushed to him — quiet, precise, focused. He was shirtless — rather obviously — and tried again. A glance. A quip. A touch that lingered just too long.
She healed him. Just enough to keep him breathing. Nothing more. Her expression was so pointed, so pure in its disapproval, that even Kira went silent. Scourge raised an amused brow. Loewen looked down — silent, guilty.
Doc stayed behind under T7's watch. Heart broken. Ego shattered.
The others went scavenging.
Three villages. No luck. No parts. No credits accepted. Even Scourge's brand of persuasion met blank stares and desert shrugs. These weren't colony folk. They were desert-born. Tough. Wary. Immune.
Illaoï, meanwhile, watched. As always.
And she listened.
Whispers. Glances. Shifting patterns. And then she knew.
There would be a race.
The Boonta Eve. Podracing. Celebrations. Hutts. Spectacle.
A band had backed out. Debt. Fear. Chaos in the organizer's eyes.
And Illaoï vanished without a word.
No one saw her leave.
Loewen felt it first.
Then Kira.
Then Scourge.
"Where is she?"
"...Seriously?"
"Tatooine? With no water? Alone?"
Scourge didn't react. But his eyes betrayed the storm. She had said no more killing. No more old powers. So what was she doing?
Loewen was spiraling. Since Tython, she had occupied too much space in his mind. He tried to rationalize — mission safety, tactical concern, Jedi duty.
It was all lies.
He was slipping. And he knew it.
Then night fell.
The race ended. Firelight bloomed. Drums echoed across the sand.
And a voice rose.
Their heads turned — to a makeshift stage, glowing with lamps and heat.
And there she was.
Illaoï.
Draped in vibrant silks. Painted like a desert star. Skin kissed by oil and starlight.
And singing.
The words were clear. The language of feeling. She sang of courage, loss, small joys, aching hope.
The crowd, skeptical at first… fell silent. Then leaned forward.
Even the Hutts — expecting someone else entirely — sat in stunned calculation.
She was free. She was magnetic.
And she cost them nothing.
So, why complain?
More songs followed. Joyful. Then aching. Her body a flame on the stage. Her voice — steady, but stretched. Every note pulled from pain. Every verse a price. She was burning herself to keep them warm.
The crew froze.
Even Loewen.
Even Scourge.
She was casting a net — they could feel it.
Then… the tone shifted.
A new song. Slow. Sharp. Lethal.
She sang of chains. Of freedom. Of choices.
Not a scream. A whisper. But it carried.
The crowd stiffened.
Some turned to the mercenaries. Some backed away. Mothers gathered children.
Whispers. Tension.
The Hutts didn't like this part.
They roared. Soldiers moved.
Chaos.
Screams. Dust. Shouts.
The crew surged forward — but she was gone.
Already fleeing down an alley.
They caught a glimpse — scooping up credits, fast hands, sharper eyes.
Then — a shadow.
An ambush.
No scream. No powers.
Just silence.
And a net.
She struggled once.
Whimpered once.
Collapsed.
Captured.
They ran.
Too late.
Scourge took a bolt to the shoulder.
Loewen was held back.
Kira swept aside in the fleeing tide.
When they reached the alley, there was nothing. Just dust.
And quiet.
She was gone.
This time… not a game.
In Loewen's mind, a low thrum of panic.
He had failed.
He had lost more than a teammate.
Scourge stood longer.
Something felt off.
She hadn't fought.
Hadn't resisted.
No fear. No struggle.
Too perfect.
And then —
A flicker of a smile. Crooked. Almost fond.
He got it.
She had played them all.
And the trap was already closed.