Even after a night of much-needed rest, the intensity of Tatooine's twin suns was unforgiving, radiating off the permacrete as Seth and Mission stepped down the Ebon Hawk's loading ramp. The city of Anchorhead sprawled before them, dusty and sun-bleached, filled with the kind of movement that felt slow, deliberate—like the whole planet had adjusted to avoid wasting energy.

But that wasn't what Seth noticed first.

Mission was walking beside him, blue fingers idly twisting the chain of his dog tags where they hung against her collarbone, absentminded but anchored.

It was a small thing—subtle, intimate—but it sent something electric through Seth's chest, low and deep, like a slow burn. She wasn't even aware of what she was doing. But he was.

They hadn't talked about last night. They hadn't needed to.

It was there—woven into every look, every movement. Solid. Real.

Mission caught him looking and smirked, flicking the tags with a knowing glance. "What? Having second thoughts?"

He scoffed. "Yeah, definitely regretting giving a deadly thief my only proof of identification. Who knows what kind of criminal activity you'll be getting up to now?"

She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense. "I'll have you know, I haven't stolen anything in, like, weeks. That's called growth, soldier boy."

His smile widened despite himself. "Unbelievable."

"Besides," she continued, tapping the tags playfully against his chest, voice dropping just slightly, just enough, "I know how much they mean to you. So, y'know. I'll take good care of 'em."

Something warm twisted in his stomach. He swallowed against it, shifting his focus back to the task at hand before he got too lost in her.

Up ahead, the rest of the crew had started to gather near the entrance to Droid Salvage & Sales—a squat, sun-worn structure wedged between two larger buildings.

"Alright, team," Carth exhaled, shifting against the weight of the heat. "We need a translator to deal with the Sand People, and this is the only shop in Anchorhead that has anything remotely resembling a protocol droid."

"Why not just let the Jedi do all the talking?" Canderous smirked, arms folded across his chest. "Isn't that your whole thing? Persuasion, peace, magic mind tricks?"

"It doesn't exactly work like that," Bastila responded, voice clipped. "Jedi mind tricks only work on the weak-minded, and considering the Sand People's history—"

"—and the fact that they're hostile toward pretty much anyone not in their clan," Juhani added.

"Exactly." Bastila nodded. "They are an insular people, and their hostility is based on a deeply-rooted history. It's not as simple as suggesting they see things differently."

"Plus, their dialect is nearly impossible to understand," Jolee threw in, scratching his beard. "At least, last I checked. Unless you lot are hiding some miraculous language skills I don't know about?"

A collective silence.

Jolee huffed. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Seth adjusted his stance, already feeling the weight of this planet—the heat, the dust, the history stretching beneath them. "So, we need a protocol droid to translate, and Czerka won't let us past the city walls without a hunting license."

Mission's smirk from earlier faded as reality settled in.

"We know Griff was working in the mines. We know they didn't bother looking for him," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "But if the Sand People were taking prisoners instead of killing them…"

She trailed off, hope twisting at the edges of her voice.

Seth felt it—fragile, desperate, hanging by a thread.

He nodded, voice steady. "Then there's a chance."

Mission swallowed hard, glancing toward the shop before looking back at him. She wasn't the same girl who had walked off the Ebon Hawk yesterday. She wasn't all bravado and blaster bolts anymore. There was something weary in her now, but fierce all the same.

She wasn't ready to lose Griff—not yet.

"Then let's get in there and find out."

The inside of Droid Salvage & Sales smelled like burning circuits and broken dreams.

Seth had been in a lot of junk shops, and they all had that same feeling—crowded, dusty, and a little depressing. But this one? This one was special.

The Ithorian behind the counter didn't even glance up as they entered, his twin mouths warbling absently as he fiddled with the inner wiring of a disassembled T3 unit. Sparks crackled from its exposed panel, lighting up the shop's dim interior.

Seth took a step back, just in case the thing exploded.

"[Ahhh]" the Ithorian finally said, his voice slow and a little too bored for a salesman. "[Welcome. You here to buy… or complain?]"

Seth exhaled through his nose. Off to a great start.

Carth, ever the professional, stepped forward. "We're looking for a protocol droid—something that can translate Sand People dialects."

The Ithorian's massive head swayed thoughtfully.

"[Ahhh, lucky you]" he murmured, gesturing lazily toward the back of the shop. "[Just got one in. Fully functional. Top of the line.]"

Seth turned his head—and immediately regretted it.

The droid standing in the shadows looked like it had been dragged through a warzone.

It was humanoid, rust-red plating scorched black in places, deep gouges and scratches carved into its chassis. Its photoreceptors flickered oddly, as if struggling to focus, and when it turned its head to look at them, the motion was far too smooth. Precise. Calculated.

Seth didn't know why, but his skin prickled.

Canderous grunted. "That's your top of the line model?"

The Ithorian made a low warbling sound that Seth assumed was laughter. "[Cosmetic damage]" he insisted. "[HK-47 is fully functional.]"

"Statement," the droid suddenly said, its voice smooth, polite… and deeply unsettling. "The Ithorian meatbag is correct. My primary functions are protocol and diplomacy."

A pause.

"However, should that diplomacy fail, I am also capable of eliminating hostiles in a wide variety of creative ways."

Seth froze.

Carth gave the shopkeeper a look. "Did your droid just say—"

"Clarification," HK-47 continued, tilting his head slightly. "I am not a combat droid. I am simply a translation unit with a secondary skillset in efficient conflict resolution."

A horrifyingly chipper tone accompanied that last part.

Mission's eyes lit up. "Oh, I like him."

Carth gaped. "Mission."

"I mean, think about it! We're heading into dangerous territory, and if we're gonna be talking to the Sand People, what better backup could we ask for?"

HK-47 turned toward her.

"Observation: This small meatbag displays far more intelligence than the rest of you."

Mission beamed.

Seth ran a hand down his face. "You know, I was hoping for a normal droid."

Canderous laughed. "You really thought you'd find one in a Czerka-run scrapyard?"

Bastila pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let's at least confirm that he can actually translate Sand People dialect before we drop four thousand credits on him."

"Four thousand?" Carth hissed, but Bastila ignored him.

Seth cleared his throat. "Hey, HK, can you translate Tusken?"

"Statement: My primary function is translation. I am fluent in over six million forms of communication, including the uncivilized guttural noises of the desert-dwelling primitives you refer to as 'Sand People.'"

Another pause.

"Observation: They are a fascinating species. Highly aggressive. Prone to sudden and violent outbursts."

Seth sighed. "That's… actually useful."

"See?" Mission said, nudging him with her elbow. "Told you. Perfect backup."

Bastila gritted her teeth. "I cannot believe I'm agreeing to this."

The Ithorian hummed pleasantly. "[A wise decision. That'll be—]"

"Four thousand credits," Carth muttered bitterly. "Yeah, yeah, we know."

Seth groaned, already bracing himself for this to be a very bad idea.

The crew huddled near the Ebon Hawk, seeking a sliver of shade from its hull as they worked out their next move. The hangar buzzed with activity, but Seth barely noticed the comings and goings of dock workers and travelers—his focus was entirely on the discussion unfolding before him.

He adjusted his collar, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back as he tried—and failed—to keep from sweating through his clothes.

Mission, standing beside him, looked equally miserable.

"So," she said, hands on her hips, "what's the plan?"

Bastila crossed her arms, cutting a sharp look at HK-47, who stood at full attention, looking way too pleased to be here. "Now that we've acquired a translator, we can attempt a diplomatic solution with the Sand People."

"Ugh," Canderous groaned. "Do we have to call it diplomacy?"

Jolee shrugged. "Well, we could call it 'Not Getting Shot on Sight,' but it doesn't have the same ring to it."

Seth ignored them. "So, we'll head into the desert, find their enclave, and talk our way inside." He paused, glancing at HK. "Hopefully."

"Statement: I can assure you, master, my linguistic skills are without flaw."

Carth rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's not what we're worried about."

Bastila continued, pointedly ignoring HK. "Czerka has issued us hunting licenses, which will allow us to pass through the gates and into the Dune Sea." She exhaled, annoyed. "It disgusts me that they treat this like some kind of recreational sport."

Seth nodded. "Once we're in, we'll track the Sand People back to their camp, see if we can negotiate for information. With luck, we'll get some leads on the Star Map."

"We have the hunting licenses," Bastila began, arms folded, brow furrowed. "We have HK-47. Now we just need to determine how best to approach the Sand People without getting immediately shot in the head."

Canderous scoffed. "Can't imagine there's a way to do that."

Jolee hummed thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "Well, we could try walking up to their enclave unarmed—"

"No," Seth, Carth, and Canderous said in unison.

Jolee chuckled, shrugging. "Figured I'd throw it out there."

Carth shook his head. "We don't even know how many are holed up in that camp. We stroll up without a plan, we'll be dead before we cross the first dune."

Mission perched on a crate, tapping a Pazaak card absently against her knee. "Okay, but let's say we don't just walk up to the front door. What if we waited for a hunting party to leave, then snuck in while they were gone?"

Canderous let out a low chuckle. "Bold move, kid."

Bastila frowned. "Reckless move. If we're caught sneaking in, we won't get a chance to explain ourselves before they attack. No, we need a method of entry that doesn't automatically get us killed."

"Statement: You are all making this far more complicated than it needs to be."

All eyes swiveled toward HK-47.

The droid tilted his head. "Observation: The Sand People are highly territorial and will attack any outsider they see. However, they will not attack their own."

A beat of silence.

Then, realization dawned.

Seth blinked. "Wait. Are you saying—"

"We dress up," Jolee finished, nodding. "We look like we belong there."

Bastila exhaled sharply. "Disguises."

Canderous grinned. "Now that's a plan."

Seth sighed in relief. "Okay. Great. We get our hands on some robes, sneak in dressed like them, and HK talks us through the rest. Easy."

"No plan ever works out that smoothly," Carth muttered.

Mission, grinning, pushed off her crate. "Alright, so where do we find these robes? Czerka have a weird, creepy supply of them or something?"

"That's the idea," Seth said. "We head to the Czerka office, see what we can scrounge up."

Mission nodded. "Sweet. Let's go."

But something stopped Seth.

Something nagged at him.

His eyes flicked to Mission. Then to Zaalbar. Then back to the robes they didn't have yet.

And that's when it hit him.

He hesitated. "Wait."

Mission frowned. "What?"

Seth opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then tried again. "You, uh…"

He winced.

Bastila caught on. "Oh. Oh."

"What?" Mission pressed.

Bastila shifted uncomfortably. "The disguises… they might not, ah, work for you."

Mission's eyes narrowed.

"Why not?" she asked slowly.

Canderous grunted. "Because Sand People robes weren't made with lekku in mind."

Mission froze.

Zaalbar let out a deep, rumbling sigh. "[Ah. I see the problem.]"

"No, no, no," Mission held up her hands, shaking her head. "We are not having this conversation."

Seth sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Mission, it's not that we don't want you to come, it's just—"

"Oh, spare me!" she threw up her arms. "I get left behind on Kashyyyk because Zaalbar was literally being held hostage, and now I'm getting left behind on Tatooine because some stupid desert cult never thought to make head coverings Twi'lek-compatible?!"

Seth winced. "I mean… yeah."

Mission groaned dramatically. "Unbelievable."

Zaalbar placed a massive paw on her shoulder. "[It is a logical issue, Mission]" he rumbled. "[Not a personal one.]"

She grumbled something under her breath, crossing her arms tightly.

Seth exhaled, stepping forward. "Look, I get it. It sucks. But I'm asking you to trust me on this. We need you here."

Mission crossed her arms. "For what? So I can sit around and wait?"

Seth shook his head. "No. I need you and Big Z working the Pazaak tables."

Her brows furrowed. "What?"

"We dropped a ton of credits on HK, and Czerka's not exactly handing out freebies. We need supplies, weapons, repairs—we gotta make some of that back. And you're our best shot."

Mission hesitated, glancing at Zaalbar. He rumbled in agreement.

Seth softened. "And look. If Griff's alive, I swear, I'll bring him back."

She swallowed hard, arms still crossed. "You promise?"

Seth placed a hand over his heart. "On my life."

A long beat. Then Mission exhaled through her nose, flicking her lekku back. "Fine. But if you don't come back with him, you'd better come back with a damn good reason why."

"Deal." Seth grinned, nudging her arm. "And hey—clean out the cantina while we're gone, alright?"

Mission huffed, rolling her eyes— but the corners of her lips twitched, just barely.

HK-47 chose this moment to chime in.

"Observation: It is amusing that the small blue meatbag is displeased about being spared a violent demise in the desert."

Silence.

Mission fixed HK-47 with a glare. "Maybe I don't really like this droid after all."

The heat was relentless. Seth could already feel sweat pooling between his shoulder blades, though the Sand People robes did little to breathe. Instead, they trapped the heat against his body, stifling, smothering. He adjusted the hood slightly, but that only caused a puff of hot air to rush against his face. Tatooine was hell.

At his side, Canderous shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know what's worse—this kriffing heat, or the fact that I'm walking around dressed like a raider."

Jolee snorted. "Don't be so dramatic. You've played worse parts before, I'm sure."

The Mandalorian scowled. "If I wanted to disguise myself, I'd wear my own damn armor. At least that keeps the sun off my back."

Bastila shot him a pointed look. "You wouldn't last five minutes if we showed up in Mandalorian gear."

Juhani adjusted her head covering. "I admit, these robes are… unpleasant. But if we can avoid bloodshed, I will endure it."

Seth glanced toward HK-47, who trudged along with unsettling ease beside them, head swiveling in all directions. It was the first time they were really taking him out into the field, and Seth still wasn't sure what to make of him.

HK-47 perked up. "Observation: Master, the organic units appear to be expelling an inordinate amount of moisture. Would you like me to put them out of their misery?"

Jolee choked on a laugh. "See? Now there's a droid with solutions."

Bastila sighed heavily. "Absolutely not."

HK tilted his head. "Statement: Understood. Organics are quite sensitive about their suffering."

Canderous shook his head. "I'm starting to like this droid."

Seth exhaled. "Okay, focus up. We should be getting close."

The dunes stretched for miles, endless waves of golden sand that made it impossible to tell what was over the next ridge. Their makeshift disguises blended well enough with the landscape, but Seth's gut twisted in unease.

They weren't alone.

He felt the presence before he saw them—an eerie ripple in the Force, a watchfulness that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. His grip tightened around his hidden lightsaber.

"I feel it too," Bastila murmured under her breath.

Jolee nodded. "We're being watched."

Seth's gaze flicked toward a ridge up ahead, and sure enough, half a dozen Sand People stood at attention, blaster rifles slung over their shoulders. Their robes billowed slightly in the wind, their unreadable masks staring down at them.

As they crested the final ridge, the entrance to the Sand People enclave finally came into view—tall spires of sun-bleached bone and crude barricades forming a tight perimeter around the settlement. Seth had just begun to breathe easier, his hood low over his face, the scratchy robe stifling against his skin, when the first shout of alarm rang through the air.

The Sand People at the gate stiffened, their rifles snapping up as they barked something sharp and guttural.

HK-47 stopped in his tracks. "Oh. Fascinating."

"What?" Seth whispered.

"Statement: It appears that while our disguises are adequate at a distance, these observant savages have noticed several anatomical inconsistencies."

Bastila let out a slow, measured breath. "Like the fact that we don't smell like we've been rotting in the desert for decades?"

Juhani shifted her stance, ears flicking. "Or that none of us are the right height? Or build? Or moving like we've been raised under the weight of all this armor?"

HK-47 nodded in a way that felt far too pleased. "Correction: Yes. All of those things. Also, the Jedi's ears are a dead giveaway."

Juhani hissed. "Excuse me?"

Canderous was already ripping off his robe. "Alright, well, I told you this was a dumb plan."

Seth followed suit, tugging off the hood and yanking free of the constricting fabric, revealing the clothes beneath. The others did the same, shrugging out of the heavy disguises in one motion as the rifles remained trained on them.

Before anyone could panic or react, HK-47 strode forward, arms raised in a pacifying manner, the guttural dialect of the Tusken Raiders emanating from his vocoder.

The Sand People barked at him.

HK turned back to the group.

"Translation: These primitive meatbags are currently debating whether you are deluded fools or bold trespassers in need of immediate execution."

Bastila rubbed her temple. "Wonderful. Tell them we mean no harm and that we wish to negotiate a peaceful arrangement."

HK-47 tilted his head. "Correction: Oh, Master, I believe you are operating under the illusion that these creatures desire peace. I assure you, they do not. However…" He gestured toward Bastila. "They seem particularly interested in whether or not the female meatbag has been offered as a sacrifice."

Seth blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"

Jolee chuckled. "Oh, that's a twist."

Bastila's face went rigid. "Absolutely not."

"Yeah, that's gonna be a no from me too," Seth muttered. "Tell them we're here to trade, not… barter people."

HK-47 warbled in Sand People dialect again, and the warriors stiffened, heads turning to each other in sharp movements before another snapping argument broke out.

Juhani's fingers twitched toward her hidden lightsaber. "I do not like this."

Canderous sighed. "I really don't like this."

HK paused. "Translation: They have begrudgingly agreed to let us plead our case. However, if you make one misstep, they will gut you where you stand and use your bones as ornaments."

"Charming," Jolee said dryly.

Seth exhaled slowly, keeping his hands visible. "Fine. Lead the way."

The dune-colored buildings of the Sand People enclave blended into the desert like ghosts of a long-forgotten past. Seth felt watchful eyes on them the moment they stepped inside—every warrior, every mother clutching a child, every elder with a staff.

This was a village that did not welcome outsiders.

HK-47 strode ahead confidently. "Observation: Ah, Master, these charming savages have lived in total isolation for centuries. Their culture revolves around violence, blood feuds, and strict territorial laws. Truly inspiring."

Seth threw him a glare. "Could you not sound so impressed?"

HK-47 blinked. "Query: Am I not supposed to admire their efficiency?"

Jolee chuckled. "You really did buy the perfect droid, kid."

As they reached the center of the enclave, the Sand People formed a semi-circle around them. Their leader—taller, more heavily armored, his robes dyed with dark streaks of red—stepped forward, flanked by two warriors.

HK-47 happily translated. "Statement: The mighty chieftain informs you that he finds your presence deeply offensive and is currently debating whether he should have you all beaten, burned, or fed to their banthas. I am honored to translate such threats, master."

Jolee sighed. "He's really just making things worse, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but we'd be dead already if they weren't at least willing to hear us out," Seth murmured.

Seth took a small step forward, palms open in a gesture of peace. "Tell him we're not with Czerka. We're not here to fight."

HK-47 turned back toward the chieftain and translated.

There was a long, tense pause. The Sand People didn't lower their weapons—but they didn't attack, either. The Chieftain looked them over one more time before letting out a series of barking growls.

HK-47's optics glowed faintly. "Statement: The chieftain says that while you reek of outsider filth, you have not drawn your weapons or insulted their traditions. This is… unexpected."

Seth's shoulders loosened. A little.

He met the Chieftain's gaze head-on. "Tell him that we're here to understand. To help. We know Czerka has made life miserable for his people. We want to find a solution that doesn't involve more bloodshed."

HK-47 translated, and the Chieftain studied them for a long, agonizing moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

The guards eased back slightly, though their hands never left their rifles. The tension in the air lessened—but barely.

HK-47's gleeful voice cut through the moment. "Translation: The chieftain has decided you will be allowed to speak… but if you offend their ways, you shall be disemboweled and used as moisture-retaining fertilizer. How fascinating their culture is!"

Seth exhaled slowly.

"Great," he muttered. "Looking forward to this already."

"Tell him we seek knowledge," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Knowledge of something buried deep in the sands—something ancient."

HK translated, and the chieftain's breath hitched. He barked a sharp response.

"Translation: He knows what you seek. But knowledge is not freely given."

Seth nodded. "Then what does he want in return?"

HK-47 paused. Then, in a far-too-gleeful tone, he said:

"Translation: A great many things. However, at the top of his list is one… particularly inconvenient detail."

Seth's stomach dropped. "What?"

HK turned his glowing optics to him.

"Statement: It seems you do have something to trade after all. A man. A prisoner. A blight on their land. His name… is Griff Vao."