Deals in Absolutes (Jaxton, Seydon)

[Jorus Merrill]

[SIZE=11pt]THE WRETCHED HIVE[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]PLANET UNKNOWN[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]THE OUTER RIM, PAST THE CENTRALITY[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“The oldest holocrons, the Je’daii ones, say that any virtue can become a vice when taken to excess. They say correctness comes down to keeping your balance, your sense of proportion. In which case, kark these worthless judgmental hypocritical dicks. Proportionately.” With each word, Captain Jorus Q. Merrill torqued a wrench half a degree farther. The stressed bolt squalled like a teething toddler and snapped off - blessed silence. [/SIZE][SIZE=11pt]Dingo Darr[/SIZE][SIZE=11pt] and [/SIZE][SIZE=11pt]Shenna’vala[/SIZE][SIZE=11pt] put their backs to the bulkhead panel and shifted it farther down the corridor. All three mechanics squatted by the breach and examined the wreckage of their long-range comm system’s primary relay. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“You know,” said Darr, scratching his whisker-fringe tentacles with one orange pincer, “I don’t think my job description lets me use the word ‘unsalvageable,’ but…”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“It looks like a Croa’s hairball.” Shenna rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms and stood. “I’ll get on it.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]Up the hallway, by the bridge, [/SIZE][SIZE=11pt]Saggy[/SIZE][SIZE=11pt] popped his head around the corner and beewheeped with concern. Another close call: local patrol ships, unknown model, sweeping for them in the nooks and crannies of this world-spanning city. So far, a jury-rigged sensor-camo net and a good choice of hiding spot had kept the Wretched Hive from detection. As Jorus reentered the cockpit, patting Saggy’s head, he peered up through the angled viewports and watched the patrol ships vanish again. Down here, he’d expected Coruscant’s Level 1313 or Nar Shaddaa, or Metellos, but no. This place was, by contrast, unnervingly clean.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“We still locked down?” he asked his two guests, [member="Jaxton Ravos"] and [member="Seydon of Arda"]. He didn’t have the means to fully hide his own Force presence, but his wasn’t the one that had so irritated the patrol ships in orbit. This fething planet had a serious allergy to the Dark Side of the Force, and that meant Quey’tek or Art of the Small or White Current or taozin amulets like the one Jorus had pulled out of storage. The last thing they needed was to draw down one of this planet’s rulers.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“Oh, and by the way, comms are absolutely junked.”[/SIZE]

 

[Seydon of Arda]

From his rucksack, Seydon of Arda was applying something porous and hard to a wound taken when the starboard shield bubble faltered and let a buckling, if glancing, bolt through, throwing off interior dampeners and slapping his temple against a nearby bulkhead. Dried blood had cooled, congealed, some sticking down his jaw and throat like an angry tattoo. Already, the hard cut was healing. Off-colour platelets swarmed the site, staunching further flow, knitting tissue and capillary vessels back together with jarring speed. Cats-eyes peered in the partial cockpit light.

“So what’s the bad news?” He quipped, palming the release to his seat’s buckle webbing and sitting into a crouch on the decking.

[member="Jorus Merrill"]’s missive found him. Coming out of the swamps of Bogden, hauling the carcass of something vast and unmentionable, a frightened courier handed over a battered datastick and a dataslate for his signature. The message, thirty seconds and with little preface, asked in Jorus’ way if he could spare a week or three climbing a hyperlane down the Centrality into a little known and extremely seldom visited tract of territory. Just beyond former Levant territories, facing the rim, two careful jumps out from Tund.

Jorus hadn’t mentioned [member="Jaxton Ravos"]. Former major-league gravball pro, the Zeltros Blitz, famed across sports clubs and larger audiences from Melida/Daan to Ord Binir. Turned Jedi Knight, then a Master in his own right Seydon found out later on the Path, turned conscientious war objector and founder of a brief but spiritedly idealistic range out in the east they called fondly the Levant Sanctum. Always a presence, tall and barrelled like a Kashyyyk oak, superstar good looks, killer white smile and long arms even Darron Wraith was hard pressed to match in terms of easy bulk.

They’d greeted wordlessly, in a sprawling bear-hug.

Now, his temple itchy and throat sticky with blood, Seydon felt... young. While Jorus explained, the Dunaan busied pulling a battered duraluminium footlocker out from beneath his chair. He keyed in an esoteric code onto a latch-lock, popping the trunk lid. Time to tool up.

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

The Wretched Hive was an amalgam of ship parts and patches that looking nothing like any stock vessel in the galaxy. The average crewer could be described as hardy, covered in grease, and attached to their tool belt. Jaxton could tell the crew had been through a good bit together, probably men and women [member="Jorus Merrill"] had pieced together from all sorts of war-torn worlds if he had to guess. A hearty bunch that did their best to make Jaxton feel at home, though it was ironically not their efforts but the bear-hug of a Dunaan that put Jaxton at ease.

It had been so long. They were different men now. Hell, Jaxton was considering joining the Galactic Alliance to fight the First Order, but in secret. He didn't need the attention that came with formally joining the Jedi Order of the Alliance. But that was not the problem today. Today's problem it seemed, was being stuck in unknown territory with a lack of comms. To their credit the crew of the Wretched Hive didn't panic. They'd probably been in similar situations before. A good outlaw tech didn't flinch at the loss of a ship part after all, they just cannibalized something else to put a patch on it.

"I'm good." Jaxton replied, the White Current keeping his presence small. "Won't be able to catch the game, but that's alright." Jaxton continued, making light of the lost comms. The Zelton looked over at the Dunaan as he began to put his gear together. Jaxton himself traveled light, not even bringing his usual retrosaber. He had some general hiking gear, but otherwise relied on his wits. And the Force of course.

"Jorus, are you scouting with us?" Jaxton asked, with a tone that was neither pushy nor derogatory. Figuring what was out there was important, but so was fixing the ship. Far be it from Jaxton to separate the captain from his crew, or assume that he wasn't able to do the 'dirty' work.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

"I'm thinking I'd slow you two down on foot, plus I'd rather keep the instinctive navigator with the ship in case moving quickly becomes a thing. Here." Jorus rummaged in a locker and produced a box full of variegated comlinks. "All encrypted and untraceable, with ion-scramblers built in. You can use them handheld, or keep them in your pocket and use them with lapel mikes and earbud speakers." He slipped one into his coat pocket beside the code cylinders, fitted in a wireless earbud, and clipped a similarly wireless pickup to his collar. "Like so. Undergrounder tech, real handy. Keep me posted on what you're seeing and thinking, and where you are if things get hairy.

"And if hairy comes around, there's a recessed button on the main comlink to turn off the ion-scramblers. That'll let me home in on you, but it'll also make our communications traceable.

"All clear as mud?"

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“Mmhmm.” Seydon carefully pressed his ear-bud piece into place, buttoning on the mic and curling the collar edge enough to camouflage the dime-mic.

He opted for something, hopefully, clandestine. Razorlight and Winterfang were stowed, wrapped in a careful blanket of sensor cloth and belted with a leather hoop. The collection of spare alchemical materials and macerated ingredients were stuffed between handfuls of borrowed flimsy and brown paper, settled in his much battered rucksack. An aged, spare Levant uniform was unfurled free from the footlocker, patted and ironed down by hand, Seydon slipping into a cramped storage compartment to dress.

“Testing,” He keyed the mic, stepping into the cockpit. “Testing. One, two, three, bantha don’t you sit on me. ...Good. If comms are slag, might need to see about appropriating something compatible from the natives. Chances are, they might make us at a glance.”

Seydon cocked his head slightly, listening. “...It’s quiet. We go now, might blend in.”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

Jaxton put the earbud into his left ear and clipped the main commlink unto the collar of his t-shirt. Seydon's test came through clearly. "Testing. Aurek, Besh, Cresh, walkie refresh . . ." He looked at the two jedi, who perhaps cringed or perhaps smiled, but Jaxton put up a grin as his test was successful. "Honestly, it'd be hard not to make us Seydon." Jaxton looked at the thick, white-haired and cat-eyed Dunaan. He wasn't any better, barely able to fit through doorways and colored pink with blue hair. The White Current could give him a different appearance, but it would be taxing to maintain. He shrugged. They'd find a way.

"We'll have a scheduled check-in every . . . four hours? At least until we get a good idea of what we're dealing with. Need comm equipment, information on the locals. Ship patrols and anti-air emplacements would be nifty too." Jaxton thought for a moment on what else might be useful. "We'll keep an eye out. Let's get moving Seydon." Jaxton said and bid [member="Jorus Merrill"] adieu, heading out into the unknown.

The Wretched Hive had gracefully crashed into what seemed like an abandoned part of town. The planet they'd landed on seemed reminiscent of Coruscant, except every sky scraper was modeled after the Jedi Temple. Put together the skyline was perhaps best described by Jaxton as unsettling. The two former Jedi moved with silence and grace uncommon for men of their size, ever vigilant of potential threats. Feeling out with the Force this place was strange. Uniform, in a way that was unnatural. They needed to find some locals, see if they could root out some information. Or perhaps they'd find defenses first? Jaxton was unsure, but trying to stay ready for anything. For now Jaxton let [member="Seydon of Arda"] take the lead. They'd both done their sneaking before, but Seydon had by far more experience with it. Mostly in less urban environments, but he deferred the lead anyways. Who knew what monsters, semi-sentient and otherwise, skulked about?

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

Jorus craned his neck to get a better view of the port inertial compensator node. It hadn't taken direct fire, but whatever the patrol ships fired had caused secondary blowouts. "Saggy, start recording."

The little droid paused, hydrospanner ratcheting at a stuck fuse. "Breep."

The node was almost, but not quite, out of reach. Jorus began fiddling with the connectors blind, legs sprawled across the corridor. "Captain's​ log, supplement​al. Jaxton and Seydon are out getting the lay of the land. I gave'em encrypted low-profile comms with ion-scramblers. No word yet, but I don't have a bad feeling about this. They know their business.

"The patrols have moved on. Shenna located a major data conduit that runs through some of these foundations. Alna and I did a little drilling and ran a tap line to the conduit. We don't have the gear to sort out that kind of data flow efficiently, burned out two cores trying it, so Stens and Sunk are going through manually. So far everything they've got was unencrypted. They've figured out the basics of this place's programming languages, them and a couple droids."

He pulled his hand out of the bulkhead and dropped pieces of charred circuit board in a bucket. Another component for which they just didn't have spares.

"Seems Jedi settled this place. Seems they're still in charge. Billions of people, ecumenopolis, a planet and five terraformed moons all built up something like Coruscant - and it's all ruled by Jedi. No wonder the patrol ship started going on about the Dark Side. It's not like Seydon's evil - he's infected with alchemical poisons and the Jedi way isn't really available to him - but they got a feel and they didn't like what they felt.

"I know Jedi Councils. I just barely stayed off them as Master of First Knowledge. I don't trust a one of them. Definitely don't trust them to rule.

"Gotta love a place where your emotional state crossed with your genetics might make you a criminal by default. Wonder what the prisons are like here. Wonder how many kids get Force severed because they've got a high midichlorian count and anger issues. Undiagnosed mental illness, family turmoil, puberty, bad experiences with authority that's sure it's in the right.

"Jedi weren't meant to rule. Our principles weren't meant to be imposed. 'For the greater good' has justified way too much already."

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Elevator Up To Hell

They found a skeletal maintenance ‘pulsor-lift nudged inside a derelict. The habitation level was arid, glumly lit by glow-lamps and hovering illumination globes looking frayed in well brushed, cheap opaque plasteel. On point, Seydon navigated them forward through empty squalor. Signs of prior habitation inked images of a kind of ‘boomtown’, a metropolitan level that saw hurly-burly business once, in sealed shops closed with heavy corrugated screen doors, habitat-block apartments wrapped in industrial cloth bolted to the ferrocrete brick and mortar with industrial-grade durasteel pegs. Trash accreted deeper in the throats of unlit back streets and ancillary aisles between the blocks. Fine grit coated their sleeves, carried by winds produced by the overlapping, deep architecture.

The pulsor-lift clanked up noisily. Filtered sunlight beat through partings in criss-crossing grille catwalks and sky-bridges conjoining the near superstructures. Up and up, past street levels of negligence belonging to armies of custodial droids and pale things in re-stitched coveralls dangling tool belts and industrial-grade torches. The sleet grey elevation tunnel began warming into colour. Sound, before an echo and discordant trickle or a background roar high, high overhead, flooded in. Seydon winced, adjusting his ears. At his threshold 120khz, a pin-drop could be deafening. He turned his face to the cloudy light above. The pulsor-lift began to slow. A hum in the decking under their boots started.

“Here we go,” He said. The Dunaan slid on a pair of almost gargoyle shades, hoping it would mute and deflect attention from his eyes. The pulsor-lift eased into its waiting cradle, safety latches reaching out and clawing its carriage into place. A scratchy plasteel door hissed aside. Light and slap of metropolis sound, alongside more fine grit, blasted in. Beyond, down an aisle passage between cyclopean ultra-structures, their first furtive look at teeming body traffic and overhead spinners and speeders. Seydon stepped out and began walking forward, rucksack and tied bundle over his shoulder, slightly bowed.

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

The two began walking out of the repulsorlift to find some semblance of society. A thronged mass of people dominated the streets, as speeders hummed and to the sides, wherever one couldn't find a walkway. Humans were the dominant presence, but littered throughout the population were the lekku bearing Twi'leks, and the ever colorful . . . Zeltrons? Jaxton nearly did a double take. Surely he couldn't be this lucky . . . but there was no such thing as luck. Not truely.

"We're here for a reason." Jaxton said to his companion with a firm resolve. His desire to leave had evaporated. It wasn't really that he'd found his people' or any such business, but as a man with pink skin and blue hair it was very difficult to blend in. If the Force had brought him to a place he could? Surely there was something at work here. Something he needed to do.

The two continued onwards, quietly weaving through the crowds. The two got an occasional second glance, but not any tails. At least not any that he could spot. One thing he did spot however, was the presence of robes and lightsabers. It didn't feel like walking through a Jedi Temple, but it felt like visiting the coffee shop a few blocks down. Subtle power dynamic were in play, and easily picked up by the former grav-baller. The 'regulars' moved to the side when they saw a robe coming. Their heads would face away, most often down. No one talked to the robed and lightsabered beings unless first spoken to.

What is this place? Jaxton thought, then looked at his chrono. Another couple hours before his check-in with [member="Jorus Merrill"].

"What do you mean not your problem? I bought meatlumps for my family at your stand yesterday and now my daughter is losing her stomach!" Jaxton heard a voice on the corner of the road. He looked over to spot a Twi'lek arguing with a human operating a food stand.

"Listen pal, I've never seen you before and I certainly haven't sold you any meatlumps. You're talking to the wrong guy. I got a line of customers here you betta walk off." The human retorted.

"You're the only meatlump vendor on this block! You're fulla shid, and you are gonna pay for my daughter's healing!" The Twi'lek shouted indignantly. Jaxton edged his way closer to the scene, taking note that a small crowd was forming. Judging by the people it was a decidedly non-standard event.

"I ain't payin for chit, and I told you to walk off." The vendor replied, and the Twi'lek flared up his arms.

"You are a liar and a cheat, and I-" The man said before his mouth seemed forced shut. His arms flew behind his back, and his legs slid together.

"My name is Yusuf Samsun, and I am a Jedi Knight of Temple Kadir. You are under arrest for giving in to the Dark Side." A Zeltron Jedi emerged from the crowd, holding out a hand and lifting the Twi'lek man off the ground. The crowd began to dissipate, and the Jedi began walking somewhere with purpose, 'carrying' the man close telekinetically. Jaxton let out a grunt.

"I'm going after them." Jaxton said to [member="Seydon of Arda"], then began to fight through the crowd. It was potentially stupid. No, it was stupid. Jaxton had no idea what he was getting into. But he couldn't just let it go. Not now.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

“Boss, you're gonna want to see this.”

Jorus squirmed out of the gap in the bulkhead. “What you got for me, Shenna?”

The tiger-striped Twi'lek mechanic lobbed him a datapad. “Latest dredged out of the data feed. It's a pharmaceutical ad.”

Back against the wall, Jorus rested the datapad in his lap as he wiped component grease off his hands. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“Doesn't look like it's officially endorsed. It's what passes for private sector around here, unless you count the whole system as some kind of Jedi company town.”

“'Everpur.’ An emotional downer. Voluntary. Y'know, this place was pretty tough to find. Now I'm wishing it was a little tougher.” Jorus scanned through the rest of the advertisement. His mouth tightened. “'Side effects may include decreased libido...if you experience prolonged depression, contact your designated healer.’”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“Jax... Jax!” Seydon hissed.

The Zeltron was powering his way through a sidewalk crowd and mounting a skybridge over to the opposite street. A policing incident underway had caught his attention, and like he had never bowed out from the service, was charging in to to put hands on a public injustice. Seydon wove in behind him, tracking gawking, fish-eyed faces, grey-toned citizenry that looked on in hushed, dumbed attention. A few wore laser emblazoned tattoos displayed almost grossly across their cheeks or brows, of either house sigils or corporate shields. Drone cameras paused their circuit patrols and swung around, tracking Jaxton’s hulking figure marching up to the Jedi ‘constable’.

“Jax!” Seydon barked. The Dunaan swung his cloth bundle around and stuffed in an arm-pit, loosening the belting. A doughy, animal anxiety was beginning to permeate through the lingering crowd. He felt his hackles prick, but banished apprehension.

Down the sidewalk, returning from an intermission inside a blue bannered luncheonette, he spied more ‘Robes’ marching in briskly. Foot traffic parted to ease their passage, eyes bowed. Not like respectable deference, Seydon thought, like what was afforded inculcated nobility. The stink of apprehension, of fear, rose as an unseen, chemical fog. The ‘Robes’ were all gimlet eyed, sharp jawed, hair parted identically. Their badges were lightsaber side arms all built from chased white steel and black gripping. The four of them converged on Jaxton’s upbraiding with Knight Samsun, the telekinetically bundled Twi’Lek thrashing and moaning suspended mid-air.

Seydon keyed his collar mic. Check-in times be damned. “Got trouble here. Standby.”

Razorlight purred under its coverings. The Dunaan marched in beside Jaxton, putting a hand to his corded arm. Violence, veiled behind passive masks staring out from Jedi robes, prowled just a thread away. Obscenely, a forty story jumbo-tron broadcast screen began belting out a chipper, insipid advert for something called Everpur.

“Because who wants the weight of emotional baggage~?”

“Citizen. Step away.” A backup Robe reached to manhandle Jaxton’s collar. Seydon flicked a hand, smacking the arm aside, leaving the Jedi surprised and smarting from a stung wrist.

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

A robed man had told him to step away. Nearly put his hand on Jaxton's chest, batted away by a quick smack by his friend the Dunaan. In his purpose-driven walk Jaxton hadn't been as mindful as he should have. This Jedi, and perhaps others, had woven through the crowd without his notice. His mind raced, and he realized quickly that using the White Current to make others question his or Seydon's existence was not feasible. Too many people, too quickly. Jaxton could do little more than conceal his presence, and alter his appearance here and there. Jaxton almost let out a sigh, that made things difficult. Even if he walked off now these Jedi wouldn't forget his face, what with his height and drastically different demeanor than the populace. No, Jaxton was in the thick of it. The point of no-return had already been passed.

Jaxton grabbed above the Jedi in front of him's wrist with his left hand, then at his elbow with his right. He turned and let the Force enhance his step and strength, then launched the Jedi into the sky. He flew into one of the camera drones, as Jaxton held out a hand and reached out in the Force. The Robed contable's belt and lightsaber flung to his hand, and he ignited the viridian blade then swung it to the right, blocking the cerulean blade of an opponent who'd taken the opportunity to pounce. He pushed the manaway and didn't re-engage, darting through the crowd towards the now running Yusuf Samsun. The other Jedi were quick to pursue, with the crowd yelping in fear and splitting away.

I'll be fine, keep quiet. A billboard spoke to [member="Seydon of Arda"] with Jaxton superimposed over it via the White Current. Hopefully none of the other Jedi had the training to detect it. Jaxton was primarily hoping to keep the locals from making Seydon. One wanted face on holoboards was enough for the Wretched Hive and it's guest. No reason to make more.

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

“I lived in a company town once,” said Shenna. She covered a yawn and dug into the inertial compensator again. By now she and Jorus had dragged most of it into the corridor, leaving a pit in the bulkhead’s interstitial space like the cavity after a cyst extraction.

“Oh yeah?”

She nodded, rubbing her eyes, while a decompressing module whistled and yowled. “Mom lost her job there, and since there weren't any jobs that weren't the company, yeah. First she worked janitorial, then we got shown we weren't wanted. They tossed us on the next transport and sent us the bill. That's what the justice system’s like here, I think. Kept trying to think what it reminded me of. ‘Controls’ this and 'penalties’ that and you screw up and you're reassigned. Not many places to go when the company owns the only star system around.” She yawned and gleeked the last half sentence.

“Hit the sack, Shenna. You've been patching crap for eighteen hours. Don't make me make it an order.”

“Don't need to tell me twice.” The Twi'lek stood awkwardly. “Other thing that reminded me was the food. We used to eat a lot of glop and ration blocks, with some bedjies. You see the thing on the pad about food coupons?”

“The vouchers and feeding centers? Yeah.”

“Meant the selection. I was thinking of going shopping, but it's all the kind of thing you'd expect to see…” She yawned again. “Feth. Whole planet and all its moons are overgrown with cities like Coruscant or Metellos. But those planets get food shipments, like from the Ag Circuit and Ukio and all that. This system's been cut off for a few thousand years, far as we can tell, but there's not a decent place around to grow food for nineteen billion. Yeast cutlets. Farmed fish. High-density, engineered, preserve-friendly crops with Jedi magic behind’em. And lots and lots of recycling.”

Jorus grimaced. “I've lived off ration converter sludge before. Never spent years on it.”

“Or lifetimes. Night, boss.”

He repressed a yawn of his own as Shenna'vala​ ambled away down the corridor. The part of him that would always be a smuggler added 'fresh vegetables’ to the growing list of trade goods that would make a killing here. Taozin amulets, for example: keep your mind your own; no voyeuristic visionaries.

His comm hissed: Seydon's voice. “Got trouble here. Stand by.”

“Darr!”

The Krevaaki poked his head around a corner.“Yeah?”

“What do we have for speeders?”

“Uh...intact? Or with prep time?”

“Flyable now.”

“Cargo skiff, and that's it. Want me to warm her up?”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

The crowd reknitted, resuming pseudo-scheduled sidewalk traffic, skimming round Seydon as he stood dumbfounded on the spot. The Twi’lek had been thrown clear, rapidly composing himself and adjusting a thread-bare, patchy smock. The Dunaan detailed that even fashion held threads of almost overbearing commonality, a beige wall of gruel-white and grey body-wrappings and all weather ponchos, a few curtained with rare, decorative tassels or embroidered with hymnal motivations. Most were ink-stamped under various heraldry: the famed ‘Jedi Star’, or quartered shields framed by stylized animals and symbolic flora. They trudged on, eyes downcast, ant-marching toward home, work, or errands.

Sirens peeled overhead. A squadron of armoured spinners blared overhead, angling sharply around a street bend another six habitat-blocks down. Jaxton was giving them a run for their money. Seydon pressed his shades in a little tighter under his brow, shouldered his rucksack and bundled, hidden swords, and joined in with the march.

He kept up a basic mental draft of the super-block, keeping his bearings by landmark. The architecture was similarly uniform, describing to smooth lines and gentle tapers, utilizing polished chrome-steel accents and entire, almost blinding walls of reflective plasteel. Jumbo-trons, holo-displays several floors tall, public announcement phone speakers assessed and assaulted citizenry every few junctions. There were looped broadcasts showcasing bearded or wizened elders edifying select passages about obedience and admonishing the crowd to regularly cleanse themselves of emotions that ran contrary to the edicts of ‘the Code.’

Jaxton absent, Seydon contemplated returning below to the ‘Hive. Whatever he anticipated failed to account for the world’s... uniformity. He stood out like a dandy on the sidewalk, black and blue in chainmail jacket and armoured padding across the joints, jaunting along fast and casting looks over his shoulder. Three blocks east, he took a turn south. Half a block on, under a clear plastic awning smelling hard of distilled soap and vinegar, was an outlet mall. Seydon ducked into, he presumed, was a consignment store.

“Oh,” Said a woman, twi’lek, behind a forlorn cash-out counter. “Welcome. We take clothing donations for food stamp vouchers. Is there anything you would like to donate today?”

Polite and rehearsed. Seydon couldn’t help staring, at her doe-blank eyes and thin teeth. At thinning, pale gums, sallow cheeks, lekku that drooped and seemed barely able to twitch in their subtle sign-language. The skin under her eyes, while firm, was nearly colourless. “...Sir? Oh. Are you one of the mummers? I’ve heard a lot about your mystery plays. I’ve wanted to attend but, the donations required...”

“No, no, umm... I need just... A spare poncho or cloak, my other got destroyed.”

“Oh dear!” She manoeuvred from out behind the counter and consulted a clothing rack. “Let’s see... We have a heavy downpour scheduled later this evening. We can’t have anyone catching cold. We... We really can’t.

“Here. Is that an alright size?” She handed over a heavier storm coat. Seydon slid it on, buttoning up and testing the range of motion. It was only a little more constricting than D’oemir skirt armour though it hid away his Levantine uniform and rendered him almost uniform as every other soul across the ecumenopolis. The Dunaan nodded.

“It’s fine.”

“Wonderful. Would you like to make an attire donation? We also take universal credit or platinum, if you’re able?”

No telling if his GA credits were at all compatible with local currency rates, or whether or not if he tried he’d be picked out as a ‘fraud’. Seydon pursed his lips, turning about. The store of his rucksack fitted into place on his harness straps, and the storm cloak did enough to hide their bulk. He turned the rucksack over, the cashier marvelling at the rare, offworld craftsmanship.

“Here, you take eye-wear?” Seydon, thoughtlessly, handed over his gargoyle shades.

“Of course, we acc - “ She locked on to his cats-eyes. Blanked out of thought.

Seydon ran out of the consignment depository as her scream chased him, sprinting down the nearest alleyway. For the first time in an age, shame burned hot on his face. Behind him, rustling on near silent repulsors, the eyeball drone whisked down...

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

Under normal circumstances these robes wouldn't have been difficult to elude, but a number of things were against Jaxton. He was fighting crowds, he was being tracked by camera drones, and they knew the terrain far greater than he did. So Jaxton went up, up, and up, raising his prosthetic and grabbing unto a speeder a couple floors above groundlevel.

"What?" The driver screamed, before slamming a fist unto his own. The native then let out a cry of pain as his fist hit durasteel.

"Sorry." Jaxton said as he pulled himself up and then gave the man a conk on his head and left him unconscious. The Zeltron took the controls and sped towards Yusuf, followed by camera drone. Instinct and the Force told him to bank left, and he ripped the controls, taking the vehicle to the side as a laser cannon beam headed past him. Jaxton looked back to find it had come from a camera drone. This civilian speeder had no counter measures, so he did the only thing he figured on such short notice.

He threw his new lightsaber, green blade extended. It sliced through the drone just fine, but Jaxton wasn't a telekinetic. He wasn't getting that back. And a sirening speeder had just come to his side.

"Sith's blood!" He cursed as the sunroof of the polce cruiser extended. A female twi'lek stood and looked over at Jaxton, igniting a blue lightsaber. Jaxton scowled. He couldn't leave, not with the driver still unconscious here. The twi'lek jumped unto his speeder, and begun swinging her saber. Jaxton ducked, then shot out a hand at her wrist. He pulled down and stood up, before jumping out of the vehicle. The police speeder followed him down while the Twi'lek hastily grabbed the controls of the speeder he'd left.

This is not going well. Jaxton thought to himself as he plummeted to the ground. The Force reinforced his body, cushioned his blow, but falling to the ground still hurt like hell. Jaxton cursed and then looked up. Yusuf was maybe a hundred meters in front of him.

"I've got you now." Jaxton said with a smile and began a sprint. He'd save that man. He had too.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

“Doc, I've got a problem.”

The Wretched Hive's med bay didn't merit the name. Four pieces wide, five deep, you came here for sutures and tetanus shots and radiation meds and no other reason. Noomay, the Bereth-Aku healer, closed a dusty book and slid off his low chair. One plodding step at a time, the bipedal tortoise nodded his way over to Jorus.

“I heard all the yelling.” One long blunt claw waved in admonition. Noomay chuckled. “Always in a rush, Captain Merrill.”

“Seydon and Jaxton might be in it, and all we've got flyable is a cargo skiff loaded with twenty tons of hullmetal. I need to go on foot, and I've been awake and working sixteen hours. Could you…”

The tortoise nodded. “No.”

“... no?”

“The last time I took your fatigue, Captain, you worked sixty hours straight. The tinkering, the flying, the drinking, the processed food - bah. You take better care of this ship than you do yourself, and this ship is half rust.”

“This needs to happen, Noomay.”

The Bereth-Aku healer eyed Jorus over half-moon spectacles. “When you hired me, you said you wouldn't give me orders unless all our lives were at stake.”

“I remember. Jaxton and Seydon are independent operators one hundred percent, we're on a planet full of Jedi that doesn't much like the way they smell, and things go wrong it could easily domino on the whole ship. I'm not making it an order, but for real, I need this.”

“Tcheh.” Shaking his head, Noomay reached up and rested his claws on Jorus’ chest. “In the name of Kanata, be at ease.”

Like Jorus, Noomay could touch the Force; like Jorus, he adhered to the Light; like Jorus, he had no patience for the stricter kinds of Jedi; like Jorus, he was a specialist; and, like Jorus, he was considered a Master. Tension and fatigue bled away, better and longer-lasting than a stim.

Noomay waddled to his chair and resumed reading the Book of Takodana. “Next time, Captain, be wiser about your own needs.”

***

Seydon and Jaxton could run and jump beyond human limits; Jorus couldn't. He could, however, use a repulsor belt and instinctive navigation to move up and between the skyscrapers. His taozin amulet blunted those instincts, but following two friends was a darn sight easier than plotting a new hyperlane blindfolded. His course arced through social and architectural strata: though ancient Jedi aesthetics prevailed, some buildings were clearly older than others. In denser regions, kilometre-cube arcologies had been renovated over and over down through the millennia. When possible, Jorus stuck to walkways and crowded areas. He'd changed into clean coveralls, which weren't ask that different from what utility workers wore here. He'd brought his lightsaber, but kept it hidden in a floppy backpack that also concealed most of his repulsor belt.

Grime was the one thing he couldn't hide. Everyone here looked fairly clean. Lacking time for a sonic shower, he'd wiped engine grease off his face and made some attempt to straighten his hair. Still, though, he'd spent years in garages. The seams in his knuckles and neck and the wrinkles around his eyes never quite got clean.

In a crowded street a thousand metres above the ground, he paused as his sense of direction faded. That could mean anything: less urgency, Force interference, or something he was supposed to do or see. He stepped out of the crowd and paid closer attention. Nothing abnormal disturbed the flow of clean, pleasant, dull people. No Jedi were homing in on him. So what…?

Across the way, dingy adults and teenagers poured out of a wide door. The building looked much like any other, a reinterpretation of old Jedi designs. Above the door, a stylized aurebesh inscription read 'THERE IS NO CHAOS - THERE IS HARMONY.’ Once the outgoing crowd ebbed, Jorus crossed the street and slipped inside.

“Welcome, friend.” A portly Zeltron in Jedi robes sat behind a desk. “I'm afraid the morning shift has just ended, but if you come back after the lunch hour, there'll be work and meal chits aplenty…” He trailed off. His eyes tightened as he examined Jorus head to toe. “You are here for work, aren't you?”

Lying to a Zeltron ranked up there with lying to a Jedi so far as bad ideas went. Lying to a Zeltron Jedi just wasn't in the cards. “No, I'm only looking around,” said Jorus blandly. “I was curious. I might come by later, though.”

The Zeltron chuckled, but his eyes were intent. “What's to be curious about, friend? We're just like any other House of Dignity. Vital work, good conditions.”

“Well, sure. I wouldn't mind contributing.” Guesswork and bland non sequitur would only get Jorus so far. He backed toward the door with an easy smile. “Maybe I'll see you around.”

“Hold, please,” said the Zeltron Jedi, politely but with the absolute expectation of obedience. He stood and came out from behind his desk. “You seem on edge. Is there anything I can do to help?”

For a brief, crazy moment, Jorus considered asking for help finding unspecific friends. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“I'm not sure you are. Or maybe it's…” The red-skinned man trailed off again; then his eyes widened. “Are we being reviewed, Master?”

Half a dozen possible angles raced through Jorus’ brain. “No,” he said at last. “I'm just trying to keep a low profile at the moment. Thank you.”

Doing his level best to keep his cool mentally, he smiled again and left. Then he put as much distance as possible between himself and the House of Dignity.

 

[Seydon of Arda]

The ecuenomopolis was bewildering. Even side streets and unnamed alleyways sweated with unrealized pain. Seydon dodged his way through a delivery bay opening into hazy soup kitchen, frustrated at the dogged Eye-Drone. Orderlies and cooks-on-the-line blasted him with bewildered obscenities and abuses but became immediately contrite at the appearance of the machine. It ghosted after the Dunaan’s heels, humming sub-sonic electro blrrts, its antenna array bristling off its occipital plate. He wove down a sterilized back end passage way. Discarded crates burdened with dirty, unused laundry and unrecycled food stuffs, video cabinets gutted for spare precious metals and salvageable circuit boards, the frames of cannibalized repulsor-mopeds, slicks of unwashed lubricant and oil stains. Seydon ran their hurdles, baiting the Eye-Drone on.

When it hooked a corner after him, a length of keen skinning steel punched its armoured screen-visor. Seydon grunted, lancing another stab into its power and processing core, ripping his hand away in a shower of broken chipboards, sparks, and coolant. It was a certainty, that such property damage was grounds for immediate apprehension. The Dunaan flattened its casing under his heel and turned, stalking along the passage under grey light.

A ghoulish mood brewed in his eyes. Seydon was operating on borrowed time. The reservoir of luck propelling him onward was due to work itself dry. So far, he’d managed losing Jaxton, frightening a local store owner (if she was allowed that privilege at all), provoked judicial punishment through police property destruction, and... And was perhaps lost. It was a hundreds of floors long climb to the nearest abutting roof. Another fine, gritty wind blasted him from up the alleyway. He turned a corner, going north now.

North, into the backside of a tall magisterial Parthenon. The style was neo-Revanchist, tall colonnade arrangements, doorways set deeply inside multi-encircled architraves, false arcades exhibiting true-life, statuesque poses, poses of powerful figures handing down clenched justice to supplicant but ultimately doomed adversaries. Seydon stood momentarily awed. The columns stretched high and were as bore-thick as the cannons on the Will of the Force. From his angle, the roof was swaddled in low, natural moisture clouds brewing in the city’s artificial environ. Engine sound startled a flock of scale pigeons from their roost, Seydon ducking in behind a heavy dumpster.

Two black armoured fans pulled up to a guarded back entrance, hard angled and floating sinisterly on white fog cushions. Robes adorned in padded cuirasses, armed with raised stun-spears, emerged herding moaning trains of prisoners. Seydon snuck an eye round the dumpster. Each prisoner was dressed down in even more depressingly grey fatigues. They were barefoot and shackled at wrist and ankle, where those who’d had hair sporting roughly shaved skulls. And all of them boasted hard, obsidian-dark diamond tattoos cooked onto their skin. ...Onto their bone. The Robes were hunched and occupied by some matter of tradition and/or procedure. Humming dirges of consignment. They jabbed the prisoner trains on through the heavy, armoured double doors and out of sight.

Seydon rose off his knee and followed.

Every door and window were proofed against forced entry. He couldn’t break a lock or pry in through a cellar portal without tripping security. Seydon didn’t have electronic countermeasures, not like Jorus or Jaxton were usually kitted with. At best, he kept an old-fashioned mechanical lockpicking set taped to his left forearm. A sense of imposing wrongness wouldn’t leave him. Every interaction with this world proved and pointed at something indelibly wrong. The authorities were heavy-handed and self-righteous, folks seemed frightened to smile or frown. An overwhelming, sickening sense of tranquility permeated nearly every facet of local life.

...Save for this place.

“...Feth it.” Seydon knelt down by a ground level window, jamming his skinning knife through an alarm box before jimmying a simple brass latch. He slid into a stationary supply closet, sneaking to a simple mag-lock door. He pressed his blade in through the jamb, twisting at the solid-block lock, putting muscle into pushing the hinge-door... Out. Into a narrow basement corridor. He found and memorized an emergency fire evacuation map mounted on a laminated plaque, taking a closed stairwell up several floors.

It deposited him out onto a maintenance catwalk receded high over a sprawling, stately court chamber. The floor below was machined marble and onyx, black and white diamond checker pattern, broken up by solid, polished chrome pews padded by carmine silk pillows. A single carpet of white kashmir lead past the bar to a raised, imperious judge’s bench. It was wrought from supremely expensive and just as rare hardwood, cast in a honey-gold finish, hanging with banners depicting the buildings constant livery: the single, black four-cornered diamond.

“The House of Indication,” Said a voice shadowed under a long cowl, hidden behind a dimmer-screen in the bench above. “Takes every discovered infraction of our great Code with utmost seriousness. A dedication to order and sanctitude each and every one of you has failed to imitate. Through your carelessness... Your disrespect... Your inability to cohabitate properly with your peers... And a wanton defiance of authority as laid down by our vested Grandmasters...”

“Please, your Inviolable Iudex...” Someone whimpered.

“There can be no tolerance for violation. A risk to the fabric of our society is a threat that cannot be underestimated. Cannot be tolerated. Your individual cases have been weighed. All of you... Have been found wanting of the enlightenment that marks our world as beyond corruption. This is a stain that shan’t be permitted. And so now I ask your forgiveness in turn...”

“No...” Another accused moaned.

“You are all hereby sentenced to Recirculation.”

“No!”

“One way, or another,” Thundered the Iudex. “You will be made to aid.”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

Hundred meter dash. Jaxton was admittedly not a sprinter, and without the Force he could bust it out in 13, maybe 12 seconds. Most high school sprinters could best that time, but they didn't carry a frame like he did. And they didn't have the Force like he did either. With it's aid he could cut that time down. In his prime he'd been sub-7 seconds, but he wasn't in his prime, and this wasn't a simple track.

Still, Yusuf was not nearly as fast as Jaxton, and he was most certainly not faster than Jaxton while telekinetically carrying a full grown and protesting man. Yusuf went to the ground as Jaxton tackled him in the back. Knight Samsun went to grab at his saber but Jaxton put a swift elbow jab into his tricep, aided by the Force. An audible crack could be heard and Yusuf howled horribly.

"Stay down." Jaxton ordered with conviction.

"You will die Sith." Yusuf said with equal conviction.

"You're brave Yusuf. I'll give you that." Jaxton said before grabbing at his hair, lifting his head, and then pushing it down on the duracrete below. It wasn't enough force to kill him, but it sure was enough to knock him out. Afterwards Jaxton stood up and looked around. He could hear the sirens closing on him, but the twi'lek man who'd been carried? He'd disappeared in the crowd. Jaxton cursed. Hopefully he was safe. Jaxton sure wasn't.

The sirening speeder behind him had parked, and a chocolate-skinned human male emerged and unclipped his lightsaber from his belt but didn't engage. Feth. Jaxton thought to himself. That means back-up is coming. Where to go, what to do. Feth feth feth. Jaxton thought to himself before running to his right. The dark-skinned Jedi pursued and probably expected Jaxton to turn at some point, but instead he just kept running and running, towards the edge. Every Ecumenopolis from Coruscant to Nar Shadda was built in tiers, walkways and roads along each 'level', with gaps of airspace that lead to levels and levels on down.

Jaxton jumped, and then assessed his situation as he went down, searching for any kind of rope or platform or speeder in the lower levels to end his descent in a way that didn't end him. So far he had found a huge holoboard. There is no Chaos, There is Harmony. Jaxton chuckled.

Not today there isn't.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

Instinct prompted haste, now that he'd seen what he was apparently meant to see. Down a couple of levels, in comfortable gloom, he spotted a thin vehicle labeled ‘Council of Infrastructure.’ With a silent apology to its absent caretaker, and a fruitless scan for obvious surveillance cameras, Jorus took a sonic servodriver from his backpack. The door clicked open. The starter mechanism yielded just as quickly.

Before he went anywhere serious, he parked the speeder around the block, then spent five minutes wiping internal holocam footage and disabling trackers. Despite his growing sense of urgency, he lingered over the details of the speeder’s technology. This place had diverged from galactic norms millennia ago - in all kinds of ways - and he could have analyzed differences for years.

Instead, he trusted the Force, lifted off, and joined the streams of airborne travelers en route to nowhere.

There can be no justice so long as laws are absolute - words from an old holocron. They'd stuck with him for years. Writ large, applied not just to the willing but to everyone, the Code could be downright totalitarian. There is no chaos. There is no passion. There is no death; there is the Force.

By natural law, and in almost any democracy, the most serious penalty a religious order could impose was expulsion. When an order assumed control of government, injustice and imposition weren't guaranteed. For all their flaws, the Silver Jedi had established a tolerant, stable, secure, multicultural society across a good chunk of the galaxy. Occasional Jedi had served as Chancellors of the Republic, once upon a time. Other examples came to mind.

All of them exceptions. Separating religious orders from government was a proven principle, just about everywhere but here.

At some point he'd left the stream of traffic and angled down into the undercity; he couldn't recall making the decision. Taking that as a good sign, he continued on his course. A few minutes later, he spotted a falling man with powerful hair. With aplomb, he opened the passenger door, turned the speeder sideways, and leveled out as Jaxton Ravos plopped precisely into the chair.

“Where to, guv’nor?”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

The Iudex, elephantine and sexless, dismissed the condemned, waving a stylized sceptre from behind their heavy screening cone. The Robes jabbed and whipped the prisoner trains along, eliciting obedience at the end of heat-scored electro-prods and stun-lances. Seydon tasted cooked hair, charred skin, where the prods met flesh through the prisoners’ meagre dressing. It overrode the sickly, dulcet aromatics emitting from oil bowls burning high in the house rafters. He listened to the Iudex harrumph, and call on the next case of the day, clubbing their sceptre across a brassy plate on their bench counter.

“...What is this?” The Iudex groaned. Seydon glanced down from his darkened perch.

Robes, this time in grey wool attire and black capes stencilled with another ‘house’ shield, marched through the tall wrought-steel double doors. Each had their skull shaved or otherwise smoothed with turtle wax. Bio-plugs were set in just behind their ears, connecting through heavy data-links to belt mounted datapad processors. They were toneless, down to their uniform sounds, exhaling with monotonous, perfunctory breathing. One at the lead paused her squad with a gesture.

“Iudex Barabason,” Said she. “We report a breach of the Master’s Court.”

“A breach? Of our security? Someone dares?” Barabason rose as a wall of silenced shadow, still hidden behind their diffusion emitter.

“A review is being conducted and the grounds are under search and quarantine. Your Inviolable Justice, we recommend a seating of today’s cases and temporary relocation.”

“Absurd. There’s never been precedent for red-grade measures.”

“If you please, Your Justice, a precedent has been set just this afternoon.”

The shadow atop the bench stirred, standing with cloaked sceptre in hand. “What...?”

“A foreigner in our midst.”

“Good heavens...”

“A figment of the Dark Side. Aggressive, ignoble, Your Justice. They may be... Other.”

“...Then as you were, Gendarme.”

The Iudex vacated their bench and ghosted to the court floor. The gendarmerie spread about their wafting electronic shadow in shielding formation, hands beneath their cloaks. Seydon noted their twitching demeanour. They were never still, vibrating taut, tense as strung wires nearing the breaking point. Did their flesh-plugs supply endocrinal supplements? Booster cocktails, or cognitive enhancement stimulants? He wanted the Iudex outside of their protective screening.

He wanted to know what ‘Recirculation’ was.

A light shone from the now opened catwalk portal.

“There!”

“Intruder!”

“Freeze!”

Eyes below snapped up to the unlit maintenance bridges servicing the high rafters. The Iudex gave a sound, between a cry of righteous indignation, terror, and loathing. The gendarmerie ushered their charge out through the high double doors, passing Robes coming to bar and fortify the downstairs flooring. Seydon counted the bodies, pacing forward quickly, trading looks between the far floor below and the approaching Robes. They were six, stacked against each other, lightsabers in hand and catcher-nets sparking in their fists.

Seydon unspooled fibrecord from his waist-belt, knotting a cord end on a length of catwalk safety railing. Best judge placed him sixty, seventy feet maximum from the tiled ground beneath them. He resolved to avoid outright bloodshed, trying to balance Jaxton and Jorus’ better wisdom’s, against his snarling witcher’s instinct. The world was wrong, the people in it too, and seemingly ever rung of authority he’d encountered was a caricature of holy terror. He fought terror with Winterfang’s smiting alpine edge and everest point, with bomb and poison and trap, utilizing every last scrap of tenacious physical power to overwhelm and sunder. Terror was a Terentatek’s slathering jaw and apeing necromantik. Institutionalized dread...? How was he meant to battle that...?

The Robes surged down the catwalk for him. Giving his knotting a last test, Seydon spun his hands in the fibrecord and jumped. A brief half-second suspended over gravity, feeling of striating nerves pinching down the ends of his toes. The cord yanked taut. The Dunaan’s harried momentum swung him in a short, curt ark, whipping him high. At the end of the swinging arc, Seydon let go. Sailing through a fragile upper floor celerestory and crashing through thin stone, peeling copper and iron, stained glass storming round him as spinning, razor chaff.

He felt a rush of chilly air. Bashed against a close wall raised up the alley opposite the House of Indication, sliding and scrambling downward onto unlit pavement. Landed amidst urban bracken: piled trash awaiting droid pick up or repurposing scavengers.

Klaxon sirens flashed warm and cold as blood and ice from parked spinners angled up the court house steps. They lit the alleyway in warbling illumination, blinking sinuous phantoms on the lunarcrete brick and stately marble slabs. Seydon extricated off a burst trash bag, sprinting back into the back alley labryinth, vaulting over a walkway rung and once more soaring downward through layered grille-bridges and disused walkways. Behind him, over the thrum of his own steady heartbeat, came scuffing boots and laboured panting. A feeling pinged in the meat of his mind. In the murky depths just behind his conscious thoughts.

Like something scratching at the bone to be let in.

The Dunaan braced and landed with a grunt on a skybridge, how many umpteenth floors below. He raced toward light, in a dead run blurring him through unknowns streets, blocks, timing his breath with certain footfalls, clocking a pell-mell sprint only mechanical or Force-enhancement could match. Light fish-lensed, composing an open courtyard poured with a foot of water and sunk between antiquated habitation blocks, boxy apartments festooned with glyph-character signage. A poisoned, overcast sky, like tainted silver, sped with racing cloud banks overhead.

“Freeze! Stay where you are!” Boomed loudspeakers.

A half-dozen transport spinners swung round the flooded court. Robes in segmented plastoid casement, now armed with reinforced laser-swords, heavy billy-stunclubs, short nosed blasters, and forearm shields poured down onto the flooded concrete. Scores of further bodies piled and crowded from the narrow alley aperture. A wall of black and grey uniforms menaced Seydon from every angle, as the transport spinners ran air support above, augmented by eye-drones.

“Surrender! On yours knees, hands behind your neck!”

Silence. A beat. Seydon wordlessly undid the bundling over his packed swords.

“You will comply!”

Scabbards strapped across his backbone, shoulder and hip, the Dunaan pulled Razorlight free. Light winked off its unbreakable steel. Over the hushed, ringing quiet, Seydon said:

“Come make me.”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]