Private For the journy

[Laphisto]

Laphisto had not left the coming journey to chance. Across the breadth of the galaxy, his forces moved with quiet purpose, detachments dispatched to distant systems, each tasked with acquiring the supplies, materials, and specialized components needed to sustain an operation of unprecedented scale. Fuel reserves, structural alloys, medical stockpiles, and, most critically, hyperdrive components were all being gathered. Moving a station and a fleet of nearly a thousand ships into the Unknown Regions was not a task he would leave to chance alone.

Varnak was one such piece of that larger design. The planet's markets were dense, chaotic, and imperfectly regulated, exactly the kind of place where rare parts surfaced without questions being asked. Intelligence had flagged a cluster of independent shops rumored to carry refurbished and salvaged hyperdrive systems. Unreliable, perhaps, but in the Unknown Regions, even flawed components could mean the difference between survival and being stranded in the dark.

So Laphisto came personally. He moved through the streets without escort, though his men were never far. The crowd parted around him in subtle ways, an unconscious reaction to the presence he carried. His armor and stature being well over seven foot eight ensured that people gave him a wide birth. The Force flowed around him, not as a distant current to be interpreted, but as something instinctive, woven into his every step. He let it guide him, a turn here. A pause there. The faint pull of something just out of sight. To others, his path might have seemed aimless. a man wandering the streets unsure where he wanted to go.

His gaze drifted over shopfronts layered in flickering neon and weathered signage, over vendors calling out deals for parts that would fail under real strain. None of it mattered. The Force narrowed his focus, filtering the noise, guiding him toward something more precise, something real. Tucked between two larger storefronts, half-obscured by hanging cables and dim light, was a shop that had not been on any registry he had been given. Its exterior was unremarkable, almost deliberately so. Yet the pull was undeniable.

Laphisto stopped just short of the entrance, his eyes narrowing slightly as the Force coiled tighter around his awareness. This was where he needed to be. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and crossed the threshold, letting the Force guide him into whatever waited inside.

Raxus Sennin

 

[Raxus Sennin]

Varnak didn’t feel right.
It wasn’t the noise—though there was plenty of it. Markets stacked on top of each other, voices layered in a dozen languages, machinery humming beneath everything like a second heartbeat.

It was the Force.
Uneven. Restless.
Raxus Sennin pulled his hood slightly lower as he stepped into the shop, the door sliding shut behind him with a muted hiss. Inside, the chaos dulled—filtered into something quieter. Contained.

Weapons lined the walls. Old. Modified. Some illegal in systems that still pretended to enforce law.
He didn’t touch anything.
Didn’t need to.
His focus drifted—not to the objects, but to the space itself.

There was tension here. Residual. Like something had passed through recently and left an imprint behind.
Raxus moved further inside, boots silent against the worn floor, gaze shifting slowly across the room.
Something’s off.

His hand hovered near his lightsaber—not gripping it, just… ready.
The feeling sharpened.
Not danger.
Not exactly.
Presence.
Familiar.

His breath slowed.
The Force shifted again—subtle, but undeniable.
Raxus stilled.
Then, quietly:
“…Jedi.”
The word barely left his lips.
He turned.
Slow. Controlled.
No rush.
No panic.
His eyes settled on the figure behind him.
Another Force signature—clear now. Distinct. Not fractured like most he’d felt in years.

Focused.
Alive.
Raxus studied them for a moment, expression unreadable, but his stance shifted ever so slightly—weight balanced, ready.

Not hostile.
Not trusting either.
“…Didn’t expect to find one of us here.”
Then he paused.
His gaze narrowed just slightly, searching—not for identity, but intent.
“Especially not on Varnak.”
Laphisto