D E S T I N E D
Bastila Sal-Soren had learned how to disappear in plain sight, the Jedi had taught her and it was an art she was beginning to master. It was a far cry from the social circles on Naboo where she, like her family stood at the center of all things like radiant beams of light to be stared at in awe. Here she was no more then dust on the wall.
She’d tracked the lead across three systems, piecing it together from half-buried manifests and corrupted comm logs—all dating back to the months before her father’s death. It was a weapons trail. Small shipments, under-the-table deals, nothing overt. But the pattern was there. And at the end of it sat a name she hadn't heard of yet: Vrax.
She hadn’t said anything to Brandyn, Briana or the Council. It wasn’t sanctioned work. But the name wouldn’t let her go. This wasn’t just about pirates or forged documents, there was something more.
This was about what her father had done—and who continued to profit from it after he was gone.
So she went dark. Made her excuses. Adopted her new name. Let the trail pull her toward the outer rim, into the underworld where Vrax’s operation was burrowed deep in Kal’Shebbol’s trading district.
Now Bastila was known as Kira. She was Soft-spoken. Kept to herself. Good with details and documents, especially ones for the new Royal Naboo Republic that was becoming a thing of an obsession for Vrax’s group. They called her "the Ghost Scribe." They thought she was just a forger—quiet, competent, easily forgotten.
She let them believe it.
Her workspace was a glorified storage closet—barely wide enough to stretch her arms in. One dented stool, one battered print machine older that was well older then Bastila, and a slab of metal that passed for a desk. The walls were coated in grime and old adhesive strips from long-forgotten posters. There were no windows. Just a single yellowing light fixture overhead that flickered every third minute like it was trying to stutter out a warning.
Still, it was enough. The hum of the machine, the hiss of data chips feeding through—these were sounds she could control. In here, the galaxy narrowed into something manageable. A forge in the dark.
And sometimes, when the door creaked open, Bastila got to give a real performance.
"Still alive in there, Kira?" came a familiar voice, rough and amused.
It was Drex, one of Vrax’s lesser lieutenants. Lean, half-drunk, always grinning like he knew something no one else did. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he might catch a secret hiding in the dust.
"Alive enough to finish your latest shipment," Bastila replied, not looking up from the datapad she was encoding. Her voice was light, dry, and carefully unremarkable. Much like her grime covered face and roughly pulled back hair.
"That’s what I like about you. Efficient." He stepped into the room, ducking slightly under the low frame. She heard him give a solid sniff, wet and deep, she had to pause from feeling disgusted. “Though, stars, how do you breathe in here?”
“I don’t,” she said flatly, refusing to look up from her station. “I hold my breath between jobs.”
Drex chuckled, scratching at the scruff on his jaw. “You’re wasted on paperwork, you know. Ever think about field work? Bet you’d be a real surprise with a blaster.”
She allowed herself a slight smirk, eyes still on the datafeed. “Surprise is half the point, isn’t it?”
“Ha! That it is.” He knocked his knuckles against the metal doorframe. “Well, we’ve got another run tonight. If you’re angling for a transfer out of this broom closet, now’s the time to make your move. Could use an extra set of hands.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He lingered a moment too long, then left, his boots echoing down the corridor with a lazy rhythm. As the door closed behind him, Bastila’s smile vanished. She slotted a chip into the printer, watching as it spat out a falsified cargo clearance in seconds. One more lie for the pile.
But Drex had slipped. Tonight. A run. He thought she wasn’t listening, but she heard everything. It meant the complex would be relatively empty.
She leaned back slightly, the chair creaking beneath her. The lights flickered again.
This was never just about a pirate ring. It was about the answers buried under their floorboards—how everything seemed to point towards people in close association with her father, the man who she thought she had known and apparently knew nothing about.
They thought they had a forger—compliant and clever. What they really had was a Jedi in shadow, with a long memory, unfinished business and a thirst for knowing how much of a rabbit hole it was.
And when the time came, she would tear their network down—
She set a timer on her wrist chrono.
The time was nearly here.
