Private Hopeful fury | The Jedi Order

[Aiden Porte]

Anneliese Kaohal-Delaine
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The transmission cracked through the hum of the navicomputers humming, a jagged pulse of static breaking into a strained, half-distorted voice. Aiden looked up from the holotable as the Republic crest flickered, then twisted into the blue-white haze of a distress feed. The voice on the other end trembled with fatigue, and behind it came the low, distant thrum of detonations.

Aiden's jaw tightened. Tython. A sacred world, once the cradle of the Jedi's earliest meditations, now little more than a scar beneath Imperial rule.

The transmission flared again, faint images bleeding through: the shadowed ruins of a temple, smoke curling between its shattered spires, figures moving fleeing through the undergrowth. Then a surge of static swallowed it whole.

"Coordinates." Aiden said sharply, and the navicomputer blinked in response, struggling to extract what fragments of data it could. "They've been on the run for months. Force sensitives. Children among them."

Aiden exhaled, the weight of memory pressing through his composure. "Then we don't have time to assemble a team."

The console chimed as the last of the transmission stabilized..

The silence that followed felt heavier than any order could. Aiden looked to Anneliese, the unspoken agreement already there between them.

"Plot the course." he said quietly. "I'm going to Tython, are you with me?"

 

[Anneliese Kaohal-Delaine]

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Anneliese stood before the holotable, arms loosely crossed at her waist, eyes fixed on the flickering feed. The smoke curling from the ruined temples, the figures darting through the undergrowth, the twisted shadows of what had once been sacred—it all pressed into her chest like a weight she couldn't shake.

She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it back, the gesture slow, deliberate, grounding. The glow from the console reflected in her eyes, making them shine, almost unnaturally sharp in the dim light of the bridge. Her jaw was tight, her lips pressed in a line that didn't soften, not even as her gaze swept over the images of the fleeing children.

Tython. She had been here twice before, and each time it had taken something from her. The first campaign had stolen pieces of innocence she hadn't even realized she had lost. The second… she had done what she could, and still, the world had burned beneath her feet. And now this—children running through ruins, hunted, terrified, desperate. Her chest tightened again, and the hum of restrained fury rose in her chest, low and coiled.

"They're children," she said finally, voice quiet but firm, almost a growl beneath the calm. "Force-sensitive. They've been running… too long." Her fingers brushed against the holotable, feeling the coordinates like they were a lifeline. Her hand lingered there, steady, as if anchoring herself to the task ahead.

Her eyes lifted from the table to meet Aiden's, and in that stoic stare, there was no need for words. It spoke volumes: determination, anger, and an instinct older than her own memory. The older protect the young. Always. That was the law she carried in her bones. The one she could not bend.

"Then we go," she said, slow and deliberate. "We get them out. Every one we can. No hesitation. No mistakes." Her voice was measured, but there was an edge under it, a coiled predator waiting for the first sign of threat.

Her gaze flicked back to the hologram of the shattered temples, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel the old grief—the memories of fire, of loss, of Tython's desecration—but she didn't let it rule her. It was fuel now, sharpened into purpose. Her lips pressed tighter, a subtle hum vibrating from deep in her chest, a sound almost imperceptible but full of raw energy.

"Plot the course," she said finally. "Let's move." She turned from the table with a fluid motion, shoulders squared, spine straight. Even in the quiet of the bridge, even without raising her voice, there was no mistaking it: the flame she carried—the responsibility, the fury, the unyielding instinct to protect those who could not protect themselves—burned brighter than ever.

And beneath it all, a promise she had never needed to speak: We will not fail them.