Private In the Hand of Those Who Endure

[Ra'a'mah]

The river carried the last colors of the day like spilled paint—rose, gold, and quiet blue drifting across the surface as the breeze moved through the sculpted hedges. Naboo always hid strength beneath beauty; Ra had always appreciated that. Nothing soft survived long in this galaxy unless something sharpened stood behind it.

She stood with her hands loosely folded behind her back, posture composed, gaze settled on the water below the balustrade. The faint hum of distant speeders and the gentle murmur of the gardens framed the moment. Still, her attention remained fixed on the signature approaching from behind—controlled, alert, and carrying the unmistakable steadiness of a veteran.

"Pylon Zerga," Ra said, turning only when he came within a respectful distance. Her voice was calm, the kind that carried even in quiet places without needing to be forceful. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me. Naboo is not your usual terrain, I imagine, but I prefer neutral ground when discussing matters of weight."

She inclined her head in greeting, a gesture of respect to a man whose reputation preceded him.

"I have read your record," she continued, stepping to the side so the river came into view behind her. "Your service. Your resilience. The… unfortunate hand the galaxy dealt you." Her gaze softened by a fraction—acknowledgment, not pity. "A man shaped by trial often sees clearly what others overlook."

Ra gestured toward a small marble seating area set beneath an arch of flowering vines—private, shielded from casual eyes, but open enough to show she wasn't hiding anything.

"Walk with me."

She waited until he moved with her before she spoke again, her tone shifting—still gentle, but carrying depth and purpose.

"I will be direct. The galaxy is shifting again. Power redistributes itself, and in the vacuum, tyranny grows bolder. I have no intention of watching it take root unchallenged." A pause, long enough to be meaningful. "I am gathering people—capable individuals with more than muscle. People with judgment. Survivors. Fighters who know the difference between purpose and chaos."

She looked at him fully now, the soft Naboo light catching the gold in her eyes.

"You have spent too long being used by others' agendas. I am offering something different."

A quiet breath.

"A place in a new Protectorate. And—if you choose—a position at my side. Not as a weapon. As a shield. As someone I trust to watch the angles others miss."

She let the words settle like the slow fall of dusk over the gardens.

"No games. No empty promises. Just an opportunity. And the respect you should have always been given."

Ra stepped back slightly, giving him space to answer, her gaze steady.

"What do you think, Pylon Zerga? Does the galaxy still have room for a man like you… If the right cause is offered?"

Pylon Zerga

 

[Pylon Zerga]

Naboo had a tranquil fragility that had always resonated with Pylon, even from a young age. He remembered coming here with Master Enzeru Tawkashi as a Padawan, a boy no more than 13 at the time, to first meet Ra, a woman who kept Tawkashi's council closer than her closest advisors. Pylon had tried prying into the background between the two adults, but Enzeru had brushed him off with a wave of his hand and some half muttered diatribe about 'forgotten promises'. That was sufficient enough to make the young Zerga drop it; after all, he had never seen Enzeru blush before....


That was coming up on at least 20 years ago by Pylon's estimate, so one could only imagine his surprise when the woman standing before him today seemed a perfect vision of beauty that she had been two decades ago. She hadn't seemed to age a day, outwardly at least, so much so that now that he stood before her, no longer wearing his modest robes and tunics of the Jedi, but a tight, form-fitting bodysuit adorned with ultrachrome plates, Mandalorian T-Shaped visor buckled to his hip, did Pylon realize just how much he had truly changed. His once soft and gentle, fresh youth face had grown sharp and hardened, his right eye replaced by a large cybernetic-patch covering to match his right arm that had once been severed at the shoulder. And all that before he had even officially left the Jedi Order.

A different man stood with Ra this day, one so far removed from that young, rebellious young Jedi Shadow Padawan who was spoken so highly of by his Master, that Pylon wondered if even Enzeru himself would recognize him.

Ra spoke with the same tranquil softness as the Naboo river nearby trickling softly in an infinite chorus, her words flowing from her mouth with an even, almost practiced rhythm, making Pylon wonder just how long she had been planning this conversation. Still, he didn't bother with interrupting her, instead allowing her his complete attention, listening deeply to her words with careful consideration. This was something that he was once taught was second nature to do-- to listen without judgement or preconceived notions, the way a Jedi should, but now, he practiced very little.

Ra was right about thing almost out the gate: he had spent far too long under the employ of those who would simply use him for their own goals and means. The highly dangerous, highly skilled, highly unpredictable Ex-Jedi Shadow turned Mandalorian, capable of assassination, bounty hunting, and a wide array of black ops capabilities, Kadika Rihka was known to be worth every credit he charged -- and he charged a lot.

As he listened to Ra seemingly offer him a place within her cabinet, at her side the way she would keep a General or High Advisor, a single phrase she used suddenly stuck out to him -- 'A shield'. A shield. Something used to protect, instead of attack. Pylon didn't even own a shield. He had always believed in the best defense was an overwhelming offense, as made evident in his first real choice he had in life --his lightsabers! He was one of the few younglings in his pod to decide to focus on dual wielding a saber in each hand, mastering both sides of his body as one, so he could launch a flurry of attacks from any direction -- while still having another saber for defense. Even later in life, while learning the ways of the Mando'ade, wearing armor seemed foreign and strange to him! The very idea of constricting his movement for the exchange of protection it provided at first seemed sacrilege. Pylon had always focused on meeting his problems head on, smacking and slicing through any obstacles in his way.

If Ra wanted a bodyguard, there were plenty of better guardians than Pylon Zerga. He was no shield.

He would finally speak, choosing to address Ra with a little familiarity and as much formality as he could remember how to muster, his voice carried no malice or even self-doubt, simply matter-of-factly stating the obvious.

"Not to sound ungrateful, Lady Ra'a'mah, but I cannot see the value in hiring a Mandalorian, even one as skilled as myself, as a bodyguard, or an advisor. I know you knew my Master well, and hoped as he did that I would one day carry on in his place -- be the kind of man that he was! A proud, noble, wise and honorable Jedi that others look to for guidance and protection.... I hate to think you both would be disappointed to see how I've turned out..."

He whispered the final words softly, almost to himself in both abject shock and horror that they were even coming from his mouth -- words he had been too afraid to say for years. After a moment, he shook his head before nodding, seemingly resolute in his newfound realization.


"I am not that man, Ra, and I don't think I ever actually was. I was a skilled Jedi Shadow, but a terrible Jedi -- I have ended a dozen conflicts before they started with a single strike of my lightsabers, and not once by my words. What you seem to be asking for isn't a Merc-For-Hire; it's a General!" Pylon let this declaration hang in the air for a moment, letting the silence speak volumes to the absurdity of the situation.

"Are you sure you want me?"

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra took in every word—every hesitation, every confession, every shred of the man he believed himself not to be—with the same quiet attentiveness she had shown since the moment he arrived. But as he finished, as he asked whether she truly wanted him, something in her expression shifted. Not pity. Not softness. But recognition.

And certainty.

"Pylon Zerga," she said, voice low but unwavering, "I have never been more certain."

She stepped closer, not invading his space, but bridging the distance with intention. The Naboo breeze caught at her cloak, carrying the faint scent of riverwater and flowering vines—quiet things, fragile things, things that only survive because something stronger stands unseen behind them.

"You speak of yourself as if you have failed the life your Master imagined for you. But a man is not defined by whether he fits someone else's mold." Her eyes held his—steadfast, immovable. "He trained you to see what others miss. To act when others freeze. To understand the threat before it manifests. You call that failing the Jedi?"

Her head tilted, a soft, thoughtful gesture. "I call it being exactly what I need." She let that truth settle before she continued, tone deepening with quiet intensity. "You think a shield must be gentle. Passive. Held by someone who waits for the blow." She shook her head. "No. A shield is what stands between destruction and what must endure. It is what meets the strike first. What turns chaos aside. What refuses to break."

Her gaze traced the line of his cybernetic, the plates of armor that caught the fading sunlight.

"You are not a shield because you are soft," she said softly. "You are a shield because you hit back harder than what comes for you."

She took a slow breath, turning her face briefly toward the river before returning to him.

"There have been times—more than I care to count—when a single strike would have saved lives, when a man with your judgment and decisiveness would have seen what others ignored. When I needed someone who could stand where diplomacy could not. Someone who could act without hesitation, but not without thought."

A beat. "You say you are no advisor. No poet. No calm negotiator." Her eyes warmed—not with sentiment, but with respect. "Good. I have those already." A pause. "What I do not have is you."

Then, quietly: "I do not want a General. I want Pylon Zerga—the man who survived what would have broken another. The man who acts when others falter. The man your Master trusted enough to show weakness."

Her voice lowered. "And the man I trust enough to guard my life."

She lifted her chin slightly, letting the certainty in her posture answer the question between them. "Yes, Pylon. I am sure." And after a beat, quieter still: "What you see as flaws are precisely why I chose you."

Pylon Zerga