Private Just Another Day (Or So It Seems)

[Senna Lonis]

Senna Lonis let the sterilizer hiss closed, the familiar burn of sanitizer in the air like a second skin. Her arms were already aching, her fingers wrapped tight in synth gloves, but her shift had only just begun. The clinic lights above buzzed faintly—never quite off, never quite soothing—and as she stepped past the durasteel threshold into the main care room, the familiar scent of bacta, disinfectant, and recycled air swirled around her like a cloak.

"Clocked in," she muttered, pressing her thumb to the checkpoint. The wall-mounted console chirped its bland confirmation. She didn't bother suppressing the sigh that followed.

The waiting area was full. Again. Locals with half-healed wounds, stim junkies hoping for sedatives, a Rodian child with a terrible cough clinging to his mother's scarf. One of the older nurses passed her a datapad with a full rotation of patients, and Senna just nodded.

Here we go again.

She moved like muscle memory—clean, assess, bandage, soothe. A small knife wound from a turf scuffle. A concussion from a fall on a broken hoverwalk. A spice overdose, nearly comatose, jaw twitching with the bitter shadow of withdrawal. She administered a detox stim and slid a thin blanket over the shivering form. The woman was already forgotten by the city, but not by Senna.

I should've slept more, she thought vaguely as she rinsed out a tray of surgical tools. Her reflection looked pale, eyes sunken. She hadn't slept well in weeks. The city's hum below her tiny apartment window always whispered possibilities.

And yet… nothing.

She hadn't donned the mask or the cloak in nearly nine days. Nine dull, aching, uneventful days.

No one screamed in the alleys.
No one chased her into the shadows.
No one needed to be saved.

Maybe I'm losing my edge.

She caught herself zoning out by the sterilizer again, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. No monsters tonight, no corrupt enforcers, no cries echoing from the dead sectors.

Just aching joints, bacta gel, and recycled caf.

"Senna!" one of the interns called. "Exam 3's ready for you!"

"Coming," she said, rubbing the back of her neck as she trudged toward the room. Her boots made a soft scuffing sound on the plastcrete floors.

Inside, a young man sat on the exam table. Covered in road rash, knuckles split raw. His face was vaguely familiar. One of the hoverboard courier gangs. Senna gave him a glance and a tired smirk.

"Did the pavement win again?"

The kid chuckled sheepishly. "Sort of. Got clipped by some guys from Downbay. They didn't like that I crossed into their turf."

She tsked and began cleaning his wounds. As she worked, her thoughts drifted again.

All this training. All this power. And I'm using it to patch up skinned elbows and scrapped egos.

The clinic lights flickered once. Then again.

She blinked and looked up.

The lights steadied.

The kid noticed too. "That's been happening all day," he muttered. "They said someone's been messing with the grid under Sector Twelve. Power drain or something."

Senna's fingers froze on the gauze.

"Sector Twelve?"

"Yeah," he said. "Word is a whole utility tunnel caved in last week. No one knows why."

Something cold itched at the back of her neck.

She finished bandaging him in silence, but her mind was no longer in the room.

The lights buzzed overhead again. A single strobe, then darkness—then back.

Maybe tonight won't be so boring after all.

Senna stood, peeled off her gloves, and stared at the far wall of the clinic as if it might speak to her.

Because something had shifted in the hum of the city.

Tag: Acier Moonbound

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Nar Shaddaa

Equipment:
Training Jumpsuit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27

Another bounty hunter had found him. And another one had been dealt with. His training had made him capable of handling them now and Acier didn't fear being found by them anymore. But, this was starting to become a nuisance. It seemed since he returned to the wider galaxy, more and more found him.​

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He'd have to deal with Tessk eventually. But now? He tredged his way toward the nearest clinic, his breathing was shallow - it may have been a cracked rib. He wasn't sure. But every breath he took? It hurt.​

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He ducked through the steam-choked alleys of lower Nar Shaddaa, wrists brushing the walls as each breath pierced his lungs. He hated this place, but he needed to be here. The city's pulse was irregular, you could feel it in your bones. Something was off. More so now that his connection to the Force was stronger.

A flicker of neon ahead offered direction: The Meridian Vault. The clinic where information and healing traded hands. Where his kind of broken had found refuge. The door slid open with his presence, Ace's boots scuffing the plastcrete floor as he wandered inside.

The clinic smelled of sanitizer and recycled air. Eyes glanced up from a terminal. Someone behind the counter looked ready to speak, but Ace lifted a hand first.

"I'm not dying," he said, voice dry, low. "Just… moderately broken."

He scanned the room, and his eyes caught on someone moving between exam rooms - dark hair, violet eyes, precision in every motion. He didn't know her, not personally. But he knew the look. Not just a medic. Not just a street doc. Something deeper. His instincts flared, not in warning, just in recognition. Like something had brushed past the edge of his awareness.

It was the Force, it swirled around her like it did him. Looks like it was happening again, the Cosmic Force had put him on a collision course with another person touched by it. Ace returned his attention to the person behind the counter

"Name's Acier," he said, keeping his voice casual but steady. "Cracked rib, maybe two. I'd rather not cough blood in the street."

Senna Lonis
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[Senna Lonis]

Senna was semi- into her shift, and the auto-injector had jammed again. Her finger was still sore from trying to fix the damn cartridge. The medbay smelled like low-grade synth-coffee and plastoid gloves, and her datapad was blinking with three incomplete charts and a flagged vitals alert from a droid that always overreacted to fevers.


"I'm going to rip my own brain out with these gloves," she muttered, tugging a stubborn fingertip free.


"Don't you dare," came Jorra's voice from the reception desk, feet propped up, her shiny prosthetic boot tapping lightly against a drawer. "That brain's on contract. I still owe NarComp twenty more shifts of your beautiful rage."


Senna gave her a look. "Don't tempt me."


The clinic doors slid open with a tired hiss.


Senna didn't even glance up at first. Probably another kid from the lower docks with spice rot or a blister from heat tape. But then she felt it—quiet, just under the noise. A nudge in the air. Not pushy, but enough to lift her head.


Someone was standing at intake.


Senna stepped to the edge of the hallway and leaned, catching a glimpse of the patient.


Tall. Maybe mid-thirties? Dirty jacket. Black. Stiff in the shoulders, like it hurt to breathe. Hair tousled. Dried blood. Not from Nar Shaddaa—not really. Not a regular.

Jorra blinked twice before straightening in her chair. "Well, stars. You ever seen someone stand like they just walked out of an action serial?"

Senna didn't answer.

She watched as the man slowly approached the desk. Not limping, but definitely not fine. Every step looked weighed down—like he'd done this before, and recently.

Jorra cleared her throat and tapped his stylus. "You good, Senna? Got a walking bruise here asking for med attention with his eyes."

Senna nodded, taking the slate Jorra handed her.

Room 2. The quiet one with reinforced walls.

She turned and gestured. Paranoia born of survival. She knew the look.

She opened the exam room door and stepped aside.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Nar Shaddaa

Equipment:
Training Jumpsuit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27

He didn't need the Force to recognize a pattern when he saw one. The way the receptionist straightened. The shift in the room's rhythm. The slight pause from the woman in the hallway. The weight in the air had changed, not tension, not danger. Just... vigilance.

As she waved him toward Room 2, he didn't question it. Paranoia recognized paranoia. Ace walked with that practiced stillness that came from years of moving through places that hated you alive. Every step was deliberate, silent, controlled. Minus the twinge in his side each time his ribs reminded him he wasn't invincible.

"Reinforced walls." he murmured, eyes flicking to the frame. "That for rowdy patients, or just bad memories?" No accusation in his tone. Just dry curiosity.

He stepped past her and into the room, exhaling shallowly as the door hissed shut behind them. The lighting here was lower. Acier sat himself down on the edge of the exam table, wincing as he took his jacket and shirt off. Despite the large purple bruising and the swelling, there was definition beneath the layers - lean muscle carved from survival, training, and a body that hadn't had the luxury of softness in years. The kind of strength that didn't ask for attention, but made itself known anyway.

"Acier Moonbound." he said, introducing himself quietly. "Not on any wanted lists... for bad reasons, anyway. Not worth your time at least. Just need a patch up and I'll be out your hair."

His gaze flicked toward her, meeting hers with guarded ease. He scanned the woman, her gloves, her posture. She wasn't just some healer on Nar Shaddaa. She was... something deeper, if that even made sense. Something trained.

"What's going on with Sector 12? It's like I've felt some kind of shift."

In the months since his training began, Ace had become more confident, bold. A few months ago, he'd have given her a fake name or made his connection to the Force so obvious. But now? He wasn't afraid of who knew. Confident he'd be able to handle whatever came his way. He was a Verd by blood after all.

Senna Lonis
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