Private Lines Cut, Signals Lost

[Iandre Athlea]

The frost‑tipped cables and frozen comm panels of the remote hub glinted under Iandre's careful inspection. The building's lights flickered weakly, a dying heartbeat of technology struggling against the cold and neglect. The low hum of failing power reverberated through the metal floor, echoing softly against the high ceiling. The Force hummed faintly at the edges of her awareness, whispering of unease, of hurried movement, and shadowed intent.

Iandre stepped over a broken access grate, boots crunching on ice, eyes scanning the corridors for anomalies. Every step kicked up a light spray of frost, swirling in the weak glow of flickering lights. The hub should have been quiet—abandoned save for the maintenance droids—but subtle traces told a different story. Power conduits had been tampered with; scorch marks traced erratic lines along the walls. Something—or someone—had been here before her.

A low hum erupted from a compromised console, sparks leaping across its panel. The air smelled faintly of burnt circuitry and ozone, acrid and electric. The Force whispered again—chaos was close, tangible, prickling at the edges of perception. Iandre's hand hovered near the hilt of her weapon, though her mind weighed options with measured precision. There was no panic here—only calculation.

The corridors stretched out ahead, long and narrow, littered with debris: twisted metal, frozen cables, and shattered panels. The occasional clatter of a falling support brace echoed down the halls, a reminder that the building's integrity was fragile. Every shadow could conceal a hazard—or a threat. Iandre's boots made a soft, deliberate rhythm on the metal flooring as she advanced, each step measured, attuned to the subtle vibrations beneath her feet.

She paused at a junction where the floor sloped sharply into the deeper sections of the hub. Sparks crackled faintly nearby, illuminating the dark in brief, harsh flashes. Sensors detected irregularities—temperature fluctuations, unstable power readings—but no movement. Still, the Force hinted at something lurking, unseen, waiting. Iandre's breath remained even, controlled, as she prepared to continue. Whoever had caused the blackout was still here. And every decision she made could determine whether she uncovered it safely or walked into the chaos that waited in the shadows.

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

The frost still clung to everything. Her gloves, her sleeves, the loose strands of hair that had fallen across her face… It made her fingers stiff as she pried open the compartment's casing, each screw resisting like it was personally offended by her presence. She muttered a string of curse words in various languages, words sharp enough to make a sailor blush, and when the last panel came loose, it screeched in protest before falling to the side with a metallic groan.

Sithspit. Scherezade hated the cold. She was a creature of eternal summer, of blue skies and poppy fields and all that nice crap. She wasn't built for these temperatures, even with protective gear.

The compartment was a mess of coiled wires, half-frozen coolant lines, and the scorched husks of smaller drones. Scherezade leaned closer, breath fogging against the icy metal, rummaging with single-minded focus. The datapad she'd taken off one of the droids was cracked, its display flickering between bursts of static, but it had given her the coordinates. Somewhere in this hub, one of her schematic fragments was buried. Events of the galaxy had distracted her from her hunt for these schematics for too long, and this was the first time in months that she finally renewed her search for them.

Her gloved hand disappeared into the compartment's guts. She hissed as she brushed against a live wire, the shock biting through her palm. The scent of burnt insulation mingled with the faint sweetness of coolant. "Butthole," she muttered at the machinery, voice rough from the cold. "You were supposed to stay quiet."

The power conduits behind her still spat occasional sparks. The droids had come at her in waves up until just a few minutes ago, their mechanical voices blaring warnings she'd ignored. Maintenance units, sure, but someone had modified them. Combat subroutines buried deep, waiting. The scorch marks on the walls were the result of blaster fire she'd redirected, the twisted metal the aftermath of kinetic throws she hadn't quite measured. One of them had exploded near the junction, showering her with fragments that still glittered faintly on her hair.

She hadn't drawn her blades. Hadn't needed to. The droids had come apart beneath her hands and the Force's invisible weight with crushed limbs, twisted plating, and a spray of oil that steamed when it hit the cold air. It hadn't been elegant. Efficiency trumped grace when time mattered.

Now the hub was quiet except for the faint hum of damaged systems struggling to stay alive. The silence pressed against her ears. Every sound she made, from the click of metal, the rasp of her gloves, to the shallow exhale, seemed almost too loud. She could feel the stillness after the storm, and beneath it, the faint tremor of something alive moving through the corridors.

Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.

Someone was coming.

Not droids this time. The rhythm was too deliberate, too careful. Flesh and bone, not gears and servos. The Force prickled at the edges of her senses, warning and curious all at once. She didn't reach for her weapons… Yet.

Instead, she kept crouched, one hand still buried in the open compartment, the other resting lightly against the floor to ground herself. A thin smile ghosted across her lips, half amusement, half anticipation.

"If you're here for my mess," she half yelled into the air, more to the machinery than to whoever was approaching, "you're kinda late."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre stepped lightly into the hub, boots barely whispering against the grated floor. Her grey eyes swept over the scorched panels and twisted metal, a faint crease of distaste forming. Droids had never sat well with her—their cold, mechanical certainty, the way they obeyed without thought—but these, altered and aggressive, left a bitter tang in the air that made her stomach tighten.

"Late, perhaps," she said softly, voice calm, carrying a thread of dry amusement, "but some messes…some disturbances… are worth seeing."

She crouched slightly, letting her senses reach along the faint currents of the Force lingering in the scorched machinery. Subtle vibrations and a faint tug at the edges of her perception told her something—or someone—was moving nearby. Her gaze swept the corridor, searching without exposing herself, probing the Force for intent.

"You've left quite a mark here," she continued, tone measured, more to the presence than the machines themselves, "though I cannot say I enjoy the company of your…helpers."

Her fingers hovered near a scorched conduit, grounding herself in the Force, ready but unthreatened. "I do not know who—or what—is here," she murmured, "but I can sense your presence. I will see you, and I will understand. Move carefully, for I am patient, and I listen."

"If you intend to make this mess your own," she said, her voice steady and quiet but carrying unmistakable resolve, "know that I will not be caught unaware."

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

Messes…some disturbances… are worth seeing.

Hand still buried in the compartment, Scherezade grinned. That was definitely a statement she could vibe with, and she did, her body bouncing ever so slightly in an almost happy food dance, though there was, unfortunately, no food involved. Yet.

Now that the stranger had spoken, she could tell the voice was feminine, and assumed its carrier was as well. But more importantly, now that the person had come slightly closer, Scherezade sensed her blood. Still searching with her hand in the compartment, she took a big inhale, testing the scent. Yup, female. Human. Not someone she would be worried about by default unless they gave her cause.

The effin' schematics were not in the compartment. She sighed with disappointment and pulled her hand back, glowing green eyes gazing at the black oil and tar that covered it. Getting herself cleaned later would suck so much.

"Not my helpers," she yelled out as if her mind only now caught up with the rest of the words that had come from the stranger's direction, "I was cool with ignoring them. They weren't cool with ignoring me. So I figured, hey, I'm already here, might as well do some clean up, y'know?"

Now she stood, letting her own blood flow back into her lower libs, and stretched, dirty hands reaching for the ceiling and all. Force, it felt good.

It was quite amazing, how Scherezade was, on one hand, a terrifying person to deal with when angered or drawn into a battle, and the latter did really not take too much to get done. But at the same time, or as they say, on the other hand, her demeanor outside of that was so child-like sometimes, so casual and care-free, that it was hard to understand how the bubbly and cheerful Sithling was actually a Sith. Some had used her personality as a reason to discredit her. Often, they didn't live long enough to regret it.

But still, there was no ill intent within her towards the stranger. Not yet, anyway. She'd need a damn good reason to add stranger's blood on top of the oily and tar stains.

Without a care in the 'verse, she walked to the entrance of the room she was in and opened the door that led to the hallway Iandre Athlea was in.

"Here I am," she grinned and waved. Scherezade was an Amazonian woman, tall and wide, her usual green armour now dirty along with every inch of skin. She looked like she'd gone mining on a backwater world somewhere rather than chase something that was for her, among the most precious things in the galaxy.

"Did you want anything?" she asked, her voice almost sing-song like, "I mean, the mess is mine, but I wasn't planning on cleaning up. Just looking for something and then I'll be on my way, unless you rather do the whole threaten each other and then fight for no apparent reason thing. If you're not, I'm Scherezade."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre stepped forward, boots soft against the grating, her hands open at her sides to show she wasn't here to escalate anything. The tall woman was a striking sight—oil-streaked armor, green eyes sharp with humor and something wild underneath. Dangerous, yes…but not hostile. Not yet.

"Schereade," Iandre repeated, offering a small, genuine nod. "Iandre Athlea. It's good to meet someone else who dislikes droids as much as I do."

Her eyes flicked to the wrecked machines, then back with a hint of shared exasperation.

"They make terrible company and even worse opponents. So—thank you for clearing a path before I arrived."
There was a faint smile there, sincere and not forced.

She took another step closer—not crowding, just enough that their voices didn't need to fight the hum of failing systems.

"You said you're looking for something. If you want help, I can offer it. And if you'd rather keep your search to yourself…I can at least keep the next round of droids off your back."

Iandre's voice softened, warm with understanding rather than judgment.

"This place feels like it's hiding more than malfunctioning circuits. Whatever brought you here…you don't have to face it alone if you'd prefer not to."

She extended a hand—gloved, steady, sincere.

"Either way, you won't get any threats from me. Just let me know how I can make this easier for you."

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

Scherezade giggled. She wholly agreed with Iandre Athlea on the droid thing, but she knew she wasn't supposed to say it out loud. After all, one of the reasons she had even survived in the galaxy as long as she had was because of her personal droid, Twinkle Doom. It had been his idea to start planning childrens' birthday parties all those years ago, which was how Scherezade later founded her chaotic and glittery lines of uncommon means of mass destruction.

Iandre took another step closer. If Scherezade was meant to feel any crowding or anything of the sort, she did not. Though her chaos was overly flowing with sparkles and glam more often than not, the Sithling was a very simple being at her core, who followed an almost-strict guideline of you don't try to kill me, I don't try to kill you. She'd broken that code only a small number of times in her life, when it was really warranted. The bar was high. It wasn't even close to being reached right now.

And then came the offer for help.

Scherezade paused and inhaled again.

"You're not one's average Jedi, are you?" she chuckled as she realized what (among other things) the woman in front of her was. "I don't have a problem with you. One of my best friends is a Jedi as well." And oh krak, did she miss him. But he hadn't been around for years at this point, off hiding somewhere with his son.

"But I'd appreciate the help," she added quickly, "if we find it, dinner on me. You can pick the place as long as it's not one of those places where they expect you to know which fork to use when. I'm gonna go after good food, not fancy shmancy."

And with that, she shook her hand firmly and almost explosively as well. It was easy to tell Scherezade was not a woman who almost ever lakced in energy.

"I'm looking for a fragment of a schematics. Probably tiny, probably doesn't look like what it is at a first glance, and if you can tell what the schematic is for just by looking at it, you're looking at the wrong thing," she grinned from ear to ear before ducking at the next compartment, hand going in to ruffle as well, completely ignoring the background noise of metal against metal that may or may not have started getting closer.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The shake nearly jolted Iandre forward, Scherezade's energy hitting her like a sudden burst of sunlight through a calm winter morning. But her composure held, steady and unshaken—if anything, her smile warmed by a degree or two.

"Then it seems we are agreed," she said, fingers releasing from the handshake with a light, deliberate pat on Scherezade's knuckles—subtle reassurance, not restraint.

The mention of being not one's average Jedi earned a soft, knowing exhale—something like a laugh, but quieter. It had been a long time since she had called herself a Jedi.

"Labels rarely fit as neatly as people expect. I follow the Force—but not by anyone's script."

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the echoing clatter of metal further down the corridor, body shifting instinctively between Scherezade and the approaching sound—not hostile, simply protective by habit.

"Dinner that does not require multiple forks sounds ideal. And fragments of schematics with secrets buried in plain sight…"
A thoughtful tilt of the head. "That sounds like an interesting puzzle."

She stepped forward to walk in stride with Scherezade, cloak brushing quietly against the scattered debris.

"You search, I'll watch our surroundings. If anything unfriendly decides to notice us…" Her voice lowered playfully, just a hint of dry humor beneath the calm: "…I prefer solving those problems before we lose our appetite."

She cast a glance—not evaluative, but companionable.

"You lead the way. I'll make sure we both come out with all our limbs—and your fragment."

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

It was going to be dinner and a date. That made Scherezade smile again as she felt has hand getting covered in this or other oily substance that she found in the current compartment, but alas, other than things that she could only call ick, she didn't find anything there either. With a groan, the Sithling stood up straight again, looking around for where the next place might be.

Her eyes landed on a stack of broken panels leaning against a mostly collapsed console. It looked promising, mostly because it looked like no sane person would bother with it. She crouched again, humming a nonsense tune as she shoved aside the debris (if @ Iandre Athlea had any cultural experience on Tatooine or with Hutts, she might recognize it as a morbid lullaby that was popular several centuries ago), and that's when her fingers brushed against something smooth. Not greasy. Not corroded. Cool!

She tugged it free looked at the thin shard of dark alloy in her hand, edges too precise to be accidental. The instant it left the pile, a faint blue shimmer ran along its surface, tracing tiny circuits that hadn't seen light in years.

"Oh, that's new," Scherezade murmured, watching as the glow sharpened into a pulse. Then came the sound, a high, steady whine that grew louder by the heartbeat, like the fragment was trying to sing its way out of her hand.

"KRAK!"

She didn't know exactly what it was, but she knew it was something Not Good[tm]. The hum deepened, echoing through the corridor. Somewhere in the dark, something mechanical shifted. Gears grinding. A servo booting up. She looked back at Iandre, half grin, half oops.

"Our dinner and a date's turned into a show and tell," she laughed. The floor trembled beneath their boots. Scherezade's grin widened, bright and reckless, and entirely fearless.

A door that the Sithling hadn't noticed before suddenly burst open, the metal frame flying towards both of them. She ducked, avoidin capitation, and stood up again, glowing green eyes looking at the droid that had appeared in the doorway.

It towered nearly twice Scherezade's height, a relic of another age forged from blackened durasteel and slabs of carved stone. Faint blue light pulsed beneath the cracks in its armour, and ancient runes crawled across its chest plate. A massive staff of alloy and crystal hummed in its grip, dragging faint sparks as it scraped the floor. When its single eye ignited in a molten red glare, the air itself seemed to tighten.

The guardian moved with terrifying speed for something so massive, its first swing cleaving through the nearest support column. Shards of metal and dust exploded outward as the shockwave slammed through the corridor, its next move carrying straight toward Scherezade and Iandre, ready to cleave them like a lightsaber through butter.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The floor trembled beneath them as the colossal Tomb Guardian surged from its resting place, shards of metal and dust spraying outward. Iandre's boots pressed firmly against the ground, shifting her weight with the grace of a trained duelist. Her green lightsaber ignited in a steady, shimmering arc, casting light across the corridor and reflecting in her calm gray eyes.

"Show and tell," she murmured, her tone dry but composed. "You certainly know how to make an entrance."

The guardian swung its massive staff, each strike capable of cleaving through walls. Iandre parried with Form II precision, her blade angling perfectly to deflect and redirect the heavy swings. Every movement was efficient, minimal, calculated — no wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish.

"You said you enjoy good food," she added quietly, eyes flicking toward Scherezade. "We'll have to survive this first."

The massive construct's molten red eye swept over them, and Iandre pivoted around its attack, slipping along the edge of the shockwave while maintaining her guard. Her footwork was light and exact, and she pressed forward only when she saw an opening—exploiting every hesitation the ancient droid gave.

"You found it," she said, voice low, calm, almost approving. "Lead the way. I'll keep the path clear."

Her green blade hummed through the air with a steady, precise rhythm, meeting the Guardian's strikes with controlled deflections. While Scherezade brought unpredictability and chaos, Iandre's focus and calm efficiency ensured each swing counted, carving out space for them both to move and strike.

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

Scherezade barely had time to process the droid's initial movement before instinct yanked her backward and somewhat to the side. Its staff slammed down where her head had been a heartbeat ago, the impact splitting the floor and sending a wave of heat and debris over her boots. She blinked through the haze before laughing.

"Okay! Big, angry, and dramatic. I like it!"

While Iandre met the Guardian's next assault with clean, measured precision, Scherezade leaned against a half collapsed console and let out a sharp whistle, the sound cutting through the clang of metal. "Oh, look at you! So composed! Ten outta ten lightsaber form, would totally hire for birthday parties!"

She grinned, readying herself to throw more cheerleading lines at her newly met friend, but froze. A pulse of blue light flickered through the Guardian's chest plate, leaking from beneath the carved runes. The same hue as the fragment that had adorned the several pieces of the schematics she'd been collecting all around the galaxy for months now.

"Oh, you poodooy motherkrakker, you've got to be kidding me."

She pushed off the console, twin blades of her daggers flashing to life with a hiss of tempered air. The next swing from the Guardian's staff barely missed as she ducked low, momentum carrying her into a spin that ended with her daggers biting sparks off its leg. "I think it's in there!" she called out, ducking another blow that sent shrapnel spraying over her head. "My shiny fragment! He's wearing it!"

The construct's molten eye flared, tracking her now. Scherezade darted sideways, one hand flicking out as she yanked a chunk of debris from the floor with the Force, sending it slamming into the Guardian's shoulder joint. It staggered, just enough for her to slide beneath its reach and slash upward, twin blades scraping across metal that howled in protest.

"C'mon, you metal butthole!" she laughed, green eyes gleaming as she danced back from its counterstrike. "Let's see what else you've got before I whip you open!"

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre's blade sang steady and sure, green light a narrow lane through the dust as the Tomb Guardian's staff thundered again. She met its strike with the economy of Form II—a crisp deflection, the arc of her saber guiding the heavy momentum aside rather than trying to stop it outright. Sparks showered where metal met energy; she slid along the shockwave and planted her feet, eyes never leaving the construct's molten eye.

"Keep moving," she called, voice even, calm. "Don't let it lock onto you. When it winds up, it telegraphs—wait for the seam in the armor and aim for the joints."

Scherezade's laughter cut through the chaos like a bright blade; Iandre allowed herself the ghost of a smile. The fragment's blue pulse drew the corner of her attention like a compass needle. She felt its echo in the Force—small, active, dangerous if disturbed. Old memories tightened along her spine, but she folded them away and let discipline take the lead.

She let the Guardian overcommit, baiting a swing with a slight retreat. At the last instant, she angled her blade, and the staff's strike glanced past—she flowed forward, wrist flicking, redirecting a shard of shattered column with the Force into the construct's knee joint. The giant staggered, one leg churning to find purchase. The opening was brief, glaring.

"Now!" she said, sharper, permission in the single word. She held the opening with a steady hum of blade and pushed—no flashy flourishes, just precise, braking blows to servo housings and exposed rivets. Each contact she made wasn't to destroy, but to create space: loosened plating here, a snapped hydraulic line there.

A shutter of dust cleared and revealed the faint blue circuitry beneath the runes. Iandre's jaw tightened. She glanced at Scherezade, then drew the Force in small, careful fingers—not to wrench the fragment free, but to cushion and control. The artifact pulsed in answer; it wanted to sing and to be claimed.

"Do not yank it," she warned, voice low. "If it's integrated, pulling could trigger something. Pry the seam—careful cuts, not brute force. I'll hold its balance."

She shifted, taking a position that protected Scherezade's flank without blocking her movements. Her blade whirred in a tight, disciplined circle, deflecting the Guardian's counterstrikes and absorbing their force into the ground. Quietly, inexorably, she watched the construct's pattern, ready to close the gap again if it tried to recover.

"When you have it, move back. I'll clear a path," she added, softer now, steady as a promise. "We get the fragment and we leave. No trophy-hunting. No standing around looking impressed. Understood?"

Her eyes flicked once more to the runed chest as Scherezade's blades worked and the fragment's glow dimmed under careful pressure. The green of Iandre's saber burned steadily in the dust-smeared air—a calm center amid sparks and metal—and for the first time since the Guardian rose, the battle felt like something they could close cleanly, together.

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

Scherezade snorted at the warning. Careful cuts, not brute force. "Yeah, yeah, I got it," she snorted, though the gleam in her eyes said otherwise.

She darted in, blades flashing quicksilver arcs, carving against the seams Iandre had exposed. Sparks scattered in rhythmic bursts. Molten lines of scoring marked her progress as she worked closer to the pulsing blue heart. The Guardian's movements grew more erratic now, its heavy frame groaning under the precise dismantling. Each strike it threw was met with a blur of twin daggers and a flicker of telekinetic push, deflecting staff blows by mere centimeters.

"I'm being gentle!" she called over her shoulder, just as another swing missed her by the breadth of a breath. "Gentle-ish!" Another breath, "Gentler than usual!"

Force, she hated fighting droids. Though the two were fighting with both metal'ish blades and lightsabers, it all sounded like nails down a blackboard to Scherezade.

Her daggers bit again, and this time one caught on something solid. The fragment's glow surged brighter, flooding the room in searing blue light that painted every edge in ghostfire. Scherezade froze mid-motion, pupils contracting. For a heartbeat, she swore she could hear the thing. A moment later, it was gone.

Then the Guardian screamed, a pressure that slammed into the mind. The runes along its body flared white-hot, and it swung its staff in a wide, sweeping arc.

"Sithspit, that's new!" Scherezade gasped, throwing herself sideways. The shockwave caught her mid-roll, hurling her into the far wall. She landed hard, breath knocked out but grin still plastered across her face.

The fragment pulsed again, angry now. The Guardian's chest split wider along the seam she'd opened, light pouring from within.

There were still Iandre's words. When you have it, move back. I'll clear a path.

Fine, she would heed that part of her words. But the bit about not yanking it? Too late. An instant later Scherezade moved fast enough for her motions to look like a blur, and she yanked the damn thing out of the droid's chest. Her fingers curled around the fragment, ignoring where its sharp edges cut through her flesh, and jump backwards, just late enough to be caught mid-motion by the droid who rammed right into her.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The moment the fragment tore free, the Force rippled like a storm front. Iandre felt it wash through her—hot, electric, dangerous. The Guardian's scream wasn't just sound; it pressed into her thoughts like a wave of static. She absorbed it, grounding herself through breath and the steady hum of her saber.

The green blade swept up, deflecting a wild strike that sent sparks raining between them. She moved without panic, every motion measured and deliberate—control layered over instinct.

"Easy, Scherezade," she said calmly, her tone warm even as the ground shook beneath them. "You've got it—good work. Now we have to make sure it doesn't take offense to the theft."

Her hand flicked out, sending a pulse of Force energy toward the Guardian's chest—not an attack, but a stabilizing push to redirect the backlash. The construct reeled, light spilling through widening cracks.

Iandre stepped in beside Scherezade, igniting a faint protective shimmer between them as the next shockwave hit. "Stay close," she murmured, steady and encouraging. "I'll hold the line; you keep that fragment secure. We'll end this together."

The Guardian staggered again, its power unraveling with a keening metallic cry. Iandre's saber spun in slow, circular defense, her movements smooth and almost graceful—the calm to Scherezade's vibrant chaos.

A small smile tugged at her lips even as dust rained down around them. "Remind me to let you handle artifact retrievals more often," she added lightly, eyes flicking to her companion. "You certainly know how to make them exciting."

Her blade lifted once more, steady as a heartbeat, holding the collapsing machine at bay while the last of the fragment's energy flared—two forces, different in rhythm, perfectly balanced in the chaos.

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

The droid had successfully rammed into her, sending her flying backwards, losing her balance, and splatting on the floor. Still the fragment was in her hand, her flesh cut and open because of it, bleeding around it. It didn't matter. Iandre sent her Force Push at the droid, keeping it from coming to attack Scherezade while she seemed to be mostly preoccupied with making sure the fragment was in her hand rather than show any level of self-preservation.

Scherezade wheezed out a laugh from her place on the floor when she realized the scene. "Exciting's one word for it! I was going for graceful archaeological precision!" she shot back, already tucking the shard into one of her belt compartments and wiping her blood on her thigh. The fragment's blue light still pulsed against her side, its blue flair dimmed through the fabric of her armour, but still there, easy to see.

She rose with a quick roll of her shoulders, lightsabers flicking back to life. The Guardian, though faltering, wasn't done. It dragged its staff through the floor, molten grooves hissing in its wake as it struggled upright. Its remaining eye locked on them, brighter than before, fuelled by fury and pain. Iandre had told her that she would be keeping the line, but Scherezade wasn't sure her assistance wouldn't be needed.

"C'mon, you overgrown scrapheap motherkrakker!" she antagonized the guardian, "Let's make it a proper sendoff!"

The Guardian's next swing came in a flash of green and gold light, telekinetic energy amplifying every strike, but the Sithling wasn't looking anymore. Perhaps Iandre took care of the next steps of the fight, perhaps not. But chunks of ceiling began to drop. One massive slab came loose just above Iandre. Scherezade didn't waste any time. She moved forward in a blur, arms flinging around Iandra to grab her, and drag her with her into the shadow that had been just beneath the two of them.

It was one heart beat that lasted an eternity as time felt as though it had frozen over. The world folded. The light vanished. And for an instant, there was nothing but the press of the dark around them, its own pulse slow, almost lazily so. Threads of shadow stretched out in every direction, invisible paths woven through the Force, humming with quiet, ancient power. Scherezade could see them in the same way one feels gravity, or the moment before a storm breaks and the smell in the air changes.

Space twisted, weightless and fluid, as if they were being drawn through veins of night. Impact came as time ticked back into its own usual pace, reality slammed back into place with a rush of air and sound and motion. Scherezade pulled herself and Iandre out of a different shadow on the opposite end of the room they'd just been in, the shadows slipping off of them like oil, leaving no trace they'd ever been there.

The Guardian's staff crashed down where they'd stood seconds before, pulverizing the floor into molten shards. Scherezade didn't let go of Iandre until she was sure the ground beneath them was solid again.

"See?" she wheezed, grin wild and breathless. "Graceful. Totally graceful."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre blinked once as the world snapped back into place.

The shadows peeled away around them like water draining off stone, leaving the cavern's cold air rushing in to fill the vacuum where nothingness had been. She felt her boots settle against the floor—solid, unmoving—and only then did she exhale, slow and controlled, her pulse settling even faster.

Scherezade's arms were still around her. The green light of her saber cast faint glimmers along the Sithling's cheekbones.

"…That was not what I meant by keeping to precision," Iandre murmured, breath steady despite the adrenaline singing softly beneath her skin. "But—"

Her gaze lifted to the Guardian's staff now embedded in stone where they had stood seconds earlier.

"—it was effective."

She stepped back only when she was certain Scherezade was fully upright, hands gently but firmly bracing her shoulders for one last heartbeat before letting go. Concern flickered through her eyes—not alarm, but a quiet, assessing warmth.

"Are you hurt?" A subtle glance at the cut hand answered the question, and she added, "We'll handle that after this."

Then she turned toward the Guardian.

What remained of the ancient construct dragged itself free of the fractured stone, molten grooves hissing beneath its weight. Sparks cascaded from its core where the fragment had been torn free, the runes along its armor flickering like dying stars.

Iandre's stance shifted—one foot sliding lightly back, her saber held low in a flawless Makashi guard.

Calm. Centered. Exact.

"Its systems are destabilizing. It's running on anger and instinct now." She glanced sidelong at Scherezade, a faint, wry curl to her lips. "If you can keep it focused on you for a moment, I'll disable the joints in the legs. Precision, not force…I promise."

A beat. A soft, almost teasing addition:

"And for the record? That was graceful. In your own… chaotic way."

Her blade came up, green light humming like a steady heartbeat.

"Ready when you are."

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

Was she hurt? Scherezade automatically shook her head, used to giving that as an answer every time someone asked. Only then did she remember that her hand was still bleeding from the cuts granted to her by the fragment. At least that little douche was still firmly in her pocket, not cutting her flesh. It wasn't anything she couldn't handle though, the fight could continue.

Iandre resumed her fight with the guardian, asking her to keep it focused on her. Scherezade grinned. That was easy.

She smiled at Iandre's compliment and immediately refocused herself on the battle.

"Hey!" she screamed at the guardian, "Yes, you!" she continued, thumping her fists against her chest, "you rust-eaten, runically-malformed, half-a-warden, half-a-wobbling-pile-of-ancient-scrap metal! I'm talking to the oversized, bangly-built, Jawa-cursed, battery-leaking, molten-eyed excuse for a sentient paperweight!"

She jumped from her place, aided by the Force to crawl on the walls of the room as she continued flinging insult after insult at the damned machinery, not even looking back to see what was happening.

"Haul your oil-soaked, bantha-breathed, rancor-humped chassis over here! I'm standing very still and very loud so even your outdated, moth-eaten targeting system can figure out where I am!"

Well no, she wasn't standing… But it was the thought that counted, right?

"Come on, you glitter-immune, Force-damned, temple-breaker waste of durasteel! COME HIT ME!"

And with that, she finally landed on the floor, boots squeaking, and looked at Iandre to see where they were at. If needed, she had a lot more choice-words to use for the but heap of metal.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The moment Scherezade began barking insults up the wall like a one-woman demolition crew, Iandre felt the corner of her mouth lift—not quite a smile, but the closest she ever showed in the middle of a fight. Her green blade slid into another tight arc, catching the Guardian's next strike and twisting it aside.

"Effective," she murmured dryly as Scherezade called it a battery-leaking, rancor-humped paperweight. "Loud… but effective."

And effective it was—the Guardian's molten eye snapped away from her and locked onto the Sithling scrambling across the wall like chaos given legs. The ancient machine emitted a grinding snarl, its runes flaring with irritated heat.

Good.

Iandre stepped into the newly opened angle, her blade carving a clean, diagonal cut into the weakened seam Scherezade had created. The Guardian staggered, metal screaming.

"Keep its attention," she called toward Scherezade—not a command, but an encouragement. There was a steady, unshaken warmth beneath the words. "You're doing—remarkably well."

Another insult from Scherezade landed with all the subtlety of an orbital strike, and Iandre actually huffed a quiet laugh under her breath.

"I don't think even General Skywalker could curse like that…"

The Guardian roared and swung toward Scherezade again, giving Iandre exactly what she needed. She slid in low, lightsaber carving another precise line along its core. Sparks erupted, and the machine stumbled heavily to one side.

But her focus flicked, just briefly, toward her companion.

Scherezade's hand was still bleeding.

"Your hand," Iandre said, blocking another blow without even looking. "After this—let me see to it."

It wasn't an order.
Just calm, steady concern.

The Guardian reeled again, its movements growing sluggish as the runes across its armor sputtered. Iandre advanced with controlled steps, each strike placed precisely where it needed to be—nothing wasted, nothing hurried.

"Stay with me," she added, voice firm but warm. "We end this together."

She lifted her blade, ready for the final exchange.

"And Scherezade—"

A beat. Dry. Perfectly serious.

"If you run out of insults, I'm certain I can contribute."

Her tone made it sound like a promise.

Scherezade deWinter