Private Missing Pieces

[Amani Serys]

Dubrava
Bernard of Arca

For once, Amani thought, it would be nice to travel somewhere that didn’t have some sort of uncomfortable climate-related proviso involved. Even though at the end of the day, the mirialan knew she would go where she was needed, and if they all happened to be arid deserts and muggy swamps, then so be it. Didn’t mean she couldn’t complain about it from time to time.

Not that it was exactly a surprise, either. Tropical environments like those found here on Dubrava were hotbeds for disease, and these smaller settlements often found themselves lacking as far as medical aid goes; A problem that was very much driven home by Amani’s lack of experience (and official practitioner’s license, for that matter).

Weaving between the numerous passersby along the tight canal walkways was a feat second nature by now. She pushed her way into one of the town’s smaller stilt houses, presenting a small bottle of medication to the residents inside, “This is, um, all we have left.” The mother of the house snatched it away, though not without a nod of gratitude, and administered the first dose to her sick child. “I’m sorry. I’m doing what I can to find more.” With a weary attempt at a reassuring smile, Amani took her leave. There was nothing left to be said, and they both had more pressing matters to attend to.

Only after making it back to her own dwelling did Amani realize how worn she had become, throwing herself back in the nearest chair for just a few precious moments without distraction.

 

[Bernard of Arca]

Half a dozen wupiupi rained onto the counter of the Dubravan cantina owner. The man, somewhere in his later fifties and sporting a typical orange jumper, stopped shining the glass he was holding and peered over to the stranger who'd walked into his establishment.

<What'll it be?> He asked.

<Information,> the stranger replied.

He had a more refined look to him. The clothes he wore, most prominently a sturdy grey-blue all-weather poncho, didn't bear the mud and grime of the swamps, and his huttese carried the tell-tale dialect of the core worlds.

<Name your question and I'll name the price,> the owner said.

<Your, uh, medicine folk,> Huttese had a peculiar blank where the word 'healer' should be, <where can I find them?>

The cantina owner gave a warm laugh.

<Don't have to pay me to get directions. Good sense to try business first, though. Come to the Outer Rim often?>

<Often enough to have picked up a few of the customs, I suppose.>

<Fair enough, Core-worlder. Follow the street left for a while, then up the river. Last hut you'll find,> the owner said, scooping up the coins.

<A pleasure doing business.>

<Credits're always welcome.>

---

Bernard considered for a moment whether he should hide the lightsabre on his belt. Usually, the weapon carried with it a weight that made negotiations more navigable, especially with more impressionable and inexperienced criminals. However, there were always the spare few who saw the display of such a weapon as a direct challenge. There were few items as polarizing as the blade of a Jedi. Whatever sentiment it evoked also extended to the person bearing it, be they Jedi or not.

For the most part, Bernard avoided keeping the hilt visible, especially in the Outer Rim, but he feared that without it he might be mistaken for a patient too impatient to wait their turn for treatment and be turned away immediately. The conditions in the town hadn't escaped him. He didn't have to look far to find evidence of squalor and, no doubt, the disease that came with it. Years in the underbelly of Coruscant had taught him the lessons of what poverty wrought. Each visit beyond the Core showed just how much the lower levels were a melting pot of life in the Outer Rim.

He stepped up to the door of the hut the cantina's owner had described and knocked. More often than not the peddlers of stolen medical supplies turned out to be more amiable to a conversation with a Jedi than they were the interrogation of a Marshal. With a bit of luck, that would be the case here as well.

Amani Serys ​

 

[Amani Serys]

Bernard of Arca

There was a knock, and a considerable pause as Amani contemplated on just acting like she wasn’t home. Unfortunately, being the only healer in town was a full-time responsibility, and leaving the rapping at the door unattended would only serve to bother her more. Amani built up the motivation to push herself out of the chair, trudging over to the entrance at a meandering pace, “If you’re here for a prescription, I told you that I will deliver it to you.” She peeked out, the door held ajar by a cheap chain lock installed from her side.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t hard to notice a newcomer outside her clinic. Even disregarding the obvious physiological differences between him and most of the folk on Dubrava, there were other factors that clued Amani in on his identity. Enough time on her own made them easy to spot: The clean clothes, the way he carried himself even. And of course, the telltale lightsaber that gave it all away. Not careless. Deliberate. She had been in positions all too similar to his in the past; If he was brandishing that hilt out here, he must have had a reason for it.

And that usually meant trouble.

“Do I know you?” She played coy. Suspicion lingered on the healer’s words, but she avoided injecting any hostility in their interaction. She was, after all, here to help.

 

[Bernard of Arca]

No answer came for several long moments. Bernard shifted on his feet. If no one was home he'd have to find another way to confirm his suspicions. He didn't want to spend more time than he had to in the Outer Rim. Too many parties that liked to see Jedi dead roamed the region, and he'd already taken a change by wearing his lightsabre openly. Trespassing through another entrance was a quick and easy way to get at the evidence, but the legality, and ethical implications, of breaking into the house of a healer were murky at best. Marshal training hadn't covered operations in neutral space very thoroughly, and the Jedi Code was curiously silent on the topic of forced entry.

He glanced side to side, studying the building and all its entryways, but a voice from inside quickly convinced him to stop.

“If you’re here for a prescription, I told you that I will deliver it to you,” a brief pause settled and the door rattled.

The door opened to reveal blue eyes staring out with something that quickly turned to suspicion.

"Oh. Do I know you?”

"I don't believe we've met before. My name is Bernard, I'm a Jedi with the New Jedi Order of the Galactic Alliance, would it be possible to talk for a moment? Inside, preferably," he said, tone unassuming and laced with a friendly note.

It wasn't technically lying if he told a truth. Just not the most pertinent truth.

He had kept a respectable distance between himself and the door, held both hands folded over one another in front of him, and kept his expression neutral. It was his best attempt at a convincingly unthreatening, but firm appearance.

Amani Serys ​

 

[Amani Serys]

Bernard of Arca​

"I don't believe we've met before. My name is Bernard, I'm a Jedi with the New Jedi Order of the Galactic Alliance, would it be possible to talk for a moment? Inside, preferably,"

Amani raised her brow high at the tall figure. The idea that anything in this unassuming backwater village, on this unassuming backwater planet, could be of interest to the NJO was worthy of suspicion in and of itself. But out here, there seemed to always be more than meets the eye, no matter where you looked. An aphorism that, in all likelihood, applied to the Jedi in front of her as well.

There was a pregnant pause, then a terse reply, “Alright.” Leaving a conspicuous Arkanian Jedi standing outside would only attract the attention of more prying eyes. And damn it if Amani wasn’t curious herself. She shut the door to unlock the chain, just as quickly reopening it to welcome her new visitor inside.

The impromptu clinic made up the majority of the building’s lone floor, with only a single other door leading to a room on the far wall. Furnishing was austere and practical: a cot for patients, a chair sat in the corner, and a counter underneath a collection of shelves. Half-filled supplies and medications were cluttered about in unsystematic fashion. Said lack of organization was hardly a priority of late. She knew where everything was, and that was all that mattered.

“So, Bernard…” She held the name between her teeth, as though searching for some hint of recognition in the syllables, but apparently finding nothing, “What brings an Alliance Jedi so far from the Core? Dubrava doesn’t strike me as your usual jurisdiction.” She leaned back against the counter, offering the lone chair with a gesture, “I can’t imagine you stopped all the way out here just to spend time with me.”

 

[Bernard of Arca]

He followed her inside, setting one hand on the closed holster of his blaster out of habit. A bad one he'd picked up after losing his connection with the Force. He'd relied heavily on it to sense oncoming danger. The nigh prophetic sense for sussing out ambushes had saved him more than a few times in his line of work. Now he relied on reflexes and suspicion. He didn't like what the latter was doing to his trust toward other beings.

A few steps into the room he paused to take in his surroundings. Marshal instincts made note of all the exits, and the Arkanian eye for detail, or more accurately the extended visible spectrum they could perceive, noted no apparent ambushes. He let himself relax a little, crossing his arms over his chest, and leaned against the far wall of the counter.

As far as organization went, he'd seen worse messes inside some of the Jedi Temple's quarters. Prioritizing practicality seemed prudent for the clinic. He didn't imagine life in the Outer Rim allowed for a lot of luxury that didn't serve a double purpose somehow. Not that he found any luxury inside the clinic.

His eyes lingered on some of the supplies for a few moments, searching for familiar markings, but his attention was drawn away before he could make any discoveries. The offer to sit was declined with a brief head shake.

"Dubrava usually isn't, but I've been on a chase through the Outer Rim, and it's landed me here. Turns out someone is making a hefty profit off of making Alliance medicine disappear in the Core so it can reappear out here, for hiked-up prices," he unhooked a datapad from his belt, tapping the device to pull up relevant data. "I've managed to intercept one of the sales manifests, Dubrava was on it, so I figured I'd stop by and see what the local medical community knows," he explained.

"As it so happens, that community comprises an extensive list of medical personnel starting with you and concluding, also, with you. So, yes, technically that's the case."

Amani Serys​

 

[Amani Serys]

Bernard of Arca
​

Amani took similar measures as the Jedi entered her abode. Trusting the wrong stranger was an all too common misstep, and out here, where everyone was a stranger, intuition was a necessity for survival. Her gaze darted across his figure with meticulous and unabashed intensity, ensuring no signs of threat came to pass.

Only once he began speaking did she release the building tension. Amani offered only a blank stare as she mentally unpacked the load of new information. After a beat, her eyes fluttered back to life, though the confusion carried on in her response, “...What?”

The healer moved close to get a peek at the datapad screen, wanting to see proof of his claims. “You don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?” She reproached, perhaps taking the implications of the circumstance a little too defensively. “I haven’t seen anything about any Alliance-owned medicine, if I had-” there was a pause. Would she have reported it to somebody? It wasn’t really a moral conundrum Amani had to address yet. Surely there was plenty of medicine to be found wherever you go in the Core. Out here, the people toiled for scraps. Would a little extra hurt? Though her time out here had evidently altered her perspective, the thought was quickly dismissed. If what he said was true, prices were being gouged, and the supplies weren’t being donated to the common folk anyway.

“Look, as you can see, I’m working with the bare minimum here. Hell, I’m skimping on my own medication because somebody else here needs it too.” She snatched up a prescription bottle with her name scribbled across the label, demonstrating the faint rattle of what few pills remained with a shake. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that the clinic at least appeared to be strapped for resources, even if Amani was a little heavy-handed in her denial. The high-strung healer had never really had a run in with the law like this.