Private Naboo Evening

[Ra'a'mah]

The soft glow of Naboo's evening filtered through the office windows, casting long lines across the polished floor. Ra'a'mah Numare rose slightly as Kei entered, eyes calm and attentive. Vincet had escorted him personally, ensuring a smooth, unobtrusive arrival.

"Kei Amadis," she said, voice warm but measured. "It's good to meet you. I am Ra'a'mah Numare." She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk, inclining her head. "Please, have a seat."

"Vincent tells me you're looking for my husband. I would like to hear more about what brought you here—and, of course, make you comfortable while you speak."

Reaching for a small tray at the side, she lifted two glasses. "A drink? Something simple, before we begin?" Her tone was polite and professional, carrying a subtle ease, a signal that the conversation could be direct without being cold.

She settled back slightly, hands folded loosely atop the desk, gaze steady on him. "I will share what I can. I ask only that you exercise the same discretion, given the circumstances."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

Helmet by his side but ever in armor even here, darker than before, and well-battlescarred. Amadis fixated on Kashyyyk, nothing else in mind. He tried to grin, but it wasn't there. Instead a firm nod to the offer of a drink and his reason for being here, "Thank you. I am." Simple and blunt.

Discretion "My word." Never broken. An unspoken request for the same given all that had happened to them. Drinking a gulp of any offered beverage, not hesitating to consider if it was genuine refreshment.

"Years on the move, things have changed." An understatement. The galaxy never stops turning, for him or anyone else.

Deals had been agreed to supply his forces with ships and weapons, making him self-sufficient and also cut off by the nature of his work. Galactic powers rose and fell like always, Amadis was out of touch.

"Don't trust myself." He answered honestly, a surprising admission out of the blue. Silence hung. Scratching his stubble, his hand rested on a scar under the bristles.

"When those who burned Kashyyyk are in chains. Someone else needs to judge them." Amadis had looked for someone he thought would do a better job. Impartial. Uncorrupted. Not in the fight that day. A man he believed was above reproach. Kei massacring a hotel was far from justice; stopping a prison break was closer. Either way, it shouldn't be him who decides the fate of his captives as they are found.

Prison Ships. Grim. Necessary to stay on the move. Did she have any reports of his activities, or had he done a good job of keeping them off the grid?

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra studied him quietly, the weight of experience in her gaze meeting the steadfastness in his posture. Her hands rested lightly on the edge of the desk, fingers brushing a data pad but leaving it untouched.

"You are searching for Josh Dragovalor," she said evenly, voice calm but deliberate. "I will not pretend that I do not know why you are here, or why discretion must guide every step of that search. He is—was, is—a man whose movements and choices ripple farther than many realize."

Her eyes swept briefly toward the window, the city lights of Naboo reflecting softly in the glass, then back to him.

"You carry purpose, and yet you move carefully. That is wise. Finding him requires more than force of arms or notoriety; it requires patience, awareness, and the ability to see beyond what is immediate."

She inclined her head subtly, offering the faintest acknowledgment of respect. "I cannot give you everything freely. But I can offer perspective and guide you toward understanding which paths might intersect with him. The galaxy is quiet about some things, loud about others, and in both cases, knowing where to look is as valuable as knowing what to see."

A measured gesture brought a glass toward him, filled with amber liquid. "A drink. We can speak in practical terms and leave the rest aside. Josh's choices, his position, his networks—they touch more than you may yet know. And while I am not one to reveal everything, I can offer enough so that your efforts are not blind."

Her gaze held his, calm, measured, and deliberately open without pressing trust. "Shall we begin, Kei Amadis? There is much to discuss, and some things that may yet prove useful in finding him."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

Kei nodded once, firm. Her words stirred. He had once carried patience. Age and love for family and home had tempered a young warrior into a near-immovable Jedi Master who moved with calm purpose.

Those days were gone.

His fingers tightened around the glass, accepting it with another nod. He had never wanted notoriety or fame. A thousand long-dead names burned brighter than his; the Jedi in him insisted it should be so.

What would they say when he faced them again?

Fool. Failure. Pity him. Darkness rose within his own verdict, finality, and judgment.

The glass threatened to crack in his grip. He grinned instead. He'd share a laugh with some of them. Drinking before the shards bit his palm and keeping the fragile structure whole. The grin faded. For the first time in what felt like an age, he reached into the Force and let it lead. Only to cut the feeling off. She had almost chipped something loose.

Begin. "Yes." Short. Certain. Final.

Networks and hidden ties would help. They might even end this without the brute force blood shedding he now carved through Mandalorian clans. Sensible, even humane, if they actually brought the guilty in alive without violence.

But he still had his integrity. He had built himself on Justice. So to be sure he stated.

"Asking nothing of you or him." There was no tomorrow for any of them fighting this. No good. No moral righteousness. Just cold Justice, and sometimes not even that.

He set the glass down. Amadis had died on Kashyyyk, his choice, and Kei wore the failure as General, Jedi, Husband and Father.

"His wisdom, or yours, takes a lifetime's worth of hard work and struggle to build." He faced her; she clearly held wisdom. "When it ends, however it ends, don't leave their fate in my hands." He almost asked her to judge him too. No point, he knew how this road finished: one day he would move a little slow, a little late, and a Mandalorian would get lucky.

Kei focused on the immediate. Finality. An absolute answer. She might still turn one hinge before the door slammed shut again.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah regarded Kei with a steady, composed gaze, her fingers lightly resting against the rim of her glass. The calm in her posture was deliberate, a mirror to his own restraint.

"You bear the weight of Kashyyyk as one should," she said quietly, her voice even and measured. "It is not easy to carry failure and responsibility together, and yet you have. That does not go unnoticed."

Her eyes softened fractionally, acknowledging both his grief and the honesty in his words. "Josh… he moves through the world guided by his own convictions, as you know. Your concern for him is warranted, but his path is his own. You may influence what you can, but judgment—true judgment—requires perspective beyond immediate circumstance."

She lifted her glass in a subtle gesture, though she did not drink. "The networks I maintain, the channels I oversee… they exist for clarity and control, not for coercion. The Dark Hand is one such tool—meant to observe, to guide, and when necessary, to intervene. It is never blunt; it is precise, deliberate."

Ra's gaze returned to Kei, unwavering. "I cannot make your decisions for you. I cannot act in your stead. But I can ensure you have the information, the insight, and the reach necessary to act with confidence. That is all I offer, and it is enough."

A faint, measured smile touched her lips. "You will not be left to navigate this alone, nor will you be forced to bear burdens not yours to carry. The consequences, the clarity, and the judgment—those remain with you. And when the moment comes, I trust your sense of justice will be the guide it has always been."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

Amadis exhaled, emotion rolling. Bear the weight—what weight when it was all dust and ash? A flash of fire, his cabin, the flashback quickly faded, but not quickly enough. His hand tightened around the glass before he forced the shaking to still, breathing slow lest it break.

"Perspective is what I lack." Decades of life lessons hadn't vanished in a tragedy; he knew that much. That's why he was here. Amadis could find it in the Force, but he wouldn't. Not for answers he'd only reject.

Not alone. She was kind—but that stung. He'd gone to the Jedi once, asked them at the Concord, and only a Mandalorian had answered. The irony hadn't been lost on him. Probably for the best. They'd been right to leave an old unknown fool to his own hunt. Shouldn't drag anyone else down. Even the man who'd answered him, he'd hesitated to put him at risk.

Ra'a'mah offered balance. Aid. A hand. Shadow or light, it didn't matter. It was a bridge. Her words settled something, not pushing him, but leaving the path open. The way he might've done for a padawan once, or a friend. It is enough. It was enough.

Amadis stood, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed out the window. One finger parted the curtain. "She would've liked it here." His eyes searched the horizon for something to hold onto. Avoiding responsibility for his captives. Unusual for a man who always led from the front, unless you understood what he was avoiding. Ending this meant admitting she was gone.

Kei looked down toward Ra'a'mah. "Lit my soul on fire. Every day." Every day she smiled and breath they shared. He stopped, breath catching before Amelia and Mathayus returned to memory. "Every moment was a gift." Quiet, his reflection in the glass hardened, weariness drawn tight by resolve. How many days had work taken him away, too many, he'd give everything up for one more day with her.

"And you trust me to make a fair choice?" He spoke to the glass, his reflection staring back, eyes darker, faint scars on his chin, neither Jedi nor Sith in his clothes. Just a soldier again. The path had come full circle, it felt like starting over. Alone, Kei's grin was faint and rough. Better that way than the first time. He let the curtain fall, covering his reflection, and turned fully, ready to hear how they might work together and bring the Empire the justice he sort.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah remained still, her posture deliberate, hands lightly folded in front of her. Her gaze followed Amadis for a moment, quiet and steady, taking in the weight he carried, the balance he sought.

"You have borne much," she said softly, her voice calm but weighted with subtle gravity. "Loss is not easily measured. Its shadows linger longer than we anticipate, yet you have stood, despite it, and faced what others could not. That alone is a testament to your resolve."

She inclined her head slightly, a quiet acknowledgment of both grief and purpose. "Perspective will come—not from forgetting, nor from seeking absolution, but from clarity in action. The choices you make now, guided by what remains, will define more than the past ever could."

Her gaze held his, unwavering, steady as stone. "You are not alone, Amadis. Guidance and counsel are offered when the path is unclear, yet the final step is yours alone. The strength to act decisively lies within you, as it always has. Let the past inform you, but do not allow it to bind you."

A measured pause allowed her words to settle, the silence between them charged with the weight of memory. "And to answer your question—yes, I trust you to make a fair choice. Not because the burden is light, nor because the consequences are diminished, but because fairness is forged from the integrity you carry. The memory of those you have lost—Josh, and all who mattered—shapes your sense of justice. It tempers judgment with humanity, even when the path is narrow. That memory is not a weight, but a compass. You have the capacity to judge with honor, to act decisively, and to apply what remains of the past without letting it dictate the outcome. The choice is yours, Amadis, and I trust it will be made rightly."

Her hands remained lightly folded, composed. "We move forward together—not because the burden is shared, but because understanding, precision, and foresight create the chance to act fairly, fully, and without compromise. That is the measure of what must be done."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

Ra'a'mah did this expertly. He couldn't hand off responsibility; his nature wouldn't allow it, and she didn't push, didn't lose that calm wisdom he'd once lived by. She didn't fall into emotion as he had. This unjudging calm forced him to choose for himself. An awkward, unwelcome agency reasserting itself.

"Right choice." There was a long pause. His hands locked behind his back, rigid but firm, an old soldier making stupid choices again. He met her eyes directly, a long, hard look. "Put the saber down and rest. Leave it all behind." His jaw braced hard. That was what Amadis would have said to himself. His life choices had cost him everything, and who was he to judge anyone? The Dark Jedi's motion stopped, like he'd sunk into the foundations.

When this was all that was left, that wasn't a choice.

"Don't carry it," Eyes on her, unwavering. "Not there yet." Throat tight, voice gravelly and strained. Honestly, he carried it in every heartbeat, but the soldier had a war to fight.

"How then?" The choice made, when the self pity abited, he moved into the chair facing her. "How do we move forward together?" All the paths he saw led to the same end. The trial, and the reckoning, he held to that because he saw no other road yet. "How do two people in a room, and one honest Mandalorian commander," and an honorable one at that, "make a people look at itself?" If that was even possible or the right choice, or was this just legendary stubborn Epicanthix hard-headedness.

Beyond punishing captives or a suicidal last stand on Mandalore, where he fought long enough for them to see. If there was another way, his weary mind and his heart were ready to listen.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah remained silent for a long moment after he finished speaking, her gaze fixed on him—not searching, not judging, simply present. The stillness that settled between them wasn't empty; it was deliberate, measured, a space for breath to return and purpose to find its footing.

"You ask how we move forward," she said at last, voice low, composed, yet carrying the weight of shared understanding. "Not through surrender, nor through defiance. Those paths you know too well—they only return to themselves. What remains, then, is the harder road. The one where action serves understanding, not vengeance."

She leaned closer, not intrusively, but with the calm precision of one who had long navigated fragile ground. "We begin by seeing the whole—what you fight for, not simply what you fight against. The Mandalorian, who still leads, even when weary. The people who still listen, even when disillusioned. The systems that bend because no one dares to shape them differently."

Her tone softened, but her gaze did not waver. "Two people in a room is where every movement begins. Change is rarely born in the open; it begins in conversation, in understanding, in the refusal to turn away. From that, we reach outward—to those who still remember what it means to serve, to protect, to rebuild. They need not be many, only resolute."

Ra's hands folded loosely before her once more, calm and centered. "You will not make them look inward by force, Amadis. You will do it by standing where no one else dares—between conviction and compassion. That is how people remember who they are."

Then, quieter, her voice dropped to a more personal tone. "The war you carry is not yet done—but perhaps it no longer needs to be fought the same way. Together, we find where to place the weight so that it no longer breaks us, but builds what must come next."

A faint breath passed between them—neither a promise nor an order, but an understanding. "So we begin there. You and I. With purpose, and with choice."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

She leaned closer, to serve, to guide, words that struck something in the old solider, a life built on duty. Kei listened.

"Decades we spent serving Kashyyyk. Surrounding worlds. Voss before that, Coruscant before that." His gaze shifted to the window. "Said never again." Said it too many times when leaving. Worlds fell, leaders shifted, and people were oppressed or burned.

But he listened. Because he saw the darkness a grasp away, something the old Kei would never have imagined.
"Not that they don't dare," he said quietly, "they've chosen their path." Scorched earth. Civilian and soldier alike.

"Asking…" His chest tightened, breath refused. He saw her again—them again—that quiet moment by the cabin's lake. Compassion for murderers. Butchers. How many times had he called them out now, chasing the fight and the death he should have had on Kashyyyk? Not really about the Mandalorians at all. Justice. Reform. Words spoken in cramped freighters and muddy trenches, over the bodies of their dead.

"To give up all I have left of my family," he murmured, voice steady but hollow. Hate was what remained. His eyes fixed, detached from the moment, almost recoiling. No compassion. But still, somehow, she'd made ground.

When he spoke again, his voice was firmer, that soldier's edge returning. "Mandalorians only respect strength."
It was the truth. Every one he'd met lived and died by it. To do what she suggested, that would take strength too. He'd respected more than a few Strong Jedi. Hearing of Caltin Vanagor 's death, one of the few who had defended Kashyyyk, hit home. That man had been a legend, too many gone.

Conviction. Compassion.

Amadis had conviction, and she had compassion. Might be enough to point toward something that mattered. He exhaled finishing his drink. "Got anything stronger?" A drink or an idea, both were welcome.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah inclined her head slightly, letting his words settle between them. She remained still, her posture deliberate—hands loosely folded, body composed—but her gaze carried a quiet intensity, acknowledging both the weight of his history and the edge of his resolve.

"For strength," she said softly, voice precise, "you will find it not only in what you wield, but in what you choose to endure. Conviction does not falter when tempered with compassion; it is honed, refined by clarity of purpose. Strength without direction becomes arrogance, and direction without strength becomes failure. The galaxy respects the former far more than the latter, though too often they are mistaken for one another."

She paused, letting the words sink in. Her golden eyes swept briefly toward the cabinet of spirits on the far side of the room. "As for something stronger"—a faint, knowing tilt of her lips—"I could offer a drink, or a plan. Both demand courage: the courage to see past immediate impulses, past pain, past the desire for retribution, and to act for what you hope to create. Both require patience, and both require honesty about what is left of you. That is the fortification the heart needs more than any bottle ever could."

Her gaze returned fully to him, steady and unwavering. "Mandalorians respect strength, yes—but not blind strength. They respond to clarity, decisiveness, and vision. Your family, your honor, your losses—they all inform the choices you make next. That is a kind of power, far rarer than any saber strike or military maneuver. It is the strength that endures beyond a single battle."

Ra'a'mah let her words linger, soft but firm. "If you want something stronger than what the bottle can offer, you must choose what to fortify yourself with—and who you will allow to help steady it. To endure the fight ahead, it is not enough to carry only conviction or only grief. Both must be tempered together, and wielded with intention."


She inclined her head once more, quietly, letting him absorb the weight of the advice. "The drink will warm your body, but this"—her eyes, her calm presence— "can steady your soul."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

Tension twisted in his gut. Heavy. A large part of him didn't want the respect of a butcher, or to become one. Mind flashed to some Kerrigan-series holovid Natoline had once hooked him on. Bolter in hand, tanks thrown, enemies clear. Easier days, cleaning up the galaxy, one righteous order at a time. Bad guys. Point and Shoot.

Now. He shook his head.

Wasn't in him to deflect. Not enough to carry conviction and grief. Well, he had them, and they took up a lot of room, but intention could be found, even as his identity was shaken.

"Burned everything you loved. All that you were. Everything you lived by. Foundation and Core." His voice stayed level, but there was an intensity to that stare that said it all. "What would you do?" A need for honesty, real honesty, he stayed locked on her golden gaze. Fist tightened under the armour, knuckles whitening against the table.

...

"Let's make the plan." Waiting a breath. "Won't stop till a better way's in front of me." The why or how could come later, compassion if it were ever possible. . "Planned to tell them we are hitting Mandalore. Loud and Often. Then hit somewhere else. Sensitive. Cut them slow. Sap something vital, a snowball they can't stop."

He knew where to begin. He'd done it before more than once.

But he was still here. Listening. Armor between them, yes, but here. Absorbing everything she'd said. Wanting the immediate answer to a problem too complex for force or flame to change.

"Another way." He rose again, revulsion tightening his shoulders, but the thought stuck. She'd dragged him back to that old place, the one that never left. Ash and orders, the hollow ground where a life used to be. He let the image sit and didn't push it away.

"Find proof. Testimony. Ruined towns. Corrupt officers. Break their claim to honor. Force clans to choose between protecting criminals or protecting their name."

A short breath escaped him. Eyes on her. No flourish or hope dressed up as a plan. "They don't care enough." From what he'd seen, these were not the honorable Mandalorians of old—too much overreach and too little restraint. Truth was blunt; he saw no other course. Maybe she did?

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah held his gaze steady, letting the heat in his words burn out into the cool of the room. She did not flinch at the anger—she had seen it shape men into heroes and into monsters—and she did not try to soothe it away. She answered plainly, with the same precision she expected from anyone who would stand beside her.

"You speak like a man who has lost everything and will not accept a hollow answer," she said softly. "That anger is honest. It is useful. Let it not be the hand that steers the wheel."

She folded her hands once, composed. "If you intend to break them by open war—loud and often—know this: that path will take lives beyond those who deserve it, and it will deliver pyrrhic victories. It will harden the very thing you want to undo. I do not say this to deny you retribution; I say it because there are smarter, more lasting ways to remove a rot that has set in."

Her voice narrowed, deliberate. "You suggested another way yourself: proof, testimony, ruined towns, corrupt officers exposed. That is the right season to begin. Gather the facts. Protect the witnesses. None of this is glamorous. It is slow, methodical, and it strips away myth and cover. When the truth is irrefutable, the choice those clans must make becomes one between honor and complicity, and the public view changes the calculus of protection."

She let the syllables land, then offered the next layer. "Parallel to that: attack the sinews, not the head. Supply lines, financial conduits, diplomatic cover—these are replaceable, and they are also fragile. Disruptment hurts their capacity without turning every field into ash. Force them to move, to reveal, to make mistakes. When they do, the evidence grows. When evidence grows, so does leverage."

Ra's eyes sharpened. "There is also the political front. Trials, tribunals, publicized hearings—these are ugly and slow, but they change legitimacy. A captured commander paraded without proof becomes a martyr. A commander exposed with witnesses, records, and corroboration loses his name. Names matter. Honor is currency among them."

She allowed herself a slight, practical nod. "I have channels that find testimony and secure it. I have people who can keep witnesses safe long enough to tell a story. I can arrange for the careful revealing of facts at the moment it will do the most damage to their credibility. I will not pretend this is without risk. It is. But it is a way to use their own cultures against the corruption within them."

Her tone softened just a fraction. "You will need to accept that some of this work is not dramatic. It is paperwork, surveillance, the protection of frightened people, and the careful clipping of supply and influence. It is also the moment a once-proud house chooses to stand with the law rather than with a criminal. Those shifts are quiet until they cascade."

She met his eyes squarely. "If you want a plan that is not merely fire and counterfire, start with three things: secure irrefutable evidence; isolate the networks that protect them (money, logistics, political cover); and prepare a public exposure that forces clans to choose. I will assist where I can—providing networks, securing testimony, and timing exposures. I will not do the choosing for you."

Finally, quieter, almost private: "If you still decide the only acceptable end is a blade in the open, I will not stand in your way. But know what that road costs. If you choose the other path, we walk it together—slow, ugly, and effective. Decide which justice you want to leave behind, Kei. I will meet you where you choose to stand."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

"And in the end, if it doesn't change anything?" Amadis narrowed his eyes, still turned away but looking back. "Do all this and we are shouting at the wind?" Fatalism weighed heavy on those who experienced loss or all too much survivors guilt. A Jedi would accept it as the will of the force, or that small changes ripple across the galaxy to plant seeds. From the beginning, when the first republic broke from inaction, and all the battles since, it was why he'd retired to Kashyyyk until war had come looking for him.

Amadis looked at his fist under the armor. Open and closed, as if reaching and dropping a weapon. Knife edge, as he saw her red hair again, smiling, laughing, walking in his arms at the Cabin's lake, the smell of fresh bread. He exhaled, eyes closing.

I'll give it up. All of it.

He almost said. Almost.

"We do your plan. I'll gathers names, contacts, and witnesses, the displaced for the wider cause. We do it right. Quiet and calm." No cruel handling of prisoners, a strict code. He turned to face her and sat down again, meeting in the metaphorical middle. For anything else, "Limit my actions to those responsible for my wife's and children's death." As had been his original intent when this started. A lot of names and a big ship to go through. But he'd harm no other. At least he'd try.

"No drama, or flash, or campaign. Just justice. My word." And one day on him too.

She'd cooled his impulse, but the wound remained. Amadis took the armored glove off his palm and extended a hand.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra regarded his extended hand for a heartbeat, then closed the distance with the same calm precision she used in every decision. Her grip was firm, steady—an acknowledgement, not a promise to remove the weight he carried, but a pact to share the method.

"You keep your word, I will keep mine," she said simply, voice even and certain. "We do this quiet, and we do it right."

She loosened her hold and sat back, eyes still fixed on him. "First: your limitations are accepted. Target only those directly responsible for the crimes against your family. No public spectacles, no collective punishments. That code will be the boundary I expect you to honor—and the condition under which I will lend resources."

She folded her hands together, listing in calm cadence. "Second: practical steps. Give me names, dates, locations, any fragments of evidence you already possess. I will route secure channels to collect corroboration—witnesses, transaction records, movement logs—and place reliable custody chains around each piece so nothing can be easily discredited."

"Third: protection. Witnesses and displaced people must be relocated into safe custody until we can present their testimony. That requires secure safehouses, medical care, and legal cover where possible. I have contacts who specialize in that work. They will not be visible to your enemies."

"Fourth: disruption at the margins. While the evidence is gathered, we will quietly restrict their logistics—supply lines, payment conduits, and diplomatic cover—so their options narrow and mistakes grow. This is surgical, not theatrical; designed to force exposure rather than create martyrs."

She let the plan sit between them, then added, "Timing matters. We reveal only when the evidence is incontrovertible and the political moment magnifies its effect. That is when clans are forced to choose between honor and complicity."

Her gaze softened very slightly—no pity, only recognition of what he had given up and what he still carried. "You will not be alone in the field of paperwork, surveillance, or protection. I will provide channels and people. You provide the names and your oath to limit action. We move when the facts and the moment coincide."

She folded her hands once more. "One more thing: keep a single, secure ledger of what you share and with whom. Trust is fragile; proof of chain-of-custody will be our defense when they try to call this theater or fabrication. We will build that ledger together."

Ra's expression did not change; it was simply resolved. "If you agree to these terms, Amadis, we begin tonight. If you falter, tell me—and we will adjust. But you said it yourself: no drama, only justice. I will ensure the justice is as clean as we can make it."

Kei Amadis

 

[Kei Amadis]

Amadis clasped her hand, firm and deliberate. A soldier's handshake. And a respect in the silence that followed.

Evidence, Kei had gathered targets, and locations, at the barrel of a gun and worse. Hard facts pulled from terminals, lists of coordinates, prisoners locked aboard the Forgeship Tribunal or the silent Justice, as some knew the ship to be, ever waiting at the space between stars.

Letting go of her hand, he'd come for a handoff. She'd offered to work beside him, despite the risks. Ra wanted custody of the prisoners. That was what he'd come for; felt like giving a piece of himself up, of Elara and his children up. His nod was slow, letting go hard.

"Knew I'd come to the right woman. Felt it." He tried to grin but it never came. Weight had been lifted from his shoulders; the older Jedi eased his chest. Taking a deep breath, connected, calmed by her patience and the force, grief resting somewhere within it all. Using his wrist device he downloaded something from the holonet onto a datachip.

"83 Mandalorian prisoners. Names of two hundred out of two thousand." At least two thousand had been in orbit the day the ships fired. "Getting them out of Mandalorian is doable but holding them planetside puts a target on you."

He offered over his start of the bargain, that data.

"Some won't come quietly. No guarantees they won't try another prison break." Mandalorians were Mandalorians. She needed to hear that. "Proper facility, better conditions, keeping them mobile, they'll be secure." Better off than they were now cramped in holds aboard the tribunal.

Before he let go of the datachip.

Getting another long look of respect. "Sure you want this? Burden you don't have to carry." Force knows from what she was saying, she had enough things to juggle. "Don't see it earning you any friends. Except one."

If yes, he released it. If not, he grinned knowingly.

Either way Kei would meet her when she needed him.

Fin For Kei.

Ra'a'mah