Private No Memory of Mine

[Indra Quin]

The moon hung low over Theed, silver and watchful. The wind moved like a whisper through the colonnades of the Temple complex, stirring ivy and shadow in equal measure. Indra moved with it.

She was back in black — the helmet sealed, her silhouette sleek and anonymous. The pain of the masquerade still pulsed like a bruise beneath the surface, but she'd sealed it under armour and silence. There would be time to bleed later. Now was for answers.

The Jedi living quarters were quiet at this hour, their inhabitants settled in meditation or sleep. Indra knew the rhythms — she had studied them. Not just the security systems, not just the sensor pulses or passcodes… but the people. Their habits. Their patterns.

Ala's door was on the third level. Quiet corner. No neighbors within five meters. High probability she wasn't even home — at least not tonight. Not with the Five Veils investigation in full swing. Perfect.

Indra slipped through the upper ventilation channel, fingers gliding silently along the panel edge as she disabled the motion sensors just long enough to drop down into the hallway.

No alarms. No witnesses. She moved like smoke to Ala's door. Paused. Scanned. Then—Click.

The lock disengaged with a soft chirp. The door slid open. Indra stepped inside.

She didn't speak. She didn't breathe too loudly. But her eyes, behind the visor, flicked everywhere at once. She wasn't here to destroy. Not yet. She was here to understand.

| Balun Dashiell |​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

NO MEMORY OF MINE
INVENTORY: Jedi Robes, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol
TAGS: Indra Quin

Evenings at the Temple were often the hardest for Balun. Though the halls were serene and the architecture beautiful, his thoughts seldom stayed grounded in the present. He had spent the past week quietly searching for a property near Theed, but the endeavour had proven frustrating. Nothing quite suited both his standards and the needs of his son. Theed was, without question, a gem of Naboo—elegant, refined, and governed by democratic ideals that upheld peace and prosperity. But that beauty came with a cost. Property values were steep, and Balun, ever deliberate, refused to compromise on a home that wouldn't offer the security and stability Kellan deserved.

Now, hours into the night, he lay sprawled across his bed, eyes tracing the ceiling as though searching for answers in the lines of plaster above him. His thoughts drifted to Joiol—his real home—and to the family waiting there. Kellan was currently staying at the estate with his brother Makai and sister-in-law Myra, playing day in and day out with their daughter, Pheobie. The two children were of a similar age and grew up more like siblings than cousins. Though grateful for their care, Balun missed the sound of his son's laughter echoing through the stone corridors of the renovated cottage he had made his own at the rear of the Dashiell estate, nestled in the quiet sanctuary of Tirtha Cove.

Sitting up at last, he ran a hand down his face and exhaled heavily. Too many thoughts for rest, too many roles to juggle. Jedi. Father. He needed clarity, and only one person came to mind. Ala Quin . The journey they'd taken together in the bongo had forced a closeness, a shared space that left little room for pretence. In some ways, it had made these conversations easier, and now, despite the late hour, Balun felt compelled to speak with her.

He pulled himself from bed, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and belted his lightsaber and blaster to either hip—precautionary, more than anything else. Even on Naboo, comfort could never lead to complacency. If nothing else, the weapons might see use in a late-night training session to clear his head before sleep.

The senior quarters in the Shirayan Temple were more private than the student dormitories. Unlike the younger initiates, who were assigned shared rooms to foster camaraderie, the upper ranks were afforded solitude. It reminded Balun somewhat of his younger years on Coruscant, back when the Jedi lived and trained together—but here, the Temple's occupants didn't quite claim to be an Order. Not officially.

As he approached Ala's door, he noticed it hadn't been fully closed. The entrance stood slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the corridor. He paused, glancing around as though expecting someone to return and shut it. No one came.

"Ala?" he called softly, lingering just outside. He didn't want to intrude, even now. "Your door's open. Are you in? I… I need to talk to you. About my training—sorry to call this late," he added with a quiet urgency, hoping she'd understand that this wasn't just about lightsaber forms or meditation techniques.

This was about balance—between the life he was meant to lead and the one he was already living.

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Indra Quin]

The room was quiet. Still.

Indra moved like a shadow through the darkened quarters, every step measured, silent. The only light came from the data display on Ala Quin's desk, dimmed to its lowest setting, casting soft glows across a shelf lined with relics, datapads, and paperbound journals.

She had already slipped past the security system, rudimentary, by her standards, and picked through half a dozen drawers. A strand of hair wrapped in a silk ribbon. A broken kyber crystal shard. A holo of a younger Ala in a place Indra didn't recognize.

None of it meant anything. Not yet. But maybe, if she took enough pieces, she could put together a whole.

She slipped a folded note into the pouch slung at her hip. Then a datastick. Then a tiny, hand-sketched star map with childish handwriting in the margins. A memory that didn't belong to her, but she couldn't stop reaching.

Her gloved hand hovered over the last item, fingers twitching…when she heard it.

Footsteps. A voice, low and unfamiliar. "Ala? Your door's open. Are you in?" Indra froze.

The name struck like a bell. She moved swiftly, instinct snapping her toward the wall just beyond the doorframe, where the light didn't reach. Her breath slowed. Her presence hidden from the Force like a dying ember.

The voice was unknown to her. But anyone seeking the Jedi was a problem for Indra.

She slipped the last item into her pouch without sound. Her eyes remained on the doorway, tracking every shift of shadows for a silhouette.

She said nothing. Not yet. She wanted to see what he would do next.

| TAG: Balun Dashiell |​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

NO MEMORY OF MINE
INVENTORY: Jedi Robes, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol
TAGS: Indra Quin

It was strange—too strange—for the door to Master Ala Quin's quarters to be left ajar while she was nowhere to be seen. Balun stood outside for a moment longer, frowning as he rapped his knuckles lightly against the metal frame. No answer. No movement. Not even the hum of conversation or the gentle flow of music she sometimes enjoyed. Unless she was wearing a headset and deeply engrossed in something, it just didn't sit right with him.

"I'm not sure if you're in there, Ala, but I'm coming in. Hope you're decent," he called out, his voice carrying the kind of half-joking warning one gives to avoid startling someone.

Still receiving no response, Balun stepped through the threshold, guided less by curiosity and more by concern—if someone was in her room and she wasn't aware of it, that was something he couldn't ignore.

The room was quiet, eerily so. No shifting cloth, no drawn breath, no telltale presence. His boots made the softest of sounds against the floor as he moved to the centre, casting his eyes briefly along the walls. He didn't focus on the details—didn't admire the decor or personal touches—just searched for anything, anyone, out of place.

His gaze flicked across the bed, still made, then scanned to his right. A door stood closed in that direction, and as he pivoted on instinct, his back turned away from the entry just behind him. Unbeknownst to him, a figure had moved silently to his left and now stood just behind him in perfect stillness, like a shadow that had detached itself from the wall.

Something in the air shifted.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose in silent alarm, the prickle of intuition sliding like cold water down his spine. His right hand crept upward, fingers twitching as they neared the hilt of his lightsaber—subconscious, defensive, trained behaviour.

He turned. First his head, then his shoulders, eyes scanning across the entry he had come through. But it was when he glanced toward the dim recesses near the corner that he finally saw her.

A silhouette, half-consumed by shadow and cloaked in darkness where the glow panels didn't quite reach. A woman, still, silent, watching.

"Who the—" he started, only to cut himself short.

The fact that this figure had made no sound, had hidden herself in the corner of the room, sent every instinct within him screaming. A surge of adrenaline struck like lightning down his nerves. In one swift motion, he ripped the hilt free from his belt, igniting it with a sharp snap-hiss.

The vibrant orange blade burst to life, casting a molten glow across the floor and casting stark shadows across the walls. The illumination shone against her silhouette, revealing slightly more against the shadow—familiar now, but just barely.

"...Wait. Ala?"

"Speech".
'Thought'.​