D E S T I N E D
Hyperspace unraveled into stars with a sharp jolt, surrounding the N-100 Horizonblade in the stark emptiness of space. The swirl of blue and white had given way to reveal the harsh, rust-colored silhouette of Jakku looming in the viewport. Bastila sat forward in the pilot’s seat, eyes narrowing as the mottled sphere resolved into familiar contours; she instantly noted scorched dunes, fractured rock valleys, and the old scars of forgotten battles.
Her fingers hovered over the controls, hesitation creeping in before she deliberately began the descent sequence. She took a breath and pressed a series of buttons, the hum of the ship shifting as the inertial compensators softened the subtle lurch while the vessel dipped and slipped into a flight pattern toward atmosphere.
Jakku.
She hadn’t said the name aloud, not even in thought. Not until now.
To the Jedi it was considered a place of solitude. One of clarity and reflection. But not for Bastila Sal-Soren. To her, it had been years of dust in her lungs, sweat down her spine, and silence where there should have been answers. Training here had been grueling; not because of the environment, but because it never truly felt like anyone wanted her to succeed.
And now she was coming back, even if not entirely willingly.
The ship sliced through cloud cover. Lightning flickered on the horizon, dancing over distant wreckage, rusted hulls of forgotten ships half-swallowed by dunes. Below, the sky turned ochre, the wind dragging pale streamers of sand like smoke through the air. She had to admit, it was beautiful in its own indifferent way.
She guided the ship toward a distant plateau, the lithe and sleek build cutting through the air with ease until it found the crescent-shaped structure nestled between eroded cliffs. The Jakku Enclave. Built into the rock, shaped like part of the land itself. Discreet, defensive, and somehow always watching.
Bastila exhaled slowly, as though breathing out something old that refused to leave on its own.
The landing struts touched down with a hiss, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the descent.
Her reflection stared back from the viewport. She took it in, all of it. She looked older than she had when she left; not in years, but in the weight being carried behind those eyes.
Time to see if anything's changed.
The dry air met her like a challenge the moment the cockpit canopy hissed open. It was an oppressive heat, one that sucked all the moisture out of your body the second it had the chance.
She stood and removed her lightsaber from its control mechanism in the ship, rendering it completely inert to anyone without the Force. Her cloak, deep mahogany in color, fell into place over her red and brown leathers most accustomed to the pilots on Naboo. Bastila had taken to wearing it since her return there, something about its comfort and quiet recognisability had stuck with her.
The landing pad was eerily silent. No Jedi waited to greet her on arrival. She put that down to transmitting her access codes upon entering the system. She wasn’t seen as a threat and so was allowed to land. Still, she found the quiet unnerving as she moved down the landing pad alone.
That was, until whirring servos filled the air, followed by clanking metallic steps. It clashed horribly with the stillness, but also; somehow put her mind at ease.
Then came that same old modulated voice, unbothered by years or shifting assignments.
“Padawan Bastila. Or is it Knight now? You’ve grown taller. That’s either from maturity or stubbornness. Unclear.”
She blinked into the sunlight as a bronze-plated protocol droid approached, joints creaking just as she remembered. A thin trail of sand followed its feet, and one of its photoreceptors flickered faintly.
“Hello, T-9,” she said, voice low but with a trace of amusement. “Still Padawan. You still talking too much?”
“Consistent functionality is a virtue,” the droid replied, puffing its torso plating with mechanical pride. “Unlike Jedi ranks, which are reassigned so frequently I’ve stopped updating my protocol database. One moment you’re a Padawan, the next you’re gone, then you return looking... moody.”
She raised a brow. “Moody? I’m not…”
“...Moody? Counterexamples available upon request.”
Bastila muttered something unintelligible, flustered by a droid she found both annoying and amusing in equal measure. “Let’s just... get on with it.”
“As you wish,” it said with a servo-hitch of a bow. “The Council wishes to inform you that they will not be taking your audience today. However, the Council chamber has been prepped, as others are... waiting.”
Of course they were. She hadn’t expected a warm welcome; not really, but the phrasing made her stomach twist.
“Wait, others?” she queried.
“Master Trozky is awaiting you,” T-9 announced, almost chipper.
Her stomach bottomed out. A pit of dread opened in her gut, sharper than she’d felt in years. For a moment, she was ready to dive back into the Horizonblade and take off, never look back. She’d tell Briana it wasn’t worth it, that ghosts were best left buried beneath the dunes.
“What is he doing here?” The desperation in her voice slipped through, but T-9 didn’t seem to notice.
“Master Trozky is a standing Council member. He has every right to be here,” the droid replied, apparently delighted to be clarifying.
Bastila forced herself to calm. It wasn’t Dominic, it couldn’t be. It would be his brother, which wasn’t so bad or at least that was her thoughts as they walked side by side through the sun-blasted outer walkways, the Enclave emerging from behind sandstone ridges. The old archways. The wind-chimes hung from narrow posts. The echo of training sabers in the distance.
It all came back too fast.
T-9 paused. “If I may, Bastila... it’s not the same place you left. The people change. Even the sand.”
She glanced at him. “Except for you, apparently.”
“I am an institution,” the droid replied. “And you, young Jedi, are a story half-finished.”
His hand gestured toward the carved stone door, the threshold she’d crossed before, but never like this.
