WAYWARD
The rain had finally begun to break.
For nearly a week, heavy clouds had blanketed Naboo beneath an unrelenting downpour. Rivers that normally wound peacefully through the countryside had spilled far beyond their banks, swallowing roads, fields, and entire farming communities beneath muddy floodwaters. Quiet villages had become isolated islands connected only by rooftops and the occasional stretch of higher ground. Broken fences drifted with the current. Fruit orchards stood half-submerged. The rich farmland that fed generations now fought simply to remain above water.
The High Republic answered as quickly as it could.
Emergency crews, engineers, and relief convoys poured into the affected regions, but the scale of the disaster quickly exceeded what local authorities could manage alone. The Jedi Order responded without hesitation. Knights coordinated evacuations, Padawans distributed food and supplies, and healers established temporary infirmaries anywhere dry ground could still be found.
Jackson Lesan arrived as part of that relief effort.
Officially.
The Republic rescue speeder beneath him had become a familiar sight across Naboo's river valleys over the past two days. Its cargo hold had carried stranded families, emergency supplies, medical equipment, and once, much to Jackson's amusement, a farmer who refused evacuation until every one of his fambaas had been rescued first. His robes were soaked despite every opportunity to dry them, his boots permanently stained with mud, and sleep had become little more than an afterthought between missions.
He didn't mind.
Helping people had always been the easy part.
The rest of his assignment remained known only to a handful within the Order.
Floods had a way of exposing more than foundations. They disrupted supply lines, concealed criminal activity, buried evidence, and gave those with darker intentions opportunities they might never otherwise possess. Whether the Council's concerns ultimately proved to be nothing more than cautious instinct or the beginning of something larger remained to be seen. Until then, Jackson had his orders: help those in need, keep his eyes open, and pay attention to what others overlooked.
A flicker of movement beside the river caught his attention.
A crowd had gathered near the remains of an old wooden bridge, their attention fixed on something below. Even from the cockpit, Jackson recognized the posture. They weren't waiting.
They didn't know what to do.
His hand eased the controls, banking the rescue speeder toward the riverbank. Whatever questions had quietly followed him to Naboo could wait.
Someone needed help first.