MN-9 “Matriarch”
Mother
◈ Scrap or Salvation ◈
First Reply
[Orbit of a Dead World – Derelict Station]
The planet below turned slowly, a graveyard world wrapped in silence. Its continents were carved into black scars, oceans boiled to vapor long ago, its surface nothing but shattered glass plains and fire-burnt craters. From orbit, it looked less like a planet than a wound. No clouds drifted across its skies. No storms rumbled. It was a husk left behind by a war so old that even memory had abandoned it.
Above, the station clung to orbit like a mourner unwilling to leave the grave. Its ring was broken in places, its hull panels stripped away by centuries of neglect, leaving great black wounds open to the stars. Inside, the air was stale and metallic, carrying the dry taste of rust. Every groan of the bulkheads echoed like the sighs of a dying giant.
In one maintenance bay, the night of space itself poured in.
Cracks spidered through ancient viewports, allowing the stars beyond to bleed into the chamber. Thin shafts of starlight cut across the wreckage, falling like pale rivers over rusted frames and broken droids. The galaxy itself seemed to be watching from just beyond the glass.
And beneath that watchful light, MN-9 sat.
The nanny droid was shackled to a corroded pipe by a single ankle chain. The length of durasteel links clinked faintly when she shifted, but she remained composed, posture upright, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her optics glowed a steady, tranquil blue. Unlike the ruined bay around her, she was immaculate. Pristine plating gleamed faintly under the starlight, untouched by rust or age. She did not look abandoned. She looked preserved — as though she had been placed here deliberately, and left waiting.
The rest of the bay was a grave of machines.
A skeletal protocol droid sat slumped in a corner, its flayed chassis whispering broken etiquette in tongues no longer whole.
An astromech rocked slowly back and forth, dome scorched and circuits sparking, emitting a mournful loop of tones like a funeral dirge.
A massive labor droid trudged a worn circle, one leg dragging with each step, locked in the phantom cycle of endless work.
The floor was littered with the husks of pit droids, mouse droids, and B1 battle droids, their eyeless sockets catching starlight as though still watching. Some twitched faintly, sparks dancing, but most were long silent.
And at the center of them all, MN-9 shone like a pearl in ash.
The silence ended.
The station shuddered as new weight pressed into its bones. Docking clamps groaned. Beacons flickered reluctantly to life. Engines throbbed through the steel ribs of the station. Then came boots — harsh, scuffed, purposeful. Voices followed, rough with laughter and command.
Pirates.
They spilled into the bay like shadows given shape. A lean Weequay captain in a torn greatcoat led them, a scar splitting his mouth into a permanent sneer. Behind him came a Nikto with a broken blaster slung across his back, a Twi'lek with ink etched down her lekku and a datapad clutched in her hands, a human with a hollow stare and too many weapons strapped to his belt, and a towering Klatooinian carrying a vibro-axe that had seen more battles than its wielder had years. Their armor was mismatched and ragged, their trophies crude — stormtrooper pauldrons, strings of teeth, rusted sabers — but their eyes were sharp with hunger.
They were a down-on-their-luck crew, the kind who had bled every job dry until nothing was left but debt. This was supposed to be their redemption — one good haul to crawl back into favor with their Hutt employer.
Their lamps swept the chamber, cutting over the husks, the sparking shells, the whispering shadows — and then froze on her.
The pristine figure.
Chained. Waiting.
MN-9 lifted her head. Her optics brightened just slightly, deliberate and aware. Her ankle chain rattled faintly, intentional, the sound sharp in the stillness. She did not rise. She did not resist. She simply watched them, patient as a statue, calm as if she had been expecting them.
Then she spoke. Her voice was warm, maternal, steady — the kind of voice meant to soothe frightened children.
"Protect the Seed."
The words, spoken softly, spread like ripples through the room. The muttering protocol droid fell silent. The astromech cut off mid-whistle. Even the labor droid halted in its endless loop, servos whining as it froze in place.
The pirates stopped in their tracks. For a breath, the only sound was the hum of their lamps and the distant groan of the station.
Then the arguing began.
"She's nothing but metal," the Nikto spat, striking her shoulder with his hand. "We take her apart, piece by piece. Those alloys alone'll keep us fed for a season."
The Twi'lek's eyes narrowed, datapad raised as she circled. "Idiot. Look at her. Not a mark. Not a speck of rust. She's immaculate. Do you know how many collectors would kill for a relic this untouched? The Hutt would pay five times what her scrap's worth if we deliver her whole."
"She's chained," the Klatooinian growled, voice like gravel. His axe scraped the floor as he leaned on it. "No one leaves a droid like this unless there's a reason. Cursed, dangerous, possessed — call it what you want. Better to end it here than carry the curse aboard."
The human barked a bitter laugh. "Curses don't pay debts. The Hutt does. And right now we owe him more than any of you can count. We haul her in whole, and maybe we live to spend the credits."
A nearby Cerean’s sneer deepened as he listened, letting the arguments sharpen. He did not speak yet, but his eyes never left MN-9.
The voices overlapped, growing heated. Scrap her for quick profit, or deliver her whole for the chance at fortune. Greed warred with superstition, desperation sharpened every word.
Through it all, MN-9 remained still. Her optics tracked the loudest voices with calm, unblinking attention. Her ankle chain rattled once more, a faint, deliberate sound that cut through the argument like a whispered reminder.
She did not fight.
She did not plead.
She simply waited.
And above their debate, her words remained — heavy, persistent, echoing with more weight than any of their arguments.
The blue glow of her eyes seemed to stutter as she concentrated on another thought. One that would not unchain her, at least not physically. But a thought that had haunted her for weeks now.
Protect the Seed….
Protect the Seed….
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