No Good Deed Pt. 1 (Randon)

[Ysmir]

Tags: Meira Dutch

---

"Always remember, Macen -- the Force is indifferent. All it cares for is balance, nothing more, nothing less."

Macen reflected heavily upon the words his Master spoke of. For all the time he had studied under Varn's tutelage, the Korun Jedi Master had stressed the motivations of the Force, how it thought and felt and imposed its will upon the world around them very much in the same way they did. It was more than a binding light tying together all life, it was a sentience, a form of expression. And like all sentients, it had its own agenda. Macen frowned. "But Master, the Jedi call themselves guardians of the peace. Isn't peace, in itself, unbalanced?"

Luther only smiled. The boy was quick-witted, to be sure.

"Yes, Macen -- yes, it is," he began as his hands folded over each other beneath the sleeves of his robe. They strolled through the gardens of the temple on Coruscant, eventually reaching a balcony that overlooked the grand cityscape below. It was night, and the sky was awash with neon light and the sounds of the many beings on the world making their way through life, all leading a vastly different existence. The Force was buzzing. "But we can't sit idly by and let evil prevail just because the Force pits it against us. In a way, the Force tests us -- just as life does. Think of how your life was on Ord Mantell, a constant struggle for you and your mother. Think of how the Force put me in the right place at the right time to whisk you away to a more meaningful existence."

Macen's brows furrowed. "Meaningful?"

Luther smiled again. "There's no such thing as a meaningful existence, my young Padawan. We are all here as servants to the Force. Play your role, but never become comfortable in it. Adapt, change, fight against the status quo. Evil rears its ugly head in many places, and you need to be prepared, when the time comes, to confront it. Because we are not guardians of the peace -- we're fighters for it."

Bwoosh.

The Republic carrier broke through the atmosphere as Macen sat by the compartment window, staring out into the darkening sky as they rocketed into the vast expanse of space. Their destination? Randon. It was a small world in the galaxy's Mid Rim, teeming with life of all different kinds but all with similar goals; profit. Macen had little respect for such things, as to him, money only ever created problems, and never solved them. But the war with the Archeri, relatively brief as it was, had seen far-reaching consequences spread to places that were completely uninvolved with it. The Republic and the Empire were at an impass, still at armistice but uneasily so. Their preoccupation with one another and the ensuing scramble for resources following an impressively destructive conflict left a vacuum that others were keen to take advantage of.

Outside of Randon's impressive skyscrapers and corporate headquarters, the common rabble lived a day-to-day existence in constant fear of starvation and exploitation. It reminded him, in the most heinous of ways, of he and his mother on Ord Mantell. He had accepted this assignment in part because of his sympathy for those less fortunate. Some bigwig, a major importer and exporter of trade goods, had seen the war as an opportunity to gain political leverage against his peers by assisting the needy. Even if the man's motivations were less-than-selfless, a Jedi presence there would surely tip the scales in the community's favour when it came to bettering their lives. In more ways than one, Macen was looking forward to something of a humanitarian outreach rather than conflict; the war, invigorating as it could be, was still a war -- and the Force looked unfavorably on such things.

Macen was broken from his silent reflection on the transport as they entered hyperspace, en route to the world as the stars bent into infinite white lines before his very eyes. He stood and hooked his thumbs into the belt from which hung his trusty lightsaber. He had hardly spoken in the many hours he had spent preparing for this undertaking. It was supposed to be a simple assignment; stick around for a week or two, aid the rural communities, and reestablish a trade route so that they may begin to rebuild. But he had a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't shake.

To calm his nerves, he made way toward the front of the transport, where the Republic pilot and his partner for the journey sat. Meira Valli, the Kiffar Jedi Master whose reputation preceded her. It had occurred to him when this assignment was doled out that he had, in truth, never met the woman; it was time to fix that.

The sliding doors to the passenger bay opened and Macen entered. When Macen saw her, it seemed as though she was in a moment of reflection quite like he was earlier -- or, she simply hid her perceptiveness well. Regardless, he was the first the speak as he crossed his arms, standing just before the cockpit where the swirling blue vortex of hyperspace projected blue light on their figures.

"You know, when I was first beginning my steps to Knighthood, I figured it would be a lot less diplomacy and more action. Now?" he shrugged, looking to Meira, "I'm more than happy to simply help some unfortunate villages. He smiled, nodding his head. "My name is Macen. It's a pleasure to finally you meet you, Master Valli. I've heard a lot about you -- nothing bad, I promise. I'm glad to have someone of your caliber along on this. Sure to make things less... He lifted a hand to his chin and stroked the mild stubble there as he stared back ahead at the vortex of blue. "... tense."

[Meira]

"No ma'am, thank the Force. We were on a long haul out to Bakura when it all started. By the time we got back, We were put on supply run duty. This'll be the closest I've come." said the pilot as his hands deftly moved through the hyperdrive initiation sequence.

"I am glad to hear it." Meira replied, smiling gently to the man. She'd remembered him from a previous mission, perhaps a year or so ago, and had asked if he'd been part of the coalition fighting in Hutt space. It was an inescapable topic now, and she often found it best to get it out of the way quickly. People seemed to need to mention it, but never wanted to linger. The Archeri invasion was a shared trauma, she supposed, and it just needed to be processed.

Her eyes turned to the void of space as the pilot engaged the hyperdrive. The faint pinpricks of stars streaked blue and white as the ship was catapulted into that impossible speed with hardly a vibration of the hull to be felt. As the pilot continued his checks, Meira's mind wandered. From the reports on coalition cleanup sweeps, to her recent impromptu mission on Prazhi. One thing was clear, the Archeri threat wasn't entirely neutralized, and already the Republic and Empire were maneuvering to take advantage of the aftermath.

"You know..."

The voice pulled Meira from her musing and she turned her head to look up at the new arrival to the cockpit. Tall, strongly built, and an easy confidence in his stance; the was the picture of the Jedi Knight he described in his stated expectations from his youth. She'd boarded the transport separately from him. She'd arrived at the Temple and given her report from Prazhi before being quickly assigned to this mission. She'd had only enough time to refresh herself and change robes before leaving quickly to board just before the transport lifted off. At seeing the pilot, she'd gone directly with him to the cockpit as they exchanged pleasantries.

"It is good to meet you, Macen. I am sorry I didn't come find you sooner." she replied, sidestepping his compliment with a slight chuckle and a smile. Beside her, the pilot reached across her to flip another switch and Meira became of aware of how obstructive she was to the man's work. "I'm sorry, Kern." she said, standing to give the pilot more room. "Why don't we move back to the passenger section." she suggested to Macen, leading the way from the cockpit.

"I have to admit," she said as she stepped from the short corridor into a room with several chairs and tables, "I am not entirely briefed on this assignment." she moved to a container of jogan fruit that sat on a side counter and lifted one, testing its ripeness with a gentle squeeze. She turned, holding it out in offering to Macen should he want it. "Do you have the full details? I understand that we are to help with reestablishing supply lines to a rural area on Randon. But there is always something below the surface with these sorts of assignments."

[Ysmir]

"No trouble at all," Macen said with a wave of his hand to her apology. Shortly after, he turned his attention to the pilot -- Kern, he heard her call him. Macen wasn't familiar with the man, but being on a first name basis with a Jedi Master was no small feat for a Republic soldier. It made Macen wonder of the connection the two may have had. Fire-forged friends, perhaps? She saved his life, or he saved hers? In today's galaxy, it could have been anything. Still, it was reassuring to know that they were held in competent hands should turbulent conditions find their way to them.

At her suggestion, Macen nodded. "Lead the way," he said as he held out a hand. He followed behind her shortly after she walked past. Just before exiting the cockpit, Macen turned back to the man in the pilot's seat as he walked. "Let us know when we're inbound." Macen turned with Meira into the small lounge room. The area was clearly for conferencing and leisure time spent during a short journey like this; a large bay window stared out into the cosmos that zipped by them at light speed. Naturally, Macen was drawn to it. He stood before the window and crossed his arms.

He turned his head across his shoulder to face her as she began speaking. His eyes flicked down to the fruit she offered; the softest hint of excitement in his eye, he took the fruit from her grasp with a grateful nod. "Come, now," Macen began with a tilt of his head, "how fun would this be if you knew all the details?" A sly grin graced his features as he bit into the side of the fruit. After chewing his fill, he shook his head.

"I'm joking, of course," he said as he lifted his arm, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his Jedi robe. The jovial man, it seemed, was not much for etiquette. "Randon, as you may know, is a world of business. A trade hub, if you will. Well, it seems from various reports that the smaller, less fortunate settlements that dot the plains surrounding these megacities filled with bazaars and towers are being denied support from the capital -- support their survival depends on. As straightforward as it comes. However..." He lifted a finger and wagged it, as though to keep her attention pulled into the subject. He paced as he spoke, a natural byproduct of his body's disdain for being at rest for more time than necessary. He leaned against the wall by the window as he looked back up at her. "The individual feeding us said information is also the one who wants to personally lead the relief effort. He's some big name from Atlas Corp. He claims it to be a purely humanitarian effort, but, you know as well as I do that business is business. Macen lifted the jogan fruit, taking another bite from it as he allowed Meira a moment to absorb that information. Then, he shrugged.

"Personally, I don't care what his motivations are, so long as he's helping the right people. We wouldn't be sent on this assignment if the higher-ups didn't think it was worth our time," he followed. He crossed his arms as he leaned on the wall, exchanging a quick glance between the Kiffar and the blue streaks just outside the window; a pane of tempered glass between them and certain doom. Comforting.

He lifted the jogan with two bites missing and examined its streaked blue flesh a moment, speaking without taking his eyes from it. "My mother used to make the best jogan fruit cake I'd ever had. Seriously, nothing can top it." The addendum was all-in-all unnecessary, but conversation came as naturally to the man as breathing -- and fighting, if you asked him. He looked to Meira. "The war made me think of home more than I care to admit."

[Meira]

She turned back to the container after handing off the fruit, fishing out another one for herself. Macen's remark earned another chuckle from Meira as she selected a seat at on of the tables and took a bite. Her companion, it seemed, was more prone to standing and pacing. She watched him as he spoke. Meira had been told she'd be working with another Jedi on this assignment but had not been given the luxury of time to learn more about the man other than that he was a Knight. She'd also been told that they'd be meeting with the sector Watchman for Randon when they arrived. She knew even less about who that might be. Perhaps, when she next had some downtime, Meira would brush up on her who's-who of the Jedi temple. She was feeling very much out of the loop.

"Ah." she said, nodding her head knowingly at the mention of the corporate bigwig. "The benevolent Captain of Industry, savior of the downtrodden, et cetera, et cetera." she said, waving one hand in a rolling motion. She took another bite of the fruit. There would likely be quite a bit of such activity now. Even in the cleanup, conflict was always profitable to someone. Part of her was affronted at the notion. She, as most Jedi, saw the service of others as an inherent calling. It was just something one did. She found the obviously superficial trappings of altruism adopted by those looking to turn a quick profit to be a particularly foul form of deceit.

"Personally, I don't care what his motivations are, so long as he's helping the right people. We wouldn't be sent on this assignment if the higher-ups didn't think it was worth our time."

Meira lifted her eyes at the statement, catching Macen's for just a moment before he looked out the window again. Well, she thought, if that doesn't just put me to shame. She'd followed his gaze to the window, contemplating the varying levels of morality this mission might put on display when he spoke again.

"Mother...?" the word came out involuntarily. She'd been surprised by the statement, and her slightly widened eyes showed it plainly when she looked back at Macen. He mentioned the war, and home, and it brought her out of her temporary mental stumble.

"I'm sorry." she said, dropping her gaze to her fruit for a moment. "It's just... unusual, I suppose." She took another bite, chewing in silence for a few seconds. For her, the word home conjured images of the Jedi temple, of meditating in the gardens, lightsaber drills as a youngling. She'd been back to Kiffu, of course, and knew her clan. She even knew that her parents had likely been there, among those she'd met on such visits. But Kiffu and her clan -part of her as they might be- were not what she considered home. "Well," she said to break the silence, "its very hard to beat home made." She smiled then, looking back up at Macen. "You wouldn't happen to know her recipe, would you?"

[Ysmir]

Macen would hardly call himself nostalgic.

Many things, he would; brave, intrepid, perceptive, stalwart, perhaps a bit arrogant, but certainly not nostalgic. However, recent events had served a dutiful in purpose in not only reminding him of the frality and mortality of the galaxy at large, but also the importance of remembering where one came from. It was a chunky part of the reason why he accepted this assignment; those poised to gain assistance from the Order's intervention, in many ways, reminded him of his own upbringing. Perhaps, then, this was why he thought of his mother when that sweet fruit tantalized his tastebuds. Some portion of his memory, deep within his mind, had gone abuzz with firing neurons that recalled the days of his childhood when he'd return home to their modest living space. For a moment, Macen wondered to himself how his mother might be doing these days.

He turned his head back to the window, lifting the jogan to take another bite of the flesh. However, Meira's words hearkened him to turn back toward her. He stood from the wall as she spoke. As he walked toward the table she sat at, her question of him elicited a demure grin followed by a chuckle. He shook his head. "Sadly, I don't," he said as he leaned with his free hand on one of the seats. "The life of a Watchman leaves little room for hobbyist activities like cooking. Though I have tried my hand at it with varying levels of success." He shrugged as he lifted the jogan and took one last bite, clearing the core of the fruit of the rest of the edible flesh. He tossed it through the air in a wide arc toward a waste receptacle in the corner of the room; it landed within the confines.

"My apologies, by the way," he said in a resigned tone as he turned from the chair, back to the window that he seemed so intent on staring out of. It seemed, at a glance, that the spiralling background offered his ever-moving eyes something to look at without growing restless. "I didn't mean to stir any bitter memories. I know the idea of "home" is a much different beast for every individual. I suppose I'm just a bit tired." He shrugged afterward. It could be somewhat inappropriate to discuss such things with someone you'd just met, but Macen figured that being forward and honest with your future partner of many weeks might be beneficial to their teamwork down the road -- the same uneasy feeling that sunk to the pit of his gut was still very much with him. Even the sweetness of the jogan failed to wash it from his core. His exhaustion extended well beyond the plight of what the war had weighed upon his mind; that was easily handled enough. No, the true weariness was for the road ahead. But he would never wear that openly on his features. To her, Macen seemed as steel-eyed and alert as ever. He crossed his arms and looked over his shoulder to Meira.

"Have you ever been to Randon before? Seen the skyline?" Macen asked with a quirk of his brow. "It's impressive, to be sure. But odd. Even though you'd expect the Force to be brimming in a place like that, it's simply... silent. It almost reminds me of their cities, in a way," he said, letting a sigh drift from his lungs as he walked to the side of the room. There, a medium-sized travel pack was laid out on a table between two white couches. He gathered some of his scattered supplies, spread about from last-minute inventory taking, and began packing them up as they neared their destination. "All show, no substance."

[Meira]

Meira pulled a face of mock dismay at Macen's confession that he did not, in fact, know his mother's cake recipe, chuckling along with the man. At his apology, she quickly waved her hand in dismissal. She was very much at peace with her concept of home, blood relatives or not. The Jedi were all that she knew. And, while she'd had passing pangs of longing in her early teen years for what she thought must be the deep connection of blood and family, those times were long past and their feelings properly seen to. There was a life that might have been, and it might have been a beautiful and happy one. But she was a Jedi. She chose this life all those years ago, and she would continue to choose it every day.

"I have not." she replied to his question, standing to throw away the core of her own fruit and then rinsing her hands quickly at the sink. She considered what she knew of the planet as he spoke. A trade world, at a convenient intersection of hyperspace routes. Positioned as it was, it had likely experienced high tension during the war. Republic, Imperial, and even Mandalorian forces had raged all around it. That war had, apparently, left the planet relatively intact. The Archeri conflict, on the other hand, had seen the planet isolated as several nearby systems fell into quarantine or under the invading species' influence altogether.

"All show, no substance."

"Hmm..." Meira replied, moving to take a seat on one of the couches as Macen organized his pack. "And now someone wants to make a show of their supposed substance through their outreach to the rural areas... which were likely hit harder by the fallout of the Archeri conflict." she leaned back into the couch as her eyes focused into some unseen middle distance in thought. "I wonder why Watchman Rotul requested assistance. Do you know him?"

Meira had never met the Randoni Watchman. She was not certain of how familiar those of the Watchman specialty were with one another, or if they were at all. In all honesty, she was fairly ignorant of the specialty.

"Master Jedi," Kern's voice emitted from a speaker on the ceiling, "We will be exiting hyperspace in thirty seconds. Priority for our landing was cleared before our departure, so we should begin landing sequences immediately upon arrival."

Meira's eyes shifted to the chrono on the wall and she nodded her head. They were right on schedule.

---

Kern's eyes watched his readouts carefully. The display counted down, and his hand pulled back on the lever at the exact moment it reached zero. Kern smiled to himself. The precision with which he worked was largely unnecessary. Ships these days were designed to factor in the less than precise nature of most sentient pilots. But he was not less than precise. The blue and white vortex of hyperspace dissolved around him and Randon materialized in the viewport. A quick visual scan of his panel confirmed that all was well. Kern picked up his comms headpiece with one hand, deftly fitting it over his ears and positioning the mic as his other hand activated the link to Cadiz Station control.

"This is Republic Transport Mantorr GX-927 with Jedi envoy and cargo calling to Cadiz Station."

"Mantorr GX-927, this is Cadiz Station. You have been cleared to land at Platform X34, your descent plan is being transmitted now. Please follow the route and welcome to Randon."

A moment later, the ship's computer signaled that the descent plan had been received. It took only a moment for the computer to calculate the plan and adjust the ship's path down to the station. Within minutes, the ship would be on the ground.

[Ysmir]

Macen hadn't brought much for this excursion, only what he considered absolutely essential; everything else could be acquired on-site. It was a trade world, after all. A backup blaster and spare power packs, a medkit, and some spending money were the only things he would be carrying with him, plus a fresh change of clothes in case things got filthy. And they always did.

He nodded his head along to Meira's words as she reconciled the situation they were walking into out loud. She grasped the concept of corporate show-off easily enough, prompting him to lift his head and shoot her a sarcastic grin as he clamped shut the top pocket of his pack. "Offset the dirt with good works. In their minds, at least." Macen lifted the pack and hoisted it over his shoulder, shifting to glance out the portside window where the vortex of blue funneled ever unchanging. As she posed her question to him, he turned back and lifted his foot to rest it on the table, leaning forward with his free arm draped across his thigh.

"I know of him in the same way I know of you," Macen began with a small gesture toward Meira's figure as if to emphasize his point, "but I can't really say to what extent. Though, I suppose I'll simply be honest with you. As to why he's requested assistance that is." Macen wriggled his nose in thought. That knot in his gut had yet to go away; it would serve him well to at least make known his feelings on the subject, especially if the two were to be working side by side. "I haven't had the greatest feeling about this assignment ever since I received it. Call it paranoia, but I've learned to trust my instincts over time. They've rarely failed me. I wasn't being facetious when I said I was relieved to learn I had a partner in this. The harder I try to focus on what's causing this... uncertainty, the more it slips away. So," he paused for a moment with a resigned shrug, taking his foot from the table as Kern's voice rang out. "I've decided to stay on my guard. You might want to do the same."

We will be exiting hyperspace in thirty seconds.

Macen glanced to the chrono almost in unison with Meira, then turned his gaze back onto her. With a smile and a tilt of his head, he gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

---

For all his fortitude and defiance in the face of danger, Macen was always ill at ease during planetary descents. This was no different; as the transport broke the atmosphere of Randon with he and Meira in the passenger bay, Macen closed his eyes and channeled his focus. He didn't do so for any reason in particular other than stilling his mind. He could charge headlong into blaster fire, lock sabers with a Sith Lord, and leap across chasms thirty meters wide and Force knows how many hundreds of meters deep, but the shaking of a shuttle was the only thing that consistently managed to rattle his nerves. Needless to say, the relief he felt was almost comparable to that of the ship's integrity when they broke through the lower atmosphere and began to settle into a smooth drift through the sky. Macen opened his eyes, having masked his anxieties, and stood to gaze out the passenger bay window.

For all the muck that oozed beneath its pretty surface, Macen could scarcely deny its inherent beauty. The natural portions of the surface were marked by vast plains and the occasional dotted forest, but what dominated the skyline were the towering skyscrapers Randon was known for; it nearly put Coruscant and Nar Shaddaa to shame. Sleek and elegant, the buildings were almost uniformally constructed with reflective metallic exteriors that gleamed in the sun's light from the sky. As they grew closer they could make out the scattered bazaars and marketplaces where millions of unseen bustling traders, buyers, stock brokers, and white collars of all types were no doubt scrambling to find the best deals and make the biggest sales. It was poetry in motion, but the sight was soured when one knew what went into making this all possible.

Greed and servitude. Of the highest caliber.

Thrusting these thoughts aside, Macen stepped toward the back of the transport, standing side by side with Meira as Kern lowered the loading ramp for the two to exit. When they did, they were on a large landing pad that hung over a nearly four hundred foot drop to the streets below, extending from a balcony where several well-dressed individuals stood around imported botanical displays of flora from various parts of the galaxy. Ships and speeders flew by overhead with regularity, drowning out the sounds of their speaking with a constant background noise. The tower was Atlas Corp's world headquarters on Randon, and wore its logo openly and proudly on the board above the entryway doors. Macen looked to Meira.

"Subtlety isn't something they teach in the business world, is it?" said Macen as he wore another cheeky smile. They walked fully down the ramp and into the grand building where their Jedi contact and businessman awaited their timely arrival.

A short journey inside led to a receptionist at her desk, who was positively elated by their arrival. With chipper enthusiasm, she called down an escort to take them to the VIP elevators which led to the executive suites on the top floor of the building. They were taken there, elbow-to-elbow with suited individuals of many human and near-human species, and caught the ride up courtesy of the escort's VIP badge. Halfway there, the elevator's metallic walls were replaced by reinforced windows which allowed the occupants inside to see out into the city; Macen would have smiled at the breathtaking view were he not offput by the sheer pretentiousness of it all.

At floor three hundred and ninety four, the duo were now nearly a quarter of a mile high in the sky, and this wasn't even the tallest building. The escort led them toward a pair of exquisitely crafted double doors that closed off one of the nicer meeting areas from prying eyes. He smiled as he swiped his card. "We hope you enjoy your time here at Atlas Corp, Master Jedi." As the doors open, the man bowed his head respectfully to them and walked off. They were left in the view of the two individuals waiting within.

[Dutch]

The two individuals standing within were an odd pair indeed. The first to draw the eye would be a tall, handsome, immaculately dressed Falleen. His smile, while warm and inviting had an irksome quality to it. Maybe it was the mouthful of gleaming, perfectly white pointed teeth which glinted in the chambers’ lighting, maybe it was the way he looked at you; as if he knew something you didn’t, and that something gave him great advantage over whatever it was you had to offer. While he clearly wasn’t attuned to the Force, his pheromones exuded lightly about him, eliciting the spiced scent of a healthy male, the only thing one might pick up if their presence pressed his. The tightly tailored suit of near-black green did him every favor for showing off the power and musculature which rested just beneath the posh fabrics. His shaved head also shined in the light, which accented the exotic ridges and green skin which marked the Falleen species. He moved himself towards them with arms wide, the wingspan of them wide enough to encompass both arriving Jedi.

“Ah! Master Jedi! We were just talking about you!” The Falleen greeted in a soulful, smooth cadence, his deep voice almost hypnotic in quality. His clawed hands would find Meira’s to grip them in his strong grasp, scaled skin supple as fine leather against hers as he loomed before her.

“Welcome to Randon, my name is Zaltes Xisk, and this is my tower! Do say my staff have treated you properly so far?” He asked as he smiled down at the Kiffar before his yellow eyes turned to the other Jedi, and his powerful grip would finally relent from Meira. “Oh, but my manners! You must be the other Watchman Rotul here requested! Welcome, friend, welcome!” Xisk continued as his grip now found Macen’s, the reptomammalian squeezing it perhaps a bit tighter than necessary as he looked deeply into the Jedi’s eyes.

“My, my, they do have some lovely gems hidden away in those temples of yours. If you two ever find yourselves tired of the monastic life, do please consider Atlas, it would be no trouble finding positions for either of you…” The Falleen said seductively through those pointed, perfect teeth.

“You’ll never have the believers, Zaltes.” Came a gruff, distinctly Mon Calamari voice from behind him. Zaltes laughed mirthfully and shifted his powerful form to reveal the newest speaker, his face no longer hidden by the bow of his wide-brimmed conical hat- the sort you would see any Dac farmer wearing while working his rice paddies. His robes were of a dark blue, and while distinctly Jedi in cut that was about it, with patterns of crashing waves woven across the fabric which hugged his short, lithe form. No lightsaber was visible, but none was needed with how cutting the copper eyes beneath the hat were. Like the waves of his robes, Rotul’s presence washed off of him like the lapping of warm, salty water, if perhaps a bit electrified like a storm was brewing in the distance of his seas. The Mon Cal’s aura may have given him away as Jedi, but to anyone not adept in the Force, he could pass as just another exotic street vendor, down to the piercing where a whisker met left corner of his mouth.

Each copper eye on either side of his face stared down the other Jedi with unblinking study before the lids finally slid over them. He did not move to greet them, but didn’t waste any time.

“Zaltes is a tool, but a useful one. Ottu Rotul, Watchman of Randon.” Their fellow Jedi said in greeting.

“Former Watchman of Mon Calamari, isn’t that right, Rotul?” Xisk added unnecessarily, his knowing eyes narrowed and his toothy smile still shining.

[Meira]

Her thoughts turned inward as their ship made the descent to the planet. Macen's comment, that he'd gotten an uneasy feeling about the mission, had not exactly surprised her. She and her fellow Jedi were renowned for their insight after all. It was something that came with the job. If she was being honest with herself, she supposed she had already made an assumption about her partner on this mission. If they had more time, she might have chastised herself for it, but they were going to meet with their planet-side contacts as soon as they landed. And so Meira acknowledged that she'd judged her companion too quickly. He was not, as she had thought, all brawn and movement and action. Of course he wasn't. No being was ever so one-dimensional. Her mistake acknowledged, she dismissed it as she took a quick detour to a storage closet where she retrieved her robe and lightsaber. She clipped the latter onto her belt, which held pouches for her standard carried items and then shrugged on the former. Smiling at the familiar weight of the fabric on her shoulders, Meira moved to rejoin Macen.

---

"Subtlety isn't something they teach in the business world, is it?"

Meira smiled as they walked down the ramp toward the building. She did not pretend to know the first thing about marketing and advertising. But she guessed he was right. Inside, they found themselves greeted by an enthusiastic receptionist, who handed them off to another individual who would take them to their contact. Meira smiled and bowed her head slightly to both of these individuals, thanking them each for their assistance. The second left them at the doors of a conference room of some sort, high up in the skyline of the city. Within that room, were the two that Meira and Macen had actually come to see.

They had only a beat before the Falleen man was on them. He was all smiles and big gestures. Wide arms, quick to close in. She would not have preferred it, but Meira allowed the man to take her hand in his for a few moments. "Your staff have been excellent in every way, Mr. Xisk. Thank you." she replied, tucking her hands into the opposite sleeves of her robe as soon as the Fallen's attention shifted from her to Macen. She then shifted her own focus to the other being in the room, the Jedi Watchman. Rotul's first words expressed a familiarity between the Watchman and the Falleen. Not a surprise, of course.

"It is good to meet you, Watchman Rotul." Meira said, giving the Mon Cal a proper bow. She sensed a tension in the room, one that was accented by Xisk's addition to Rotul's self introduction. But Meira was not here to play petty games. She was here because Rotul had requested assistance from the Order on a matter. Perhaps it was this tension that necessitated the presence of different Jedi? perhaps it was simply to such a scale that a lone Jedi wasn't enough. Perhaps, if she simply asked, all would be revealed.

"How may we be of assistance?" Meira asked, her eyes moving between the Mon Calamari Jedi and the Falleen businessman.

[Ysmir]

Green on green. It was a good look, to be sure. But anything could be made to seem pretty on the surface.

For all the proper inviting mask he wore on his features, Macen, at his heart of hearts, couldn't be bothered with pleasantries of any kind unless it was amongst those he considered to be worth the time. The Falleen was not one of those people. Instantly, Macen took quiet and astute note of all those qualities that made a combination of species and profession like him so dangerous. The man assumed a facade of friendly openness so well it almost seemed tailor-made to his person, like a glove slipped over one's right hand to cover the dirt that lined the skin. Still, even as Macen's eyes scanned each and every layer of the Falleen he could at the very least tell his motives weren't entirely malicious. No, Macen got the distinct sense that this being was simply far too used to slinking through life with a predatory instinct. Forming and burning alliances whenever convenient for him must have become as second nature as breathing by this point in his life. Macen entered the room just beside Meira, his hands folded across the front of his waist in a neutral position.

Whilst the Falleen, who introduced himself as Xisk, accounted for Meira, Macen let his eyes wander the room. He took note of the layout and every available exit within just a few moments; several reinforced windows, easily enough removed with a well-timed push. Besides this, the only other way in or out were the two doors which now closed behind him and his Jedi companion. It wasn't out of a sense of distrust or even danger, simply a force of habit.

The moment Xisk came to take his hand, Macen drew his attention back onto the handsomely dressed executive. As his grip squeezed down, Macen returned the hold in kind, a sort of unspoken fight for dominance between the two men. Macen wasn't one for the ego-trip, but under no circumstances would Macen let this man assert any sort of authority over him. The Jedi were here as his assistants, not his lackeys. When their eyes met, Macen countered Xisk's deep and calculated stare with his own, his gaze steely and willful. Despite the Falleen towering over his frame, the Jedi remained resolute. The air about the two men was positively electric, but Macen broke this brief stalemate with a well-timed smile. "We're happy to be here, Mr. Xisk. But our loyalties aren't for sale."

Macen withdrew his hand after thoroughly denying the Falleen's honeyed words, and soon his attentions were grabbed by the Mon Calamari who lingered in the back of the room near one of the tall windows. Instantly, it was apparent who this was; his presence reached out through the Force like an invisible guiding hand, and Macen could feel it. Without the two having even exchanged a single word, Macen felt the jaded nature of his psyche -- cool, defiant, pragmatic, but tired. Macen stepped past Xisk in a few measured paces and rounded one of the meeting room chairs to stand nearer to the Mon Cal, introduced as Ottu Rotul, and establish his physical presence closer to the Watchman than the Falleen.

"Assignments change all the time, Mr. Xisk," Macen tacked on, perhaps a bit bitingly. Already, one could sense the friction between the two, unspoken but present in the air that hung between them. However, Macen didn't linger on this feeling for long, very shortly turning his attention fully back to Rotul. "My name is Macen Oran, and I'm sure you've heard of Master Valli," Macen said with a small gesture toward Meira. "We've come a long way for this. I hope we can help."

That small introduction out of the way, Macen turned to Meira as she questioned the two of them -- straight to the point. Macen smirked. He liked the way she thought. He turned his attention back to Xisk and Rotul for their summary of their presence here.

[Dutch]

“We hope you can as well, my new friends.” Zaltes said in his smooth timbre, slightly accented through predatory teeth. He motioned for the Jedi to take a seat at the table to his right, and left them to stride athletically towards the boardroom’s holo controls at the head of his table. They were a polished silver set in the opalescent pale wood, and if one looked close enough could see the keys were in fact whole gemstones. His clawed digits worked diligently across them as Watchman Rotul shuffled with an odd limp to not sit, but stand just besides the Falleen with a particularly unblinking copper eye angled up at him. The cause of said limp would remain a mystery though, as the swirling blue robes of the Jedi obscured Ottu’s lower half entirely.

“Randon is a sanctuary. A refuge, for the Republic… and Empire.” The Mon Cal croaked gruffly, his other eye turned to stare Macen down directly. “A JMOC initiative, sponsored by the Atlas Corporation, to form and regulate hundreds of camps worldwide for processing and protecting those fleeing the Archeri.” The eldest Jedi continued, while Xisk nodded and keyed up a holoimage of one said camp. Dozens of prefab buildings and Atlas branded spaceships stood out from thousands of tents and countless beings milling about, many still in states of medical distress and even more appearing strung out, possibly even showing signs of undernourishment.

“Weeks ago, those same people were beaming beacons of gratitude and relief. Who wouldn't be happy to see a safe haven, after being exposed to those… monstrosities?” The Falleen explained, his lips turned down in disgust as he clearly imagined the Archeri invaders. With a click of a key and a flicker of the hologram Xisk brought up a new clip, this one of hoversleds and freight speeders lined up as they filed out from what appeared to be the bottom of the tower which they were all in. “Initially these support caravans would leave Randoni ports weekly to deliver food, water, medicine; everything these camps could possibly need. When they grew in both size and number... this became monthly for each camp, and we struggled to keep up. Unfortunate.” The Falleen added in his cold reptilian way. Despite this, that wouldn’t seem quite enough cause for the nearly destitute refugees, nor for the way Zaltes Xisk seemed to stall whatever point was coming.

“Unfortunate? Hmph.” Grunted Rotul with an awkward shift before crossing his arms. “Volume and traffic isn’t the issue, fool.” He added with acid, the whiskers framing his facing trembling for a moment with impatience. The Mon Calamari turned to face his colleagues with a look of recognition, as if daring them to say something about his temperament. But he wouldn’t give them enough time.

“The issue, is raiders.”

[Meira]

Their entrance to the room seemed to only amplify the tension that had already been building, Meira noted. She would be remiss if she were to deny that she contributed to this disease. The Jedi were not immune to preference and pet peeves, after all. Meira had a natural dislike for sentient predators. It was one thing for an animal to act on its base instincts for survival, that was the most natural thing in the galaxy. But for cognizant beings to turn base instinct into sport or business, well... it was not something that Meira valued. But she'd spent her life learning to master the discipline of serenity, and one being was not going to derail that. She hoped that extended exposure to the man had not yet cracked Rotul, and that Macen had the composure equal to the task.

There was a brief moment of silence that hung in the air after the greetings were completed, but it passed and a measure of the tension dissolved. Meira smiled, moving to take a seat when she was invited. So far, so good. She watched as Rotul joined Xisk as the Falleen man brought up the holoprojector. As opposed personally as the two seemed, Meira imagined that they actually worked quite well together. Perhaps the antagonistic nature of their interactions kept each man sharp and on his toes, so to speak. Perhaps it was all in good fun and Meira simply did not know either one of them well enough to see the joke in their behavior. It probably didn't really matter all that much.

As they began, Meira studied the images. There was not much more detail to gain, other than the sheer scale of the refugee efforts that had been made here. Meira had known that scale, of course, but it was very difficult to truly comprehend the sheer volume of beings that we displaced because of this invasion. She did not try to fathom the numbers that had been lost. Not now, at any rate. There would be time, when the most pressing work was done, that she could process the complete impact. That time was not now. And so Meira kept her focus on the information being presented; the here and now was where she as an individual would have the greatest chance to impact lives for the better.

“The issue, is raiders.” Rotul said, revealing the crux of the problem.

"Surely these camps and the caravans have had security." Meira said, furrowing her brow. "The accord provides for such measures. How have raiders managed to interfere with an operation of this scale?"

[Ysmir]

Ever the energetic and zappy one, Macen stepped toward where Meira sat when Xisk motioned for them to sit, but opted to stand instead much like Ottu, his hands crossed one over the other in front of his waist. He felt more at ease on his feet, and less likely to be caught off guard.

Empire.

Macen's eye caught Ottu's own as the Mon Cal seemed to place particular emphasis on this word at the end of his thought. Despite the JMOC initiative working entirely as planned, with the combined forces proving to be more than a match for the Archeri, Macen, as many Jedi, still held his reservations about the alliance. It was a fragile thing at best -- a ticking timebomb at worst. For all his optimism in matters of Galactic security, he feared that the reality would trend toward the latter in this case. Whatever the outcome may be, it was prudent to know that this planet was not simply a Republic world anymore. It had experienced quite the same turnover as the Galaxy at large; they would need to tread carefully.

The Watchman's words were absorbed in tandem with the images that were projected by Xisk. The vast prefabricated buildings, the Atlas employees bustling left and right; but among it all, the refugees stood out the most. In his early life on Ord Mantell, Macen had become accustom to such sights. Life for many sentients in the Galaxy was anything but easy, though it was clear as Tatooine's two suns that these poor souls had it far worse off than just about anybody else. It stirred within his chest a desire to see them liberated from the shackles of their downtrodden living, but he knew that this was a situation far beyond any one individual's control. He and Meira were there to do what they could; and so, they would.

Macen was somewhat taken aback, however, by the revelation of the key issue; not understaffing, nor lack of resources. Attacks? It seemed unlikely, as Meira so succinctly put with her verbal observation. A brow raised as he looked to her, Macen shifted weight from one leg to the other on his spot as he looked between Ottu and Xisk. "Guerillas? Natives knowledgeable of the terrain and how to take advantage of it, perhaps?" Macen offered, digging at his accrued tactical knowledge. "Though, I have to agree with Master Valli; to interrupt something like this would require some impressive resources... or inside knowledge."

[Dutch]

“Desperation is a powerful fuel for anyone’s fires, Master Jedi.” Xisk replied philosophically with a tone which sounded almost nostalgic. He clicked a few of his gemstone keys, dozens and dozens of files beginning to cascade over the holographic display, all security images of the recent attacks. The first folder would be keyed open by the Falleen, the manicured claws at the tips of his green fingers skillfully playing his holotable as it displayed a loop from the previously shown caravan, the point of view slightly jarring as it seemed to come from one of the vehicles windshields. Suddenly the very front pair of vehicles before it bloomed upwards into fiery clouds, the rest of the caravan suddenly utter chaos as they all crashed and tumbled into one another, the sounds of metal twisting punctuated with surprised shouts, which soon became screams of wounded personnel- one man shown stumbling about entirely wreathed in flames as he reached out to someone off holo for aid as fatty meat dripped off the bones of his broiled self before he dropped and stopped moving.

Then the masked ones came. Quietly and in eerie unison they seemed to leak through the wrecked landscape, some calmly commandeering the skiffs and freighters which were still upright before navigating away. Dozens in a variety of species dressed in ragtag arrangements of local garments, military grade armor and what looked to be makeshift garb made of scavenged materials. All were armed, either with blasters or with tools. One such being a vibroax, which was swung to split a Republic trooper’s head, the letters JFM etched in faux gold leaf lettering visible on the handle. Their identities would be completely hidden in a variety of ways; some donning helmets, others costume masks and many more in stained cloth wrappings and medical masks. One raider drifted towards the dashcam, his entire face covered by stained cloth except for his strikingly wide, bloody smile as he moved closer to the source of the recording before it cut. How he saw the holocam with his eyes completely wrapped over would remain a mystery, and Ottu Rotul stared at the scene the entire time. His large pupils fixed and seemingly unable, or unwilling, to look away.

“This was the first of many similar raids to follow. They strike with the accuracy of inside knowledge, sweep in, steal my wares- and my people- and disappear without uttering a single word.” Zaltes explained, his veneer unbroken but his tone slightly off. “We assume they do this to hide their identities further.” He would add, and the Mon Calamari huffed, the motion ringing his pierced whisker but still his copper eyes remained on the holodisplay as the next similar sequence of events was shown.

“You assume.” The eldest Jedi rebuked.

“I deduced, Rotul.” Zisk replied coolly as his free hand gestured to the holos as if showing off a new speeder. “We see some of these same characters in many of the footage. It’s a single group, and it seems to be growing. What does that say?”

“It says you assume they do this of their free will, Zaltes Xisk.” Ottu said, and finally turned his attention to his fellow Jedi.

“We all know what sort of darkness preys on the desperate, don’t we?”

[Meira]

"They take your people?" Meira asked, somewhat surprised.

Her eyes had been on the footage. The barbarity on display in the attack was not surprising. Rogue action was often bloodier and messier than direct warfare. But her lack of surprise did nothing to diminish the impact. Meira had always found violence repugnant. The near decade since the end of the war with the Sith Empire had not been enough time to ease her mind of the horrors she'd seen. She was not sure if any amount of time would be enough. She knew that she'd been lucky in her assignments during the Archeri conflict. No, not lucky. She had been where she was supposed to be. The Force, and the Council, knew her. The Masters knew her greatest skills, and also her deepest weaknesses. She was not ashamed to admit, at least to herself, that she would likely have been no good in the direct efforts against the Archeri. She had limits, and such a thing might have stretched her beyond them.

Even seeing this, Meira knew that she would need to take care to guard her heart. There was indeed a truth to what Xisk said. Desperation could drive a good man insane. She was sure that even a safe haven such as Randon was not immune to the strains and burdens of the conflict. Desperation could grow anywhere. And when one had nothing left, one had nothing to lose.

“It says you assume they do this of their free will, Zaltes Xisk.” Meira turned her gaze toward Rotul, her brow furrowing as Rotul's own copper eyes turned toward her and Macen. “We all know what sort of darkness preys on the desperate, don’t we?”

There was a heavy moment of silence as Rotul's words sank in. Meira's green gaze moved from Rotul to Xisk in a quick motion before darting back toward Macen and the Mon Cal. In her experience, discussions of possible dark side influence was kept away from those not in the Order. Non Force sensitive beings could only ever have a surface understanding of the Force, let alone the dangers of the dark side. In her opinion, it was simpler and better to not burden those without the necessary tools.

"If this is true," Meira said, her voice lowered for herself and her two fellow Jedi, "then we must move quickly. Do you have evidence, Master Rotul?"

---

The depot was a riot of clatter and shouting as the final preparations for the caravan were completed. Meira stood on a platform overlooking the depot floor. In her hand, a small datapad displayed a manifest of all the supplies due to be delivered to one of the nearby refugee camps. After scrolling through it for a few moments, she deactivated the devise and stored it in a pocket. That pocket was part of a uniform she'd been given to wear during this mission. The standard Jedi robes would, of course, be too conspicuous. The drab uniform was accented by matte black plates of light armor that covered only her most vital parts and allowed for maximum movement and flexibility. None of the company's helmets could fit over her dreadlocked and braided hair, so Meira opted for a simple set of goggles which currently rested on her forehead. The utility belt at her waist housed a blaster, but Meira doubted she'd be using it. If they were attacked, it would be time to drop the pretense. Until then, however, her lightsaber remained hidden in its compartment in her prosthetic leg.

The truth was, that they had very little information about those who were attacking these caravans. But the pattern of their ambushes was beginning to paint a picture of a central location from which they might be operating. Based on that preliminary data, it was determined that this might be the next caravan attacked, and so Meira and Macen had agreed to embed themselves into the crew working the route and to go along for the delivery. Down below the platform, Meira noted Macen's form and made her way down to meet him. The caravan would be heading out soon. They had to be sure they were ready.

[Ysmir]

Macen took a tentative few steps toward the holoprojector as Xisk pulled up the footage of the first attack.

While the trio behind him discussed, Macen watched with renewed interest. Closely, in fact; unlike his companion, violence to the Watchman was a fact of life; a rather poignant one, but a fact nonetheless. For all his skills developed over the course of his career, Macen perhaps prided himself most on his perceptive nature. As the chaos ensued following the first round of explosions, Macen took heavy note of their organization; tactical, thought-out, quick, like a lightning strike. Efficient and brutal. Not a moment's time was wasted as they went about this coordinated attack. Whether or not this was the first such attempt on these specific caravans was moot. The raiders were clearly used to this sort of thing, and the quality of their armor was a further indication of their experience. Even with proper security measures, preventing theft at the hands of these ones would be a difficult task. Further, the raiders not only covered their faces, but also -- purposefully, Macen deduced -- wore mismatching uniforms as not to lead any potential investigators such as themselves back to the source.

Just as Macen turned, his eye took note of the stamp on the handle of one raider's vibroax, visible in the lighting; JFM. The abbreviation sounded vaguely familiar, but he simply couldn't put his finger on it.

"They're certainly no ordinary bandits. That much is clear," Macen began, exchanging glances between Xisk, Rotul, and Meira, who his gaze settled on, "we'll need to approach this with a bit more caution than usual." As he regarded his Jedi companion, the slightest bit of uncertainty could be sensed; surface level, nothing indicative. Macen knew better. So, he merely gave an assuring nod before turning back to the Mon Cal and the executive.

Macen had his doubts, but he also had questions. How could they see through those muddled wraps? How did they know the routes of the caravans and precisely when -- and how -- to strike? What was their goal with the caravan goods anyhow? A party this well-connected and outfitted had little need for food and medicine. Many things weren't lining up in Macen's eyes; he even suspected Xisk himself of being less than truthful in the matter. Time would tell. He dropped his arms to his sides and nodded to Meira's words.

"I agree. Let's not dally," Macen said.

---

Macen did away with his garb and left it on their transport, perhaps a bit more willingly than most. The robes of a Jedi were comfortable, to be sure, and offered great freedom of movement, but Macen had never been a traditionalist in any sense of the word. The man, in fact, revelled in the opportunity to play a different part than what he was used to. He wore interlocking grayish-black combat armor of a medium variety that covered most of his body, overlayed on a ballistic mesh undersuit that completed the look. Around his head and cascading down along his neck and back was a tattered brown cloak that masked most of his face and helped him blend in with the rest of Xisk's guardsmen. Macen had spent the better half of the last hour walking through the depot, performing final check-ups with the vehicles shipping the goods. He played the part of a corporate commander well -- remnant echoes, no doubt, of his time on the frontlines. Old habits died hard, so they said.

It was a sad truth that he wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. The video footage Xisk had shown them was helpful in a certain light, but revealed very little about the intricacies of these raiders and how they operated. He and Meira would simply need to rely on their senses to prevent devastation before it occurred. No small feat.

Macen felt Master Valli's presence a few moments before she arrived alongside him on the depot floor. He crossed his arms, revealling under the cloak the heavy blaster pistol attached to his hip -- horizontall along his back, his lightsaber remained obscured from prying eyes. "Not exactly the prettiest set-up, but I suppose efficiency doesn't leave much room for cosmetic appeal."

He turned down to look at his shorter companion. A small smile was visible through the threshold of the cloak around his head. "I'm glad you didn't cover your hair. That'd be criminal." Dropping his crossed arms to his sides, he looked back ahead to the front of the caravan which was under final preparations to begin their journey across Randon's vast plains that dotted the landscape between the planet's many megacities. "Looks like it's about that time. I watch your back, you watch mine. Deal?" Macen looked down to her and nodded, before walking forward to one of the guard skiffs that were interpolated between the main cargo craft.

Shortly after he had climbed aboard, well blended between the mix of legitimate guards dressed in the same garb as he, the caravan began moving out as the depot's massive doors slowly creaked open. It took some time for the caravan's many vehicles to navigate their way through the crowded city streets, but traffic operators at the front of the motorcade performed their jobs dutifully and cleared a path quicker than it would have taken without them. Once they had exited through the city's walled gates, they were greeted with a pleasant, if somewhat shocking sight; a wide, grassy plain, not unlike one you would see on Dantooine or the more remote areas of Onderon. The sky was blue and the weather was fair and breezy, a drastic contrast to the stuffy and polluted city air. As more and more distance was put between them and the capital, rolling hills and steep trenches began to replace the skyline in the distance. Few words were exchanged between the guards or the quartermasters, and Macen soon found himself stepping away from the inner controls of the skiff. He ascended the ladder to the top, his hooded cloak whipping about in the winds as he saw Meira from behind. He walked to her.

"Smooth sailing, so far," Macen said with genuine optimism, though his eyes still scanned the horizon as it went by them, "seen anything out of the ordinary?"

[Meira]

"Not exactly the prettiest set-up, but I suppose efficiency doesn't leave much room for cosmetic appeal."

Meira looked down at her uniform. "It's not flattering, I'll give you that..." she mumbled before realizing he'd been commenting on the caravan itself. His next comment, she did not have a ready response for so she returned only the smile. That smile widened at his last. Dropping her goggles down over her eyes, Meira gave Macen a definitive nod. "Deal."

A light flashed and a signal sounded. All of the caravan personnel quickly finished their last tasks and scrambled to their positions. Meira moved quickly as well, taking up her post as the first vehicles began to move out. From her perch atop the guard skiff, Meira scanned the surrounding streets as they moved through the city. For the most part, the residents were indifferent to the movements of the caravan. Most barely even registered the long procession as they went about their daily tasks. The movements of these vehicles were that routine. Traffic was truly the only points where any of the locals seemed to even notice the caravan. Meira saw the spectrum of mildly inconvenienced to flat out annoyed in the faces of those whose commute had been stalled by the caravan's passing. Through it all, however, she sensed no real sense of anger or resentment. The funding for these relief efforts came from off-world, and the camps were kept well away from the cities.

Out of sight, out of mind. Meira thought as the city gates parted to allow them to pass beyond into the rolling fields.

The early stage of the mission went by smoothly as expected. Randon was known for its large, populous cities, but the areas immediately around them had apparently always been sparse. For the purposes of their mission today, that was fortunate. To date, no attacks had been made on the caravans within the range of the open grasslands surrounding the cities. This made sense, of course, as the proximity to the cities would mean a quick and devastating response to any attack. There was also little opportunity to ambush in open fields. No, the attacks came far from the reach of the cities, and in areas where the attackers could sneak closer before springing their traps. Like the canyons just ahead.

Meira was examining the now visible entrance into the canyon pass their caravan would be using when she felt the now more familiar force signature of her Knight companion approaching. Lowering her electrobinoculars, Meira replaced her goggles to protect her eyes from the winds as Macen stepped up beside her.

"Just a herd of nerfs a while back." she replied to his question. "They must have just had their birthing season. There were hundreds of little ones running around." Smiling at the thought of the young, clumsy creatures at play, she looked up at Macen. "Anything on the comms?"

[Ysmir]

"Isn't it wonderful, Macey?"

He had everything he needed as he stared out over the terrestrial landscape of Ord Mantell. Outside of Worlport, far beyond the reaches of the ruddy underbelly of the "junkyard world", the fauna was allowed to flourish -- and flourish it did. Runa and Macen had accompanied Loba on a trading expedition to a nearby settlement, something Macen had only had the pleasure of tagging along for on one or two occasions. He cherished each one. As he sat upon his mother's lap wearing a toothy grin, his eyes scanned the horizon, the high sun that had nearly set washing the mountains and trees with rays of warm, golden light which seemed to stretch for miles and miles. It was rare to see so far without a building obstructing your view. He looked to his mother, who held a similar expression to her son, kind brown eyes full of wonderment and a lust for adventure.

Their lives had been, all-in-all, unremarkable in Worlport; such was the fate of many residents of the notorious capital. But, as was her and Loba's mantra, you had to take time to cherish the little things. The Ithorian merchant did what he could to let the duo experience the taste of a life outside confinement to that dreadful urban sector, and his efforts weren't for naught. Such an image as this was one he would keep firmly within his memory for years and years to come...

---

Oh, mother, he thought, a reflective and somewhat somber smile on his face as he looked out over the grasslands and to the rapidly approaching canyon gap, if only you knew. From her proximity, Meira might have sensed the smallest bit of a nostalgic melancholy from the Watchman, who forgot to take measures against exuding such emotion. Whatever the feeling was spurred by, it faded almost as soon as it came about, a faint spark in the dark.

Macen held a flat hand upward, set upon his brows and extended over his eyes to shield them from the harsh winds and the afternoon sun which had just began to descend across the North-western sky -- it would be dark within a few hours. To Meira's comments, Macen smiled. "I'm pretty jealous I didn't get to see that," he responded, and it was geniune; he had a thinly-disguised weakness for small critters of all kinds.

With a small shake of his head, he looked down to meet Meira's gaze. "Nothing that stands out, idle chatter. Apparently, there's a storm on the horizon," he began, looking up and to the clear blue skies that graced them, brows furrowing, "but I don't really buy that."

He turned his gaze forward, still shielding his eyes from the winds atop the skiff. The caravan rapidly approached a crevasse in the raised canyonlands that the plains began to shift into. They had maintained a rather straightforward and streamlined security detail to this point; cargo loaders ran in a single-file line one after the other, with hover skiffs to the left and right of each major transport to provide ample security and, most importantly, eyes on all sides to watch for signs of potential trouble. The cramped nature of this crevasse would mean...

"We're going to have to keep our wits sharp, the skiffs can't stay on the outside of the caravan once we start through the pass," Macen observed, turning back down to Meira. "I'm going to go check with the driver, make sure he's aware of that. Contact me if anything goes awry." With a curt nod, he stepped back from the front of the skiff and to the roof hatch that led down into the interior of the vehicle, leaving Meira and two other Atlas Corp. guardsmen armed with long rifles on top.

Within a minute or two, the caravan had adjusted its ordering. All of the vehicles, skiffs included, now made their way through the crevasse in a single line. The tops of the canyon walls sat about thirty meters high in the heart of the crevasse, and the walls themselves were dotted with small fissures and caves of various sizes from the shifting landscape. The pass they traversed was only about seven meters across the whole way through, and as they went deeper through and the sun set further, shadows began to descend over the caravan. The mood of the journey had shifted as their position became increasingly disadvantageous...

It was silent, besides the hum of the engine. One of the Atlas guards looked up from the ground to a subtle hole in the canyon wall, something having caught his eye.

"What the--?"

[Meira]

A heartbeat's worth of... something. She'd barely noticed it and it was gone before it had even fully registered in her mind. But it was enough to earn Macen a sideways glance from Meira's eye. She had always been quick to pick up on her fellow Jedi through the force. It was a knack of hers. But Macen was still very much a new presence to her, and so there was little Meira could do to interpret that brief flash of emotion. Like her, and like all within their Order, Macen had been trained to seek serenity even in moments of emotion. So it was no surprise that what she felt was there and gone so quickly. Emotion, yet peace. The code, in practice outside of herself, was a comforting thing to experience.

And they would soon need that peace. Ahead, the perilous point of their journey awaited. Meira nodded at Macen's words as he left the roof of the skiff. In his absence, Meira's senses picked back up on the two guards still perched there with her. They were tensing in the knowledge of what might come next. Meira took a moment to connect eyes with both, giving them a reassuring nod and exuding what comfort she could through the Force. What they might pick up on was hard to say, but it never hurt to try. Sinking to her knees, Meira placed her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. As the caravan reshuffled, she reached out through the Force, pulling in strength and clarity. Slowly, she breathed in and out, feeling the world around her, the life and the energy. She reminded herself that all barriers between her own presence within the Force and that of others were not barriers at all. She was one with all things because she was one with the Force. Her heartbeat slowed, blending with those of the guards. They breathed and she felt her own lungs fill with air. The cool shade of the canyon walls feel across them and she felt her skin grow colder. But above, there were warm bodies, still touched by the sun's rays and...

Meira opened her eyes, rolled backwards and took hold of the leg of one of the guards. She pulled, causing the man to sway wildly to the side just as a red bolt of energy flew through the air and missed him by an inch. The guard, gasping in surprise, recovered quickly. He keyed his comm, shouting "Contact! Contact!" As he continued to relay the information, ducking for cover, Meira moved low along the roof of the skiff, eyes scanning upward until she caught a glint in the last bit of light still shining into the canyon. She paused behind the armored guardrail and tapped the panel on her prosthetic leg, revealing the lightsaber concealed within. Their ruse had worked, their presence as Jedi would have certainly discouraged any attack. But now that the trap was sprung, there was no long a need to hide.

Closing the panel on her leg, Meira leapt into the air, lightsaber now in hand. She landed on a narrow ledge above, just outside the inset of a small, cave-like formation. Within, two masked figures wielding rifles startled at her sudden appearance, shooting several panicked shots at her. Meira's lightsaber hissed to life, the violet blade illuminating the small cave. Their shots deflected, the two attackers seemed at a loss for what to do. Apparently not much of the thinking types, they rushed at her, drawing vibroblades as they moved the short distance. Meira sliced through their blades, but a heavy shot into the canyon wall not far away knocked them all off balance for a moment and the two had just long enough to scramble deeper into the cave. Behind her, Meira could hear the shouts and shots of conflict and knew that protecting the people below was more important than pursuing those two. Turning, she dropped back down to the skiff and began to deflect what shots she could. Through the Force, she searched out Macen's presence.

The caves go deeper than they look. She sent the thought out to him. To the rear of the caravan, an explosion rang out. Meira turned to see the last of their vehicles in smoke, blocking the way back. They're trying to box us in!

[Ysmir]

Contact! Contact!

This was it. What had been feared, what had been expected. The assailants had sprung their "trap", but the duo had laid a trap of their own. Underneath the darkened black cloth of his uniform, Macen spun out the leather-wrapped hilt of his trusty lightsaber. Within the walls of the skiff -- which reared back and forth due to the oncoming blaster fire -- the bright yellow light filled the area as the beam sprung to life. He turned toward one of the guards. "Keep us moving. We can't stall out here, not until we reach the end of this canyon!" The man nodded and went toward the driver's controls, keeping eyes forward for any potential roadblocks ahead of them.

BOOM!

An explosion rocked the entire caravan as a billow of smoke could be seen through the rear window, just as Meira's voice floated through his head.

I'm coming, he replied through their mental link, leaping upward through the porthole that led to the roof of the skiff, pushing it open through the Force. Macen flipped through the air and landed stout on both feet, deflecting a blaster shot just as he regained his footing -- one that was headed straight for Meira's torso. Back to back with the Jedi Master, Macen gave her a reassuring nod before flourishing with the saber, batting aside two more shots. His eyes scanned the high walls of the crevasse they passed through; their numbers were masked by the low evening sun casting shadows over their positions, and it was difficult to tell amidst the chaos how many more hid within the caverns that dotted the canyonside. They'd need to diversify their forces if they were to make it out of this fissure alive. They'd need to go on the offensive.

In the middle of the gunfight, now fully underway, Macen spoke out loud to Meira. "I'm going to take a path through the caverns and cut off their height advantage! Try to make way to the front of the caravan and make sure the path is clear!" He gave Meira one last nod as a blaster bolt struck the ground between them, sending sparks carreening upward into the air. Ripping free the cloth wrap that concealed his head, Macen focused for but a heartbeat before pushing himself from the skiff's roof with a rush of the Force. He soared through the air acrobatically, landing behind a pair of the raider snipers who were caught wholly unaware. A single horizontal slash of his blade, and the two fell to the ground clutching the stumps that were once their hands.

As the two assailants writhed in pain on the ground, Macen took this opportunity to scan the horizon. The area near the top of the canyon wall was an open plateau stretching out far beyond the limits of his eyesight, and the sun against his skin was a welcome change from the cool shadows. More than that, he could see in great detail what awaited them as they pressed forward through the fissure; nearly a thousand feet down the way, a veritable armada of raiders on speeders awaited. One manned a heavy repeating blaster mounted on a tripod. It was a clever ambush, and with the way back blocked off by their own destroyed cargo carrier, they had little choice but to walk right into it.

Macen smirked. If only they knew.

With a running start, Macen leapt back down off the top of the plateau, the Force flowing through his body more like a flood than a river, affording him greater speed and strength as blaster fire flew left and right by his head. He landed across the way inside one of the caverns nestled within the high walls. Two raiders fell with precise strokes of his blade before they could even react to his presence near them, the Watchman far less conservative with his companion when it came to unrelenting offense. With Force-assisted speed, he charged through the inner cavern's winding path, cleaving his yellow blade through whatever important-looking equipment he may pass; comms centers, detonators, and other shockingly well-made devices. Well-made for common raiders, that is. As he went through, something caught his eye on one of the many rifles lining the walls.

Is it...?

Time seemed to slow for a brief moment as his mind flashed back to the conference room.

One such being a vibroax, which was swung to split a Republic trooper’s head, the letters JFM etched in faux gold leaf lettering visible on the handle.

Committing this seemingly minor detail to memory, Macen snapped back to reality just in time to step under the savage swing of a vibroax levelled directly at his head. Another reckless blow, courtesy of a masked trooper who stood nearly seven feet tall, was parried aside by a well-timed block. Macen counterstruck in summary manner, bisecting the vibroax's hilt before the attacker had any chance to press his assault even more. Stunned by this turn of events, Macen took advantage of his confusion and thrust his hand forth; the witless raider was blasted off of his feet by a concussive wave of pressure which sent him violently into the wall just a few feet away, rendering him unconscious. Macen stood alone in the cavern, focusing his hasty mind to reach out to Meira through the Force.

JFM.

He hoped she'd remember. There was no time to chat. He took off from his position to continue disrupting the raiders' operations within the cavern walls. Meanwhile, the caravan continued its snail's pace toward the awaiting ambush, the ill-prepared guards fighting back against the raiders as best they could, bolstered by Meira's assistance.