Stolen to Darkness

[Rugs]

Tsubasa could scarce imagine a place as filthy as Balosar. The world, nestled in the Core regions was covered in pollution so severe the mid-afternoon sunlight that filtered down through the thick, dark grey-green clouds was little more than a haze. And that was here, on one of the middling levels of a city that rose up from the depths of the world’s grimy surface.

The way locals told it, you couldn’t even see the sun down on the ground. Tsubasa felt little desire to find out the truth for himself. He’d rather not be on the world at all, let alone, live there. Still, he couldn’t leave. Not yet, when there was still very serious work to do.

He’d taken a job while perusing listings from some of his usual contacts. This very city on Balosar had seen a sudden rash of kidnappings, with little explanation as to why, or who was behind them. They tended to happen in the dead of night and struck across all sectors of Balosari life — taking victims from the world’s many poor, some of the wealthy corporate types who oversaw the massive factories pumping death into the air, young and old, men and women. It didn’t matter. Anyone was vulnerable. Some victims were taken away in groups.

Others were stolen away alone, never to be seen again by their friends or loved ones.

Tsubasa’s initial thought had been that some sort of gang war was raging beneath the surface. But, after a day or two of investigating, that didn’t seem to be the case.

“‘Ey, watch where you’re goin’, short man!” A burly Balosar shoulder-checked Tsubasa hard enough to elicit a grunt as the Matukai — too deep in thought as he drifted through the crowds — wandered too close. Tsubasa, irritated, glared back over his shoulder to find the Balosar had stopped and stood, half-turned and fist balled, expecting a fight.

His pace slowed for three steps, then he continued onward, leaving the antagonizing man behind with a dismissive wave. Not worth the trouble.

“Yea, that’s what I thought!” He heard the man shouting. “You better keep on walking and get that look of your face before I put it in the ground!”

“Tsubasa-” Ifrit started. The droid shifted uncomfortably on Tsubasa’s shoulder.

“He’s not worth it, Ifrit. We have other things to do.” The Balosar wasn’t worth a punch to the face, let alone letting the droid set him on fire.

Most of the people Tsubasa had found had been strangely testy. He wondered if that was just the natural state of things on Balosar, or if the disappearances were setting everyone on edge.

Disconcertingly, he could feel a darkness — subtle, but there if he focused on it — lingering over the city. It twisted his stomach in knots. “Besides, we have a meeting to get to soon. There are bigger things to worry about than one short-tempered fool.”

Tsubasa ducked into a large doorway and into a sort of indoor gathering space. It was a mall of sorts, with sparse shopping areas and a cantina at the far end. The places seemed to be common near spaceports, as a way to offer shelter and relief for offworlders who lacked the Balosars’ natural resistance to the world’s toxic atmosphere.

Lowering his hood, Tsubasa let go of the Force, which he’d been using to control his breathing out in the disgusting air. A Balosar merchant, selling breath masks behind a grimy stand, yelled at him that he needed to buy a mask and not just any mask.

“How about we find somewhere to go over what we know?” Tsubasa asked the droid on his shoulder as he walked, ignoring the merchant’s shouts.

[Ysmir]

---

"Come on now, J'aqar. We both know what happens if I find out you're holding back." Macen sat at the cantina in the far end of said indoor space, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of Balosar, Twi'lek, Trandoshan, and all manner of alien species mingling about the place. Even for a Knight of his mental fortitude, such places were hubs of the Force -- both good and bad -- that made concentration a difficult task. But, Macen had the added benefit of conviction; he could sense the second he arrived on this polluted cesspool of a planet that the city had a darkness hanging over it like a thin shade. It was so intangibly below the surface one might argue it didn't exist at all.

Balosar was a Republic world, but that was only implied, not at all practiced. The planet operated as though the Hutts or the Exchange had their greasy claws firmly tacked in, thriving off of crime and fear. As a result, Macen went to great lengths to conceal his identity as a Jedi. He shed his usual homespun robe and left it on the starfighter, opting instead for his much more practical and incognito battle garb. The individual he conversed with was a Trandoshan by the name of J'aqar. He was a filthy, repugnant, weasel of an individual who had his hands in all sorts of illicit trades.

But as far as contacts went, he was as reliable as they came. So Macen went to him first for the information he desired.

Speaking back in Trandoshan, a language Macen was unfamiliar with but could translate through the Force, J'aqar sounded agitated by the accusation. "You not know what J'aqar know, J'aqar know much! But I not know what you seek, Jeedai."

Macen rolled his eyes, accompanying the action with a chuckle. "First off, you'll be wanting to keep that to yourself. Secondly, I can feel your heart racing, J'aqar, from a half a parsec away. Stop holding back. Who is moving the people? Even if you don't know exactly who it is, you must know where they're operating from. Just point me in a direction."

The Trandoshan looked left, then looked right, settling his cold, reptilian eyes on Macen's figure. He hissed lowly, leaning forward over the bar and answering back in a whisper. "Jeedai not know what he getting himself into. This bigger than you or me. J'aqar can say no more."

J'aqar went to walk away, but found himself subtly frozen in place by a tiny but powerful manipulation of Macen's hand as he focused the Force over J'aqar's figure. The Trandoshan tried and tried his best to resist the hold, but to no avail. Macen leaned over the bar. "Lives are at stake, J'aqar. I look the other way from your spice and deathsticks, but you just admitted to withholding information pertaining to trafficking of sentients. I'll exercise my authority to bring you in if I must. Tell me what I need to know."

Amidst the rabble of interspecies relations, trading, drinking, and general mayhem ongoing inside the open air mall, Macen and J'aqar the bartender were simply a tiny dot, unnoticed by the masses -- just as Tsubasa and Ifrit. However, Macen had a habit of constantly keeping his senses open. Once Tsubasa entered the area, Macen felt the breath of the Force emanating from his body like a flowing river -- then, just as quickly as it was there, it fell away as Tsuabasa ceased focusing on his breathing. Macen removed his hold on J'aqar, who nearly tripped over himself as he could move again. Macen spun his head around, practiced eyes quickly scanning the crowd of individuals for who may have just registered on his senses.

He was the only Jedi assigned to this case. This was either a ghost in the machine, or a lead. He set off through the crowd, reaching out with his presence through the Force to try and make some headway on where the individual may be. Macen purposefully made himself visible, eyes scanning the crowd as he searched.

J'aqar steadied himself, calling out in Trandoshan from the bar. "Worthless Macen no pay for drink! Bantha fodder!"

[Rugs]

The mall was only slightly more appealing than being out in Balosar’s putrid air. The place’s glory days were long past, though Tsubasa supposed that might be true for the entire planet. Here, at least the air was less likely to kill you. Though, he thought, watching a group of men radiating ill intent pass by, come by at the wrong time and something else might.

Force, he could only imagine what it must be like to be a normal off-worlder visiting the place. And that was without the kidnappings taken to mind.

Even so, slightly better was still better, and Tsubasa was thankful for at least a temporary break from the miasma. Though, he realized as he strolled past empty storefronts and sparse merchant stands, the inside carried a certain gloom that seemed to permeate from the outside.

“Or maybe it’s the kidnappings,” he muttered to himself. Those disappearances could make any place gloomy.

He approached the cantina, Ifrit scanning the crowd from his shouldertop perch. It seemed as good a place as any to sit and think, and Tsubasa wouldn’t mind food with travelers’ tastes in mind — the native Balosari cuisine wasn’t quite to his liking.

Before he reached the cantina, he felt a sunburst of a presence in the Force. It was no uncommon thing to stumble across an untrained Force-sensitive in his travels, but this was someone who knew what they were doing.

Tsubasa hesitated. Could it be a trick? Someone connected with the vanishings?

No, he thought, brow furrowed as he focused on it. This presence was clear and seemed pure of intent. It seemed, he thought as it seemed to focus on him in a way, to be searching for him in particular. Maybe I’ve given myself away.

The way he saw it, it was easier to approach situations head-on, especially when his presence was known. And if this other person wasn’t so friendly well...

Tsubasa was more than capable of using the collapsed wan-shen at his side to fend for himself.

It wasn’t hard to find the source of the probing presence. It was a man, tall and thick-shouldered, who seemed to as intent on finding Tsubasa physically as he did through the Force.

“I believe,” Tsubasa started as a Trandoshan yelled soemthing from the cantina, “that you’re looking for me.” He approached the man, confident but non-threatening. Ifrit cocked his head slightly aside, holographic wings rustling over his back.

[Ysmir]

Focused even as he was, pinpointing a single soul within this sea of life was difficult for any Master of the Force. On planets like Dantooine or Tatooine, the peace there was almost palpable -- one could feel it on their senses like a soothing breeze. But on Balosar, it was suffocating. One's mind was so open to the Force and its presence there it was almost as if they were blinded to it entirely. Yet, Macen pressed on. He wormed and weaved his way through the crowd, intent on finding the source of what he had sensed. It had been far too long since he had made himself truly useful to the Council, at least by his standards. He wasn't about to let another lead slip through his fingers.

He kept a hand on the saber hilt by his side, covered thinly by a small cloth to aid in disguising his appearance. His eyes tracked left and right, past the visage of each individual he shouldered his way through. Eventually, he exited the cantina entirely into the open air mall. He breathed, aided by the Force to filter the ever-present toxins from the air. It was easier to clear his mind away from all the life.

He closed his eyes and centered himself. A deep breath through his nose. Chest expanding, sucking in -- filling.

Then, he let it out. He felt the ground beneath his feet; the pollution of Balosar ran deeper than just the surface. Macen could feel its presence permeating through the crust of the planet. Maybe one day the Republic could turn its sights on this world, reverse the damage that had been done. But perhaps that was wishful thinking.

Macen let his mind reach around through the tendrils he had scattered through the ground, and anything that felt the Force as he did was highlighted as if in a HUD. When he opened his eyes, he noticed something strange.

I believe that you're looking for me.

Macen turned toward the source of the voice, and standing so close to him now, he recognized that this individual was, in fact, the source of what he had felt earlier. The man was a fair deal shorter than Macen, and far sleeker in build, but he knew better than to judge any individual based on their physical make-up. No; this man carried himself confidently and with bravado. The two stood in silence just a few feet from each other for a moment's time as Macen examined him further. He wore conservative, but lightweight clothing that wasn't unsimilar to what Macen himself donned for the journey. Tattoos that formed around his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Macen's brow quirked up as his eyes flickered down to the trademark Matukai weapon at his side. Macen eased his hand off of his lightsaber hilt, centering his focus back on Tsubasa's face.

"What's a Matukai doing on Balosar?" Macen asked in response to Tsubasa's assertation after a few moments of silence, though he spoke with a hushed tone. Perhaps the man, like Macen, wasn't keen on having anyone know his true nature. Before Tsubasa could properly answer, Macen had checked his perimeter -- behind them was an empty storefront, to which Macen began backpedalling. "In here," Macen said to the acquaintance, "better not to draw any unwanted attention."

Assuming Tsubasa had followed Macen into the husk of what was once a merchant shop of some kind -- antiquities, based on the sparse and useless merchandise still lining some of the shelves -- he turned toward the man, arms crossed. "I've been here almost a week, and you're the first person I've come across who seems like you're also here by choice." Macen stated. His intuition had told him that their encounter was under no circumstances a coincidence. As Master Varn had often told him...

"The universe is rarely so lazy as to allow coincidence, Macen."

"My name is Macen Oran," he continued, seeing it as only fair to introduce himself first to the man he practically stalked through the Force, "I'm a Watchman of the Jedi Order, sent to investigate..." He trailed off, scanning his eyes around the empty building they stood within. No dust settled on the tabletops, and no decay marred the stonework that made up the interior. Whoever was once here, they were here recently. He turned back to Tsubasa with a pensive expression, lips drawn. "Well... I think you know."

[Rugs]

”What’s a Matukai doing on Balosar?”

Tsubasa started to scoff. What’s anyone doing on Balosar? he thought, pointedly. His mouth started to open to quip back at the tall man, but before he could he was being ushered away from the hoi polloi into some old, abandoned shop.

One could only wonder at how long the place had stood unused. Tsubasa’s amber eyes swept over the dust-coated shelves, some of which still held bits and baubles that had never been quite good enough for a couple of credits. His senses swept out, surging through the store to feel for life; the stranger did not seem malicious but Tsubasa had no intention of being kidnapped himself. The only life in the old shop seemed to be the two of them, and at that, he allowed himself to relax, if only just a little.

Tsubasa found an old countertop, lined on its surface with rusting metal to lean against and folded his arms across his chest. Ifrit, photoreceptors and holographic wings glowing in the dim light, leaned forward expectantly. The stranger — Macen, of the Jedi — introduced himself. As his words trailed off, Tsubasa’s brow furrowed, his expression darkening.

For a long moment, he was silent, weighing his words. “You are bold to assume a stranger following you into this store wouldn’t cause trouble, Macen, of the Jedi Order,” he said finally. He let the words hang for a moment, then a smile cracked his face. “Or perhaps I am bold to assume a stranger leading me here meant me no harm.”

He laughed and finally his posture relaxed, as if Macen was an old friend. “My master did always say to follow the winds of the Force. As wind guides the leaves that read it, so do we let it guide our lives.” Again Tsubasa paused, seeming to weigh Macen with his eyes. There was a hint of amusement in his eye, though at what, he didn’t say. “Curious that it would bring us together at a time like this,” he half-muttered.

The moment of joviality faded as Tsubasa’s mind returned to the task at hand. “I am Tsubasa, of the Matukai,” he said with a polite nod. He motioned to the droid on his shoulder. “This is Ifrit.”

“We are here looking into the...” he hesitated a moment, as if searching for the right word, “disappearances. We have not had much time or much luck so far, but what little we do know has been disturbing.” His brow knitted, thinking of the many people on edge he’d encountered, of the tales of people — young and old, strong and weak — stolen away from their homes in the night. “A darkness is falling over this place, and I don’t know the cause yet.”

He lifted his eyes, his face a mask of determination, to the tall Jedi. “Tell me, Macen, have you had any better luck than I?”

[Ysmir]

Macen was decidedly cautious throughout the unfolding conversation; whilst Tsubasa sized Macen up, Macen's own eyes were exchanging glances between the man and the shuttered windows that let dim, yellow light flood in from the crowded mall that they had just exited from. On a world such as this more than any, eyes and ears were everywhere. And although Macen trusted wholeheartedly in his instincts with the Force, he knew better than to let his guard down for even a second. As Tsubasa expoused a short rumination on the Force and its tricky habit of bringing two kindred souls together in times of need, Macen swept by him across the small space of the antiquities shop toward the shutter and peered out of it. Across the way, the cantina he was once speaking to J'aqar in was still bustling, but the Trandoshan had since disappeared from his place behind the bar. Oh, I'll find you, Macen thought to himself.

When Macen had turned back to Tsubasa and Ifrit, it was as the man was introducing himself and his droid. "Tsubasa," he repeated with a nod, as though more for himself to remember than anything. His eyes turned over to the droid. "And Ifrit. Good to meet you both, circumstances considered." He peered around the interior of the abandoned building they stood within -- not exactly what he would choose first as a location for a social call. His eyes fell upon Ifrit for a few moments of observation. Macen couldn't recall specifically whether he had ever seen such an automaton before, but the quirky little machine earned the slightest hint of a smirk on Macen's face even among the doom and gloom.

Macen dragged his finger across a nearby countertop as Tsubasa relayed the information he had gathered. When he looked at his fingertip, it was clean -- spotless, even. He turned his attention to the area behind the counter where the salesman would have stood when the shop was in working order. There was an echo here, a shadow of something sinister whose footsteps once mirrored Macen's own. He looked to his feet and his browline creased in frustration as he struggled, albeit briefly, to focus on and compound this feeling. But the harder he tugged at it, the more it pulled away; like the galaxy's most confounding game of cat and mouse. So, composing himself, he turned to look over his shoulder at Tsubasa when a question was posed his way.

"I've heard much the same as you," Macen said as he turned around to face his tall frame toward Tsubasa fully. The rumours that disseminated through the raw and grotesque underbelly of Balosar were all similar, tales of indiscriminate and seemingly random abductions in the night.

"But," he continued, lifting a finger, "on one thing, we can agree... this is beyond some trafficking group making moves in the sector. I did a fair deal of research before I made my way here some days ago. Despite Balosar's predisposition to crime, such crime is almost always petty. You know, theft, forgery, illicit smuggling. Nothing that directly harms or impacts the life of another unless they walk into the wrong alley at the wrong time, and even then those events are rare as they come." Macen crossed his arms and shook his head as he took a few more steps toward Tsubasa.

"And further, the nearest similar reports of rampant disappearances are attributed to a pirate organization -- several light years away on Duro. The reason these have gone so under the radar as of late is because, well..." Macen gestured towards the door they entered in, "you see how they live, where their priorities lay. Nobody on this world is keeping their eyes peeled for the lives of others, only themselves. Not out of malice, clearly, simply necessity. And the more I walk on the surface, the more, like you, I feel something brewing beneath the crust." Macen turned from Tsubasa and looked behind the counter once more; a stone archway led into a dimly lit back room that was difficult to see into from their position in the foyer.

"I think we should give this place a once over before we go relocate my contact. He seems to be trying to slip away, but we have time -- he's slow and clumsy. And with the two of us, I think we could get him to give us a lead. Anything is better than nothing, at this point." He turned over his shoulder once more to look at Tsubasa. "Are you in?"

[Rugs]

Tsubasa exhaled deeply through his nose, nodding. “Yes, I’m in. We’re in.” He looked at Ifrit with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

Macen’s suspicions seemed to align with his own. That was a relief, in a way--it meant that he hadn’t gone too far afield in his guessing at what was going on the world and wasn’t feeling for shadows in the Force where there were none. It was, at the same time, disturbing.

What could be casting this shadow on this world? He almost didn’t want to think of it.

While Macen studied the dark archway behind the counter, Tsubasa made a quick circuit through the rest of the quiet store market. It was empty, and save the sounds of their own musings and movements, silent as a tomb.

As he circled back around to the Jedi, he paused, peering into the dim hallway that led Force only knew where into the back of the building. It was hard to see far, and to his senses, the corridor seemed as empty as the store’s front.

“Your contact,” he said, as Ifrit took flight from his shoulder and into the hallway. The droid’s holographic wings spread some light to the darkness-shrouded stone walls. “Is it the big Trandoshan that was yelling earlier?” That had been hard to miss; Trandoshans were generally hard to miss, and this one had seemed irate about something.

Tsubasa stepped into the hallway’s shadows, seeing nothing from Ifrit’s initial scan. That didn’t mean he let his guard down; his hand rested near his wan-shen, ready to grab it at a moment’s notice.

[Ysmir]

Macen gave Ifrit and Tsubasa an appreciative nod. It was an unlikely pairing, a Matukai and his curious droid, but he'd take any help he could get at this point. The Matukai were a proud and noble warrior caste from what Macen could recall. Often alone under assignments quite similar to this one, it eased his mind to know he wouldn't have to be so worried about covering his own back.

Macen walked behind the counter, pushing back the tattered cloth of his incognito battle garb. There, clipped to his belt, was a worn lightsaber hilt that appeared as though it bore the mark of many battles. Carbon scoring marred the otherwise pristine machined hilt, and a leather-wrapped grip provided a superior handling ability. Macen was confident, but not foolhardy; he would be at the ready for an unforeseen visitors, although like Tsu, he felt nothing but an echo in the Force from this place. It was more than empty -- in fact, the closer they got to the darkened hallway, the more they could feel the gash in the Force that seemed to eminate from within. Macen was on edge.

However, he was pulled from his hyperfocus by the Matukai's question. He turned to look over his shoulder and nodded. "Sadly, yes," Macen began as he turned back forward; he smiled as he saw the tiny droid illuminate the hallway before them. He'd always had a softspot for the mechanical beings, and this one had grown on him in the very short time they've spent together. "His name is J'aqar. He's a magnate of black market goods like spice and munitions on Balosar. We met some time ago, when I first started my duties. In exchange for ceasing his munitions trade and me overlooking his spice running, he agreed to funnel me information about more heinous crimes in this region of the galaxy. He's got his claws deep in many organizations, and if I'm being honest, things might be very different for the Core if it hadn't been for his inside drop." Macen truly was grateful for the Trandoshan's help in many things, but that didn't mean it got him off the hook; he knew more than he let on.

As they traversed deeper into the blackness of the room, it became more apparent what it once was, due in no small part to Ifrit's illumination. A doorway off to their left led to a storeroom, but the hallway came to an end further down into what appeared to be a living space for whatever sentient once ran this small shop. A dusty, but well-kept cot lay off to the left in the 10x15 space. A kitchenette that seemed to be rarely used stood off to the right, and in the center of the room was a dejarik board and a sitting area for entertaining guests, assumedly when the shop had been closed for the night. All in all, everything appeared rather mundane...

Except, of course, for the massive symbol painted on the far wall between two boarded windows. Blood red ran the colours that made up a diamond of jagged edges, streaks of ink having dripped down to the floor whenever it was placed there. Macen squinted as he approached the symbol, and held his hand out to it. As he did, his eyes fluttered shut.

Pain.

Chosen.

Wrath.

Macen recoiled back, the fingers of his hands curling together and dropping by his side as his eyes blinked open. He turned to Tsubasa. "I'm beginning to think the Force brought us here for a reason. Have you ever seen this symbol before?"

From their surroundings, and with this new information, it almost looked as though the former inhabitant had been expecting company...

[Rugs]

Tsubasa couldn’t quite keep a smile from tugging at the corners of his lips as Macen started to talk about his Trandoshan contact. “Is it sad?” he asked, an undercurrent of amusement on his voice. “He seems like a helpful person to have in your corner.”

At least, that made a certain sort of sense to Tsubasa. He was a drifter, not a guardian of the Republic as the Jedi were. While he tried his best to leave most places better than he found them, he didn’t often involve himself in such major concerns as drug trafficking or illicit weapons sales — unless they were somehow tied to a job.

Even so, he kept a few contacts who’d been good to him through the years for finding work, so he thought he could at least understand a bit of what Macen meant.

Any sense of amusement faded as he followed Macen into the back room. Most of it was so ordinary, so mundane that his eye at first slid right over the sigil scrawled on the wall. Recognition kicked in on a delay so that his blood seemed to turn abruptly cold as he studied the kitchenette — a drawer with finer knives than he’d expect to find in such an ordinary-looking store in it lay just barely open, as if hastily left behind.

“That is…” he started, squinting at the symbol. Something about it seemed familiar, scratching at the back of his mind as he raised a hand to the marking. It was, blessedly, dry. Whether it was paint or blood, he didn’t want to consider. “No,” he said after a long, thoughtful pause, “not this symbol.”

“There are, in places beyond the ordinary reach of Republic law, cults that practice the ways of the Dark Side,” he said slowly. “My master told me of some while I was yet an apprentice. I know this is not news to you, Jedi, but I have heard tell of some that practice… ceremonies. Old ways long forbidden in civilized places. But I have never encountered one myself.”

He rubbed his hand along the left side of the sigil. Focusing, he could feel a sickness in the Force. A shadow lay over Balosar, and this symbol — or whoever drew it — might lay at the heart of it.

“I can identify no matches for this symbol, Tsubasa.” Ifrit was sitting atop the kitchenette counter, photoreceptors focused on the mark scrawled across the wall. “At least, not immediately. With access to a holonet terminal, I may be able to identify better results.”

Tsubasa, half-lost on thought, waved the droid off. “Don’t concern yourself with it,” he said. “Not yet.”

Through the darkness twisting along the Force, Tsubasa could feel a thread of pain, of suffering, running like a current just beneath the surface. For all his effort, he could not see where it led, but he could tell enough to know that something was very wrong. “Some harm came of this. I do not know if it was here.” He looked at Macen, then at the room around them. Everything was as it had been — organized, if apparently not much used — but it all seemed more sinister now, for the sigil. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“But this,” he tapped the symbol, “was it left here as a welcome, or a warning?”

Tsubasa, drawn by a half-jogged memory, walked back to the other side of the room, to the kitchenette where Ifrit still observed the sigil. He pulled the drawer with the knives fully open.

Most of them were fine, but part of a set that might be found in any well-off home. That seemed a question of itself, but at the bottom of the organizer, beneath the others, he saw curved dagger with a smooth white handle.

If his blood ran cold earlier, it turned to ice as his hand closed around the polished handle, which he realized was bone.

“Macen,” he said, calling the Jedi over, “look here — this is no ordinary knife.”

[Ysmir]

No... not this symbol.

Perhaps it was nerves, or simply that ever-present feeling of pressure that bore down on his chest like a vice grip, but the recognition in Tsubasa's voice put the stoic Jedi on edge. Macen stepped alongside the man as he investigated the sigil that was left on the wall. It seemed to almost stare back at them with predatory and hungry gaze, as though threatening to swallow them whole into the gaping maw of its blackened soul. Just a painting, of course, but the energy it carried was undeniably... wicked.

Macen turned to face Tsubasa as he spoke. What he spoke of was no secret; cults and organizations who basked in the Dark Side and all its promises were well-known to the Jedi. And well-detested. Near the beginning of his career as a Watchman, Macen himself had personally seen to the dissolution of many such conglomerates. Even unaffiliated with the Sith as most were, the danger they posed to the balance of whatever world they inhabited could not be overstated. Macen openly grimaced as his eyes swept across the small space toward the sigil once more. As the light from Ifrit's scanners washed over it, the words that floated through Macen's emptied mind just minutes earlier played back as if on a loop. He sighed.

"I do," Macen said as he turned from the sigil, no longer content with staring at it. He paced back and forth when Tsubasa walked back to the kitchenette. "I think someone or something knows we're here. Knows we're looking." Macen turned his eyes upward toward one of the skylight windows at the top of the wall. Shadows of passerby outside backlit by the smoggy rays of the sun ran across his field of view. They were so blissfully unaware.

When his name was called, he turned toward the source. Macen walked over to Tsubasa's side and looked toward the knife. Polished white bone, a blackened curved blade. Macen clenched his jaw.

"A ritual blade," he said as he dropped his hands by his side. "A tool of sacrifice. We need to find J'aqar." Macen clipped his saber back onto his belt and turned from the man, making way for the hallway back to the front of the store. As soon as he did, however, something silhouetted dashed outward from the storeroom and into the hall. The moment that this happened, the saber telekinetically flew back into Macen's grip, and a quick flick of his wrist was all it took for the cyber yellow blade to ignite and flood the room with a bright glow. He whipped it forward and held the tip of the saber toward the unidentified shadow that now backed up against the wall, wide-eyed with fear as the yellow light illuminated its face.

It was a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen. He was a near-Human of some kind, with elongated ears and bright, almost emerald green eyes. He looked with unabashed fear at the saber hovering just in front of his face, closing his eyes and turning his cheek toward the blade as if to try and escape from its glow. Macen, ever-cautious, refused to lower the blade just yet. He peered over his shoulder at Tsubasa. "I couldn't sense him. Could you?" Macen asked with a furrow of his brow. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the area around them earlier, it was as though there was a hole in this building into which the Force flowed and never came back out, a sort of metaphysical event horizong from which there was no escape. The boy, confused and scared as he was, had evaded Macen's sense without any effort.

"Eek tu wa mako Vahl..." the boy whispered, speaking in a hushed tone through shaky breaths. Beads of sweat balled at his temples and rolled down the side of his face as he slowly opened his eyes to face Macen and Tsubasa once more. Macen raised a brow.

"Come again?" he asked, lowering the lightsaber. The weapon hissed as the blade retracted, and he clipped the hilt back onto his belt as he further examined the boy. He was barefoot, clothed in tattered and gamy robes that were a size or two too large for his body. Distinct scuff marks lined either of his wrists; clearly, he was once in custody not so long ago. Macen crossed his arms.

"It was... the servants of Vahl," the boy said again, looking between Macen and Tsubasa. He hugged himself across his chest and looked meekly down to his feet against the floor, closing his eyes and releasing yet another shaky breath as he, alongside Macen, began to calm. "That was what they called themselves."

Macen looked from the boy into the storeroom that he came barreling out of. Pushing the cloth divider aside, his eyes widened and his stomach dropped as he scanned about the interior of the room, lit by more smoky rays of sunlight coming in through the barred windows. Wrist and ankle clamps lined the stone walls, with pools of dried blood covered in a fine layer of dust visible in some areas of the floor. Other devices of silence and torture were seen hanging from a rack on the side wall.

"Tsubasa..." Macen said, looking over to the Matukai. "We should go. Get the boy to safety. This place is a wound."

[Rugs]

Tsubasa needed not voice the dark thought that sprang to mind as he lifted the dagger; Macen beat him to it, and the Jedi held the same fears as he.

A ritual dagger. Bad enough, to think that someone would take a blade to the body of another for ritual’s sake. Bad enough, when taken with the bizarre symbol on the wall with its dried rivulets of crimson liquid.

Worse still, to think that this blade, wherever had come from, had been used to kill for the sake of some Dark Side users’ twisted goals...

---

“But... why would they do that? Sacrifice? Aren’t there other ways?”

Tsubasa sat near his master, Barsavi, one windy evening under the setting sun on Cerea. Wind blew ripples through the tall grass, which parted occasionally for large, flat stones like the ones the two Matukai sat on. Tsubasa was a youth, just short of his middle teenage years, spry and wiry. He pushed his long, black hair from his eyes as he looked at his Cerean master.

“The Dark Side has a way of corrupting the minds of its most faithful,” Barsavi said. “They believe it will give them power, or serve some greater purpose.” The Matukai master shook his head as Tsubasa’s face scrunched up in disgust. “I do not say that to implore your forgiveness, Tsubasa. Only so that you understand how powerful the Force’s influence can be, for all of us — whether we follow the Dark or the Light.”

---

Tsubasa looked at the dagger as if it were a viper. Holding it disgusted him, but he didn’t release it; not when it could be an important piece of a puzzle that seemed to grow only darker for every piece they found.

The hiss of a lightsaber drew Tsubasa from his thoughts and introspection.

Macen was holding his lightsaber toward a young boy. Where did he come from? “No,” Tsubasa said slowly, “I did not sense him either.” He tensed at the sight of a stranger, but started to calm again as it became apparent that the boy posed no threat.

No obvious threat, he warned himself, feeling almost sick to his stomach that he needed to.

“Yes, I think we should,” he said as Macen investigated the small storeroom the boy had emerged from. Tsubasa spared a passing glance for the room--what he saw turned his stomach, but focused on the boy instead.

He was thin, as if sick or poorly fed or both, and could not hide the fear in his eyes in between nervous glances at the floor.

The servants of Vahl. Tsubasa had never heard of them, or whoever they claimed to serve. He glanced at Ifrit, motioning for the droid to remember the name for later.

“It’s okay,” Tsubasa said soothingly, “you’re safe now.” He knelt by the boy and reached slowly for him, grasping his head in his hands. The Force flowed into him, and his senses poured into the boy. Yet as he felt for ailments, for signs of wrongs that might be mended, he found precious little. The boy needed food and had some light bruises and cuts on his wrists and ankles that Tsubasa healed, but he was remarkably whole.

No, Tsubasa thought as he withdrew from the Force. He is not. He sensed remarkable damage to the youth’s psyche, felt some of the deepest depths of fear and anguish he’d ever encountered. For all his prowess in mending the body, Tsubasa could not heal a mind.

“He needs some food in him,” he said, standing, “and to know he’s in a safe place.” He nodded, agreeing with Macen. “That is the best we can do for him right now.”

[Ysmir]

"J'aqar will care for the boy. We'll make sure of it," Macen dictated with a stern and confident tone. Turning from the storeroom, Macen walked.

The boy, bereft of things like trust and kinship as he was, clung to Tsubasa's side; for all they knew, Tsubasa had been the only individual to show him any sort of care or affection for... who knew how long? As the trio plus Ifrit emerged from the shady and dingy sidestore into the smoggy open air mall once more, Macen focused briefly on the air around his own face and the face of the boy's. Now, more than ever, Macen kept his senses open to all around them. As the many individuals went about their lives, walking to destinations unknown or haggling for a better price on some rusty piece of machinery that held only the value ascribed to it, Macen felt cautious. Wary, even. Were they being watched from the shadows? As he reached out across the marketplace with the Force, nothing came back, try as he might. Ever since they had entered that abandoned store he felt as though someone, or something, had been keeping him bogged down. So, as they walked across the dusty floor to the cantina J'aqar served at, Macen kept fighting an invisible war with whatever force was attempting to keep him blind. He would wear them out, eventually.

At the bar, the large Trandoshan had been replaced with a meek and far less boisterous Iridonian. Macen stepped up to him. "J'aqar. Where is he?" The Watchman crossed his arms.

The Iridonian seemed frightened, looking at Macen with thinly veiled recognition. "J'aqar? No J'aqar here. Sorry. Need a drink?" The alien's words were unconvincing. Macen glanced to the entryway to the back room.

"I'll go find him myself," Macen said with a small smile, walking around to the side of the bar and motioning for Tsubasa, Ifrit, and the boy to follow. The Iridonian lifted a hand to protest, but no words came from his open mouth other than a drawn out sigh. Macen had sensed he had absolutely no quarrel with the Jedi; J'aqar had simply bullied him into covering while he attempted to make a sneaky exit.

In the back room, as Macen pulled the cloth back, the large Trandoshan let out a hiss of shock as he stepped back from a half-packed duffel of essentials. Lifting his hand, J'aqar fired off a bolt from his blaster pistol -- before it had even travelled halfway across the space between them, the energy ceased its motion and hovered harmlessly in the air, twitching and sparking to and fro violently as it attempted to wrangle free of the telekinetic grasp Macen had caught it in. Simultaneously, the blaster flew from J'aqar's grasp onto the floor and slid several meters away from him. Hand outstretched, Macen cocked his head to the side as he looked down from the duffel and over to J'aqar.

"Going somewhere so soon, J'aqar? We hadn't finished our discussion." Macen dropped his hand, and the bolt redirected in mid-air to fly right by the startled Trandoshan's head.

"No good Macen no pay for drink! What you think, J'aqar owe you?!" he exclaimed almost frantically, taking a half-step back from Macen. Then, his attention turned to Tsubasa and the boy. Specifically, he seemed to clam up even more when he looked upon the child. "Who you bring to J'aqar's cantina? J'aqar no know these people." He waved his hand to the two almost insultingly. Macen smiled.

Tsubasa heard a familiar voice inside of his head, like a faint but soothing whisper. Unintrusive.

"This is the one. I know he knows something, so you and I are going to play him. Follow my lead." After that brief telepathic message found its way to Tsubasa's consciousness, Macen stepped aside and gestured to the Matukai.

"This is my friend. He's from the Exchange -- don't worry, he knows exactly who I am. And more importantly, he knows who you are, too. So," Macen continued, crossing his arms. "Being that I can't touch you per our agreement, I figured I'd go and find somebody who can. Tell me everything you know about the dissappearances. Or else."

Shaken at first, J'aqar looked down at the diminutive Tsubasa and let out a bellowing cackle of a raspy laugh, holding a clawed hand over his sizeable belly. "Or else what!? Tiny human break his wrist against J'aqar!?"

Macen looked to Tsubasa and nodded.

[Rugs]

Tsubasa followed Macen’s lead as the Jedi led their group back out into the mall and the cantina where he’d confronted the Trandoshan earlier. As Macen pressed the Iridonian for J’aqar’s whereabouts, Tsubasa’s thoughts returned, again and again, to the sigil scrawled on the wall.

Why in there? The old store made sense, in a way; despite being attached to a mall, there wasn’t much in the way of foot traffic that passed nearby. Why him? The boy clinging to his side was, as far as Tsubasa could tell, a normal boy. He felt no echoes of Force sensitivity, no subtle signs that pointed to greatness. Just a child.

The knife, the Servants of Vahl. Questions within questions. And now, it seemed, not nearly enough time to find answers.

“I’ll go find him myself,” Macen said, jolting Tsubasa from his musings.

As they entered the backroom, Tsubsas felt a pang of warning from the Force and instinctively put himself in front of the boy as a blaster bolt erupted from the Trandoshan’s gun. The Force stirred around him as he prepared to take defensive measures, but Macen had already acted, stopping the bolt in midair.

Tsubasa glared at the Trandoshan — at J’aqar — but let Macen continue to lead. J’aqar was Macen’s contact after all, and Tsubasa at least knew enough to keep a flaring temper from ruining their shot and finding something out.

Yet, as Macen gave him a silent hint and introduced him as a member of the Exchange to J’aqar, he grinned. As the Trandoshan gloated, thinking the differnece in relative size gave him some sort of insurmountable advantage, Tsubasa grinned more.

He pat the boy on the shoulder and motioned for him to stay put as he stepped forward, looking for a piece of cloth. A shirt, hastily discarded near J’aqar’s duffel bag would do, he decided.

“I wouldn’t be breaking anything, friend,” Tsubasa said, leaning over to pick up the shirt. J’aqar made a protesting grunt, but didn’t seem inclined to try to wrench it from the Matukai’s grip.

Tsubasa held the shirt simply, gripped between thumb and two of his fingers. As he drew on the Force, focusing on his hand, tendrils of smoke began to curl from the fabric between his fingers. It burst to flame suddenly, falling in orange tatters to the ground, where it continued to burn until Tsubasa doused it with a wave of his hand.

“Now, my friend here needs his questions answered,” Tsubasa said, raising his closed fist. The air shimmered visibly around it from the intense heat radiating from it. To Tsubasa, it felt like he’d dipped his hand in some hot — but not painfully so — water. To J’aqar, it’d feel much worse.

“So why don’t you answer them, before I make you?”

[Ysmir]

Macen held vast knowledge over the Force and its many mysteries, this much was true. Hours spent in meditation contemplating the higher echelons of its study and hours spent with his face in holorecords and datapads discerning the nature of lost and unique abilities had expanded his mind and widened his perspective. But, like any self-respecting Knight, Macen was painfully aware of just how much he didn't know as well. As the smoke rose from the hem of the cloth that Tsubasa held in a menacing fashion toward J'aqar, Macen's brow twitched upward; it was a gesture of intrigue and of surprise. His lips parted as the smoke billowed further, and then both brows shot upward as the cloth burst into flame at Tsubasa's command.

Very curious. Very unique.

To Macen, it was a grand display of mastery over one of the more difficult and destructive aspects of the Force; Pyrokinetics. To display such command over raw and awesome power without falling to one's dark impulses told Macen all he needed to know about the Matukai, if his disposition and willingness to hunt down this evil hadn't already before.

To J'aqar, though the Trandoshan did his best not to show it, it was the stuff of nightmares.

As Tsubasa's shimmering and deadly fist radiated a heating energy outward near his figure, J'aqar took another tentative step backward. However, his torso met the wall and the large, angry man seemed at a loss; his fists squeezed together tightly. Once more, his reptilian eyes shot over to the boy -- now hiding beside Macen as Tsubasa worked his magic -- and J'aqar seemed to go green around the gills. Were it not clear already, it was apparent now that he knew the boy, or at the very least recognized him. When J'aqar noticed this click in Macen and Tsubasa's eyes, he grunted in frustration.

"Macen no judge J'aqar for this. They threaten torture and pain! Show J'aqar what denial feel like. J'aqar had no choice." His hissing words came out in what could only be described as a pleading tone, if such a thing even existed for the Trandoshan. Regardless, it caused a spot of sympathy to form in Macen's chest. He exchanged a look with Tsubasa before stepping up next to the Matukai. He crossed his arms and turned back to J'aqar.

"Who's 'they'? What are you talking about?" Macen inquired further. Unwilling to be left alone, the boy hovered nervously behind Tsubasa and Macen in the space just between the two.

J'aqar grunted, gruffly but submissively. "They... Dark Jeedai. Force-users like no good Macen and Exchange friend. But..." he trailed off, looking down and to the side as if in painful rumination of some upsetting memory. Macen, and likely Tsubasa, could feel the regret and the fear that accompanied his next words. "... they worse than no good. Evil. Sick. Force J'aqar to steal and say nothing, or they come back and do worse to J'aqar and his family."

Macen frowned. His lust for information had led to him and his newfound ally forcing the same leverage of pain onto the Trandoshan as these Dark Jedi. "Well, you won't need to worry about that. Once all of this is said and done, we can get you off world. You have my word." Macen nodded to the Trandoshan affirmatively.

"Forgive J'aqar for not taking Macen at his word. The Dark Jeedai, they are well-connected, you see. Eyes everywhere," he continued -- he looked left and right in a paranoid and cautious manner, despite the room they were in containing no windows to speak of. He settled his gaze back on Tsubasa. A brief but noticeable flash of clarity glossed over his slitted eyes. He pointed

"You no Exchange thug. J'aqar know you," he began, then nodded his head. "They know you, too. Warn J'aqar about you. Say you dangerous, to keep you away. Does Macen's friend know he is hunted?"

At that, Macen's look went from one of understanding and compassion to one of confusion -- and a small amount of worry. He looked to Tsubasa. "How long have you been on world?"

[Rugs]

Tsubasa lowered his hand and smirked silently at the Trandoshan as he staggered back, stunned by his display. Age had tempered the Matukai, but it hadn’t entirely eliminated the cocky streak from his younger days. All the better then; he was supposed to be some Exchange thug here, and who could put it past a goon to boast? J’aqar was cowed though, and he saw no need to threaten him further as he started spilling out what he knew.

Dark Jedi. Threats to J’aqar and his family.

Steal and say nothing. Tsubasa’s eyes narrowed at the Trandoshan. His fists clenched at his side. “You helped them?” he asked, an edge of venom to his voice. Had they spoken to J’aqar a mere half-hour earlier — had Tsubsa not known what he now did of the boy cowering behind Macen, or of the bone knife — he might have offered more sympathy. “Do you know what they’ve done?”

Peace, he told himself, closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath as he opened himself to the Force’s calming presence. It reminded him of jumping into a Cerean spring; cool water swallowing him at once, leaving only tranquility in place of bruises and aches of the body as he drifted beneath the surface.

J’aqar was not at fault here. Tsubasa could feel the fear radiating from the Trandoshan as surely as he’d felt the heat from his own fist moments ago. These... people, whoever they were, must have held a tremendous sway to force the Trandoshan to act as he so clearly didn’t want to.

"They know you, too,” J’aqar was saying. “Warn J'aqar about you. Say you dangerous, to keep you away. Does Macen's friend know he is hunted?"

Tsubasa’s eyes snapped open as he regarded J’aqar with a level, unmoving stare. “Am I?” he asked, in a voice that might as well have been ice fresh from the tallest, coldest peaks on Illum.

“A few days,” he said to Macen in a tone that was only slightly softer. “About three, to be exact. After all the asking around I’ve done...” The stocky Balosar checked his shoulder as he walked by. “‘Ey, watch where you’re goin’ short man!” He’d watched Tsubasa, fist balled as if waiting for a fight. Or wanting one.

Tsubasa shook his head. “...It could be anyone,” he muttered under his breath. Finally, the tension left him as he sighed, relaxing his fists.

“So what to do about it then?” he wondered aloud. “We could press on,” he said, looking at Macen. “Knowing a thing is true doesn’t change the fact that it was still true before we knew it. Or, knowing what we do, we could set a trap. If they do not know of you yet.”

“And you,” he said, looking flatly at J’aqar, “the Servants of Vahl — what does that name mean to you?”

[Ysmir]

"Indeed, it could be," Macen echoed Tsubasa's words in agreeance. Perhaps he would have been just as cavalier had he not discovered J'aqar and Tsubasa himself so quickly. As crowded a world as Balosar was, it was easy to assume that anybody asking questions would be forgotten in the proverbial junk heap. But this organization, of Vahl, certainly seemed more keen and perceptive than either of the investigators gave them credit for. They wouldn't make that mistake twice.

Walking to the doorway of the room, Macen poked his head outside; he looked left, looked right, then withdrew back into the small enclosure. He shut the door behind him and turned back to Tsubasa and the others. "Best we be cautious, then."

Crossing his arms, Macen looked to Tsubasa as he wondered aloud about their next course of action. Macen was no stranger to acts of subtlety; although his skillset was certainly more geared toward outward conflict, he could be more disciplined when the need arises. He pondered on this question for a moment, walking toward the far corner of the room and pacing as he lifted a hand to stroke his stubbled chin. On the one hand, an outward assault if J'aqar knew their hiding place would certainly take the slavers off guard. On the other, perhaps luring representatives from the shadowy group to learn more about their enemy would be the most prudent strategy. It was difficult to say.

As the fiery Matukai shot his question J'aqar's way, the Trandoshan, looking meek and haggard now that his secrets were lay bare for all to see, grumbled at first in response.

"The bad Jeedai, they sick. They think they serve a great dark one named Vahl. Capture, torture, kill in the name of Vahl. Make J'aqar uneasy." The Trandoshan seemed to shudder in thought, and it was truly anybody's guess as to what he had seen or heard of during his tenure as the Ember's unwitting servant. He continued. "They unreasonable and unfeeling. No sense to actions. Only chaos and destruction." He hissed as he ruminated on the motivations behind their actions, then shook his head. "J'aqar know no more. No know where they hide, only ever meet with liason to hand in captives."

Destruction. Chaos. It all sounded highly familiar as Macen's ears perked up to the Trandoshan's musings. Though the true machinations behind their actions were still a mystery, it sounded as though they operated much in the same way as any other cult he had faced down through the years. Such tenets were commonplace among the followers of the Dark Side. But, J'aqar's words gave him more than an impression. They gave him an idea.

"A liason," Macen chimed in, turning to J'aqar and Tsubasa. "That's it, then. That's how we find out more. You contact your liason, tell them you've recaptured the boy. Set up a meeting." Macen pulled his eyes from the two to the boy, who stood hugging himself just behind Tsubasa. He looked back to J'aqar. "Do this, and I'll work with the Order to pardon your involvement in this operation."

The Trandoshan seemed to hesitate a moment, but hissed and grumbled in agreeance. It wasn't as though he had any other choice in the matter. Macen's eyes fell to Tsubasa.

"I wouldn't ask any more of you than you've already done, but I figured I would extend the invitation. Are you with me?"

[Rugs]

A great dark one named Vahl.

Tsubasa’s brow furrowed. Vahl. Vahl. Vahl... No matter how much he strained, how much he stretched his mind to recall each of Barsavi’s lessons, he could bring no memory of this mysterious Vahl to bear.

“Some sort of deity?” he wondered aloud, pressing knuckles to his chin as he folded one arm across his chest in thought. “They seem to be a cult.” Tsubasa looked ruefully at the boy. “That much we knew. But do they kill and destroy for death and destruction’s own sake, or do they plan something more?”

Every answer, it seemed, unearthed more questions. Every step closer to the truth revealed in turn how little he truly knew of what he was dealing with. If the Servants already knew of him — already hunted him — they were more dangerous than he expected. They’ll find I’m no easy prey, Tsubasa thought, resolute. And I won’t run away scared.

To Macen, he turned to speak at the Jedi’s question. “I was assigned a job, and I don’t make a habit of leaving them unfinished,” he said. That was, selfishly speaking, bad for business. Mercenary or no, word had a way of traveling in hiring circles, and keeping up a spaceship wasn’t free.

“More importantly,” he went on, sighing through his nose, “there’s something foul going on here. I could not leave without seeing it addressed, no matter what it takes. After seeing what we’ve seen...” Tsubasa’s gaze drifted to the boy. “Too much is at stake to let this wound fester.”

The Matukai turned his attention to the J’aqar. He did not like the Trandoshan, not after knowing what he’d done, but he couldn’t deny the lizard might yet have an important role to play. “I assume it will take some time for this meeting to be arranged,” he said, glancing back at Macen. “Perhaps that will give us time to research what we can. Ifrit,” he motioned at the droid, “can search whatever records he can find access to, at least. I do not know how readily available your Order’s resources are to an agent in the field, but perhaps they could serve us as well?”

[Ysmir]

Macen's eyes turned to the boy as Tsubasa's did. Certainly, his body language had settled in their presence; where once there was apprehension, there now was reliance. Macen retraced his steps back to his two compatriots and placed his hand upon the boy's shoulder in a comforting way.

At Tsubasa's affirmation, Macen nodded. A smile graced his features. The Matukai was a bit hot-blooded, it seemed. It hardly took someone sensitive to the Force to feel the defiance radiating off of him. Stark, confident. It bordered on arrogance, but Macen had the distinct feeling that the man could back it up. So, that in mind, he let his eyes drift to the boy once more as Tsubasa's did. "Far too much. Besides," the Jedi shrugged, turning his gaze back to Tsubasa, "it's been some time since I've had the opportunity to test my mettle this way. Don't want to go soft."

Macen stepped from the two and retrieved a datapad from a pouch lining his utility belt, making note on the digital screen of his findings so far in preparation for his official report to the Order upon his return. Meanwhile, J'aqar grunted in response to Tsubasa's assumption.

"Leetle friend assume right. Ember difficult to contact, even more difficult to meet," the Trandoshan grimaced, clenching his fists in a mixture of rage and helplessness as he considered Macen's offer. Then, he sighed, waving toward the door to his room. "Go. Spend too much time here already. J'aqar will contact you when meeting is arranged."

Macen looked toward Tsubasa and the boy. "I can grant him limited access to the Jedi Archives from my ship, see what they have. Other than that, the Order is far too busy with the Archeri to grant any other aid. I'm afraid, as the proverb goes, we're up river without a paddle. But don't worry," Macen added, taking his hand from the boy's shoulder as he continued, "I can charter passage to a JMOC relief camp off-world for our tiny friend, here. Until we can settle things, if only a little." Macen looked from the two back to J'aqar, who grumbled in defeat as he unpacked his luggage; apparently, his intent to stay was genuine. Still, as their eyes met, Macen regarded him with barely disguised threat. This was their best chance, and its success rode on the back of this Trandoshan's honor.

Macen turned from J'aqar, flicking up the hood attached to his battle garb. "Let's go."

---

About half an hour after leaving the cantina's back rooms, and after sifting subtly and inconspicuously through the crowded streets of Balosar's open-air markets, Macen, Tsubasa, and the boy had arrived at the landing pad where Macen's Defender-class light corvette was docked. Equipped with only the bare essentials, it was an efficient albeit pedestrian method of getting where he needed to go, though Macen preferred it like this. On their way to the docks and even while there, Macen remained hooded and fully alert, taking great care to hide his saber hilt from prying eyes and keep his senses wide open to any individuals who might be watching them. Luckily, it seemed, their transport there had gone off without a hitch. They were safe.

Tacking his fingers along a panel near the ship, the rear cargo bay opened, revealling the loading ramp which lead up to the interior cabin. Macen looked behind to Tsubasa, lifting a hand to gesture inside. "Go on and access the main console in the central conference room. You'll be able to jack Ifrit into the Jedi Archives. I can't promise they're completely up to date, but if you're going to find information on a cult like this anywhere, it'll be there." He stepped back from the ramp once Tsubasa and Ifrit made their way up, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Come on, let's go find you a way off this miserable rock." Turning from the ship, Macen made his way with the boy to the dockmaster, a Balosar named Del Ferrik who happened to be a personal friend.

[Rugs]

Tsubasa followed Macen to the Jedi’s ship, half-lost in through all the way. Too many questions swirled within his mind, and not enough answers. Who, or what was the Vahl this cult served. Why were they kidnapping people?

Why Balosar? Disgusting, crime-riddled world though it was, there had to be better options away from the Core where it would be easier to slip the Jedi Order’s notice. Though Macen is right, he told himself, as they neared the corvette, with the Republic focused on Hutt Space, this may be a perfect opportunity.

The loading ramp design with hisses of steam and hydraulics. “Thank you,” Tsubasa said with a gracious bow of his head as Macen waved him up to the ship. “We’ll share whatever we find, big or small.”

As he walked up into the ship and the ramp swung shut behind him, a final question rang in his head, reverberating like thunder.

Perfect opportunity for what?

---

It was, blessedly, a simple affair for Ifrit to establish a connection to the Jedi Temple from Macen’s ships. After passing along needed authorization — and speaking to an Archivist to explain the situation — Ifrit and Tsubasa were allowed access to the Archives on a monitored connection.

Tsubasa lost track of the time as they poured through every mention of Vahl they could find. They were distressingly rare, but what little material surfaced offered valuable insight.

Vahl was either a deity born the Dark Side, or personification of the Dark Side itself; the texts were unclear, and Tsubasa lacked the time--and academic background--to try rifling through the differences. The Ember of Vahl, which he assumed where the “Servants” the child spoke of, were an ancient cult — primarily of the Vahla people — who worshipped Vahl.

The Order had, millenia ago, crushed the Ember of Vahl on their homeworld, scattering its members and Vahla to the stars. Some texts had been recovered in the process, but much was lost in the process.

Tsubasa took notes — as thorough as he could make them in a hurry — on a small datapad he’d used during his investigation. It was useful information, but nothing that spoke to the Ember’s return, and on Balosar, of all places.

“Something is trouble you, Tsubasa.” The Archivist, a flickering blue hologram, watched Tsubasa. Master Linora Yarrow wore her greying hair in a neat bun. Her face was kind, her eyes broad and perceptive.

“I thank you for your assistance, Master Yarrow,” Tsubasa said earnestly, “but I do not know how much what we’ve found will help us in answering this riddle. Everything speaks to the past, not now.”

Linora smiled. “You will find, Tsubasa, that the past speaks to the present more often than we know. The Embers were scattered to the winds, but clearly not eradicated, else they would not be causing trouble on Balosar. While the Galaxy may forget, grudges can endure — generations if they have to. Perhaps you and Knight Oren should continue your searching from that point of view, and see what that may uncover.”

Tsubasa furrowed his brow. “So they may.” He bowed again to Linora, bending deep where he sat as a show of sincere thanks. “Thank you again, Master Yarrow. For your time and your advice.”

“Of course, Tsubasa. May the Force be with you.”

“And with you,” he said as the hologram flickered out.

Tsubasa sighed in through, leaning back with his eyes closed. From their point of view? Master Yarrow’s suggestion was a sound one. But first, he’d send what information he’d found to Macen.

Macen, I have attached what we were able to find in our search. Most of this is old, but it may be a starting point.

We will continue searching and update you on any developments.

-T

[Ysmir]

"Look, Mace, I know your heart's in the right place, but..." Del began from behind the counter, leaning onto his elbow. The Balosar picked at the side of his head a bit, his antennapalps visible from beneath the tuft of his shaggy brown hair. "Listen, I just don't know how good an idea this is, bud."

Macen crossed his arms and turned his eyes upward in frustration. "You've known me now for what, twelve years? Since when are my ideas ever good? Never. But they work out just fine."

Del may have laughed, if he had any humour to spare, but that well had run dry long ago. "Space 'round Balosar might not be dangerous for the likes of a Jedi, but for everyone else, this sector's a death sentence," he began, "Republic can't afford to keep up with the protection demands anymore. This planet's a kriffin' mudball, but stayin' here's better than gettin' raided by pirates or sold into slavery. No pilot's gonna wanna risk their neck takin' some kid off world, 'specially if the pay ain't good -- no offense."

As they negotiated, the boy sat a few feet away. A lifetime of surviving on the streets of this crime-ridden, infested world had instilled within the boy a certain degree of survivability uncommon among children his age. Likewise, the months spent in servitude to the Ember of Vahl had deprived him of that most basic of rights; freedom. Although terror still pervaded his mind -- at the world around him and at the prospect of becoming a slave to the Ember's machinations once more -- he still found wonder to be experienced at every turn. Crouched near the dusty ground where hazy sunlight filtered through the polluted air, the boy's hazel eyes fell upon a stingcrawler burrowing in the dirt. With a curious nature inhibited by his sheltered upbringing and recent captivity now free to wander, the boy reached out for the insect. The crawler, simple-minded as it was, reacted with fear, but the boy persisted. He crawled closer as in the insect recoiled, whispering tiny reassurances to the object of his fascinations.

It stopped. The insect inched toward his outstretched hand.

"Besides, we have to take into account--"

Macen felt something. A calm presence, like a warm, balmy breeze on the plains of Dantooine. His head turned. "Wait," he said to Del, who ceased his explanations with a perplexed gaze.

The Watchman turned from the dockmaster's office, his eyes scanning the immediate area as the presence grew more and more clear. Focusing his senses, it took all of seconds for the origin of this feeling to become clear -- Macen's eyes fell onto the boy.

The boy held the stingcrawler in the palm of his hand, having lifted it to eye level so that he may inspect the insect more closely. Intuitively, the boy had calmed the creature's frantic mind through sheer will, and Macen stood in observation from afar with his lips parted in shock. So this is why, he thought to himself as he took a step forward. It only makes sense -- it's not random at all. Macen turned over his shoulder to speak to Del. "You're a good friend -- I won't take any more of your time. May the Force be with you."

"Uh -- sure thing, Mace. Sorry 'bout all that. Good luck," the Balosar said with a genuine concern in his voice, though inwardly he remarked at how strange all his interactions with the Jedi had been.

Macen stopped by the boy and dropped to a knee, looking to the stingcrawler in his open palm. The boy turned his bright eyes up to Macen, filled with hope and wonderment at long last, where once there was only despair. "Did you do this?"

The boy frowned a bit. He looked at the insect, resting peacefully in his palm. "It seemed so tired. I wanted it to rest."

Macen smiled, patting the boy on the shoulder as he stood. "Take your new friend with you -- we have a lot to do," he said as he began to walk. Shortly after the boy began following him, he turned over his shoulder. "What did you say your name was?"

---

A few minutes away, at the starship, all was quiet. As night began to fall on the polluted planet, hazy sunlight was instead replaced by white moonlight which washed the port city in a brown sheet, visible from the viewport of the starship's interior. Where once there were bustling markets, busy freighters, and numerous illicit deals of all kinds occurring at once, nightfall -- and the recent troubling disappearances -- made for an eerily silent and dreary atmosphere. Macen and the boy had been gone near half an hour by the time the sun had fully set; longer than it should have taken, it seemed.

Inside the ship, there was a rustle. Then, a crash.

Then, before Tsubasa could turn, a hiss and sudden humming prefaced a violent slash of red that came crashing down upon him from behind.