Star Wars: Divided Loyalties - A Clone Wars Game

SLAM

A bulkhead door opens with force.

"Boys, we have the chance of a century before us!"

None other then the tall, handsome, and ravishing Hondo Ohnaka steps forth. In his hand a small holo-emitter showing the latest news.

'WAR ERUPTS ON GEONOSIS, CIS AND REPUBLIC FORMALLY DECLARE'

"The galaxy smells of profit!" His words are met with a small cheers from the ragtag group of pirates. "It is time for daring entrepreneurship! But first, we must expand!"

"Where boss?"

Ohnaka points, "Why we shall start with Felucia! Then work outwards, maybe Galidraan, or Rhen Var! This part of the galaxy shall be our oyster, and its starting with the jewel of the Perlemian Trade route!"

Saundering over to his map table, he pulls up his map of maps. Free hand dashing over its sensors to highlight a route from Florrum over to Felucia.

"Hey boss?"

"Yes my lovely minion?"

"Shouldn't we take those planets between us and that place?"

Hondo laughs. "Oh you poor fool, we need speed! We need to be daring!" His arm is tossed over the fellow pirate. "Those planets have little wealth or importance to anyone! If we want to make a mark then we shall start with something grand! Or, as grand and close by as it can be."

Pondering the map for a moment before turning away, Ohnaka continues. "Let me contact some old friends, you should gather your own! Let them know the notorious Ohnaka gang is expanding!"

Hondo Ohnaka steps out onto the sandy world of Florrum, scratching Pilf underneath his chin

"Ah, I do love the smell of opportunity in the morning!"

The crystal hummed as it floated in front of the meditating Padawan. He sat cross legged in one of the ships that had come to his rescue. Jedi had died because of him, to rescue him. To rescue all of them, Obi Wan and Padmé. They had died on Geonosis, and even if most didn't blame him, the guilt of their deaths still weighed heavy on his conscience.

War had come again to the Galaxy, and he had the chance to avenge the fallen. To chase down Dooku and stop him before more could die. Instead, he'd gotten….what? Shot down by some Separatist missile, too powerless to do anything but watch as they just flew away.

Sparks flew as he got started on the workbench. It still bothered him. The way it happened. His carelessness. What kind of Jedi loses their lightsaber to some factory droids?

Anakin clenched his jaw and pushed down the thought. He wasn't the child who cared for nothing more than podracing anymore. He was a Jedi. A Knight. Maybe not yet, but he will be.

He could see the moment again. The machine grinding on his weapon, destroying it like it was made of paper. His master, just out of reach. Captured by some droids and a bounty hunter.

He gritted his teeth. The hilt was nearly complete now. It was heavier than the one he built on Ilum. Wider, too. Designed specifically to dominate. To fight.

A Jedi's weapon was supposed to keep the peace. Obi Wan might have a fit. He didn't care. He made his weapon for war, so no one else had to. For all those that fell on Geonosis. For his mother. For Padmé.

The heavy, toxic rainfall filled Coruscant's skies as the dim light of holo-projectors flickered to life. Static-laden, the signal to Corellia illuminated the midnight clad senatorial apartment. On Corellia, he mused, it was still in the high evening, and the image of his niece, clad in a form-fitting dress, heir hair wound up high into a traditional Corell arrangement that gave the impression of a perched carrion bird. Garm Bel Iblis expressed through a grunt, his moustache twitching.

"You've done a coz treatment." He said.

Ruefully, Shyla Merricope, his niece and Diktat of Corellia, turned away. "So what if I have?" The tell-tale sign of plas' marks on her cheeks had given it away, raised just enough to imply a perpetual youth.

"You're twenty-four, you don't need it." He continued, the tread of exhaustion heavy on his voice. "Did Mia set you up to this? To look like an up-jumped colonial socialite?"

With a gesture of her hand, Shyla dismissed the thought outright. "All I am is a socialite, uncle. Your time in the Senate has seemingly left you forgetting what I actually do."

Indeed, the role of Diktat had been reduced to little more than a figurehead for the Coronet Security Council, the body responsible for planetary administration and the oversight of CEC, whose board also happened to feature CSC members, the symbiotic relationship between Corellia and corporations had created a one world government to awe all others in the Core. A world without equals.

A single world in a sector wasn't any good when the whole galaxy had gone to hell. But Corellia still had clout, it could still sway galactic affairs if pressed, as any world in the Core worth a damn could. "I had hoped the Confederacy would be more serious in their intention; the Separatists within the Senate are little more than demagogues for the corporations, and Dooku... well, Dooku has been champing at the bit to force the Republic's hands. Even now, he pokes and prods." Garm sighed, shaking his head. "And the Chancellor isn't helping his case, these... emergency powers, the demands unto the Republic. Him and all the senators who wanted this war, the militarists." The word is like acid. "It wasn't enough that the Naboo business nearly turned into wholesale slaughter. Now this? Geonosis? The clones? The amount of Jedi killed..."

His niece looked distant, vacant even. She'd been at some gala, and likely wanted to return as quickly as possible, but her gaze refocused, visible even through the static. "I take it you want to act on this." She finally said, and Garm nodded.

"I intend to invoke our oldest laws before the Senate, and see if anyone else wants to take up the mantle of peace as the Chancellor and his allies accelerate the galaxy into war." With a half-hearted shrug, he finally got to his point; "I take it you'll support me."

"Of course, uncle. Though I can't imagine it'll be easy to assuage the board."

"They'll have their share, and the galaxy still has need of civilian specialists, even if the military power of Corellia won't be excised on a galactic level. There will still be need for transports, hospital ships, technical specialists. Independent ones not bound to the bill and whims of a Chancellor with wanton power." He said.

"Fine." She replied, then the link went dark.

---

"... the Senator representing the Corellian sector, Garm Bel Iblis, has invoked the law of Contemplanys Hermi. As of today, the delegation his constituency represents will be withdrawn from the Senate and the harshest blockade enacted on military traffic through the Corell system, under pain of search and seizure. Citing the massive overreach of power in the Military Creation Act being the root cause for the foundation of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and overbearing pressure from the Seperatist leadership, the Senator has made his homeworld's right to the law clear. Translated loosely to 'meditative solitude', this proviso placed into the Galactic Constitution enables the Corellians to withdraw from their obligations to the Galactic Republic within legal boundaries without threat of sanction.

... Additionally, the Diktat of Corellia, Shyla Merricope, proclaimed that the planetary government will enact the motion in full; no Corellian security forces will be made available to the Republic, nor any citizens of Corellia be imposed upon to serve in the military of the Galactic Republic. As part of a broader project, the Diktat has recently reclaimed many of the previous powers that had been surrendered in the long peace, assuring her homeworld that she will only serve to maintain the integrity of Corellia for Corellians...

... Senator Bel Iblis was last seen on Coruscant withdrawing from the Senate building surrounded by his bodyguards and element of the Senate guard, along with all delegations considered part of his constituency. In tandem, all formal diplomatic channels to the Confederacy have been publicly severed, with reports reaching the HoloNet that Count Dooku, the mastermind of the Separatists, had sought Corellian materials and manpower to bolster his cause, as had the Supreme Chancellor, who offered the Senator high posts in government, to which Bel Iblis simply stated that the only way he'd be assuaged is 'if Palpatine was to name me his successor, and then resign on the spot'...

There has been no further comment from Bel Iblis, Merricope, or the master of the Corellian Jedi Order so far..."

Colonel Cassio Tagge abandoned the Nth planning reunion of the week. People like him had been waiting for an opportunity like this one for so long... and now he had to deal with a bunch of "pacifist" telling him how to wage war. something in the philosophical tone of Master Kota when he talked about "Armies of free citizens" upsetted him, and... he couldn't pin what exactly it was.

"Rapprice!" He yelled at his aide "The OOB! Where is my damn OOB!? I requested it a week ago! Im making plans with SMOKE here!" he added angrily, almost throwing the briefcase at him as both men approached in the Hallway of the senate.

"It just arrived sir! Colonel! H-here's the pre-print!"

Tagge stared at the man, fuming. The young lieutenant had the habit, the HABIT of delivering just when he was about to lose patience. Maybe he should threaten him more often: he'd have had the OOB a week earlier. The document was exchanged for the briefcase, and Rapprice followed the colonel all the way to comms chamber number 10, as he checked the details and graphs with expert eye.

"Jadajadajada... inexperienced...jadajadajada... unproven... jadajadajada... yougottabeshittingme!" he rumbled, raising an eyebrow at the numbers he was seeing.

"Im sure this id the correct document, sir. I asked for confirmation before delivering it to you. Twice" Rapprice anticipated Tagge's questions.

The Colonel sighed, and pointed at a quickly hand-written note at the end of the dossier, in a small yellow flimsyplast sheet:

"Is this at least confirmed? It doesn't look confirmed"

Rapprice looked desolate:

"Im afraid not, sir. It came last minute, from..." He stared around, nervous. His boss seemed to understand. They arrived at the comms chamber, but Tagge stopped in front of the door, not opening it as he seemed to ponder something. Then he grabbed the briefcase again and instructed his aide:

"Good Work, liutenant. Never allow yourself to be sent into battle without all the needed documentation" he declared, waving the OOB. "Knowledge is in the documents. And Knowledge is power. The whole GAR can be at my disposal and be completely harmless... if I don't know they are at my disposal, where they are, what they can do, what their levels of operational readiness are... you understand, liutenant?"

Rapprices swallowed loudly and nodded. Then saluted.

"Good soldier. Now get confirmation of that note. And contact the local governments to see the readiness of their PDF's. I've got to do a personal call. Several tens of them" he said, seemingly not happy about it, before opening the door and dissappearing inside the comms room.

With the outbreak of War and the passing of the Jedi Military Integration Act, the Jedi Order finds itself forced into positions of authority within the Hierarchy of the Grand Army of the Republic. Masters and Knights have been granted officer commissions, but the matter of Padawans remains unaddressed.

The Masters of the Jedi Order and the High Council wish to avoid sending unprepared Padawans, many of whom are youths, into battle. The young should not be forced into command. However, the realities of the duties of a Jedi mean that many learners may find themselves accompanying their Masters into the field. As such, it would be both irresponsible and ill-advised to leave them with no official status within the forces of the Republic.

The Jedi Council, therefore, grants all Padawans the rank of Major when involved in field operations. With the permission of their Masters, Padawans who attend and complete an accelerated course in the basics of Command and Battlefield Leadership may be promoted to the Rank of Commander.

"I am Duchess Satine Kryze. You may not know of me; but you certainly know of my people. You know of our warrior heritage, our reputation for glorious combat that fills legends. You know the names of our conflicts, both ancient and tragically recent, of our warrior kings and great mercenaries, each battle we fought has filled books.

But you do not know the name of the current Man'dalor, for there is none. You do not know the names of the Mandalorian Warriors who died as our world was savaged by civil war, who were turned into dust by wars that turned brother against brother until none remained. The Mandalorian Council knows the high price of War, and we will not pay it.

Not again, not for a Republic which built an army in secret under our own noses using soldiers which have no loyalty, no rights; for a Republic which so quickly abandons its rights and responsibilities on the altar of crushing her enemies. We will not fight for a Republic which asks us to trade its soul, and ours by extension for power.

But we will not fight for the Seperatists, who even now threaten innocent worlds, who threaten the peace for their own material gains. We call upon any system who wishes to follow the example of the noble Corellia to join us; to show the Chancellor and the Count that our systems are not pawns to be won, that the galaxy does not wish to die for the wars of the great and powerful. We must refuse to contribute to this galactic fratricide; and we pledge to turn our own efforts instead to peace, and to offer a hand to any others who stand with us.

There is only one solution to these times of great violence, a thousand voices crying out for peace. We stand here, and we will be heard as long as there is a Mandalore. We have made peace from a desert, and we will not abandon it."

"Heyo! Meesa Jar Jar! Meesa was a politician from Naboo, but now meesa resign. Meesa want to help the Republic and bombad Chancella Palpatine say "yes Jar Jar yousa now in the army, yousa a bombad war hero, meesa make you Colonel!" Okay that is all, bye bye!"

The Jedi Code

The blindfold is soft, smells faintly of leather. A nice smell. Relaxing. The hilt of her lightsaber is smooth, comfortably heavy in her hand. A familiar feeling. Grounding. The manoeuvring thrusters of the Marksman Remotes roar quietly, rising around her on every side. A grating sound. Discordant with the sounds of the hyperdrive. Disquieting.

There are eight of them. Her lightsaber activates with a hum. Back and to the left fires first, and she deflects it at a stroke, then continues the motion, sweeping the blade to block another from one of the other drones. Then two fire at once, three, four.

Ultimately the exercise is beneath her. Two hours later, she still has not been stung even once.

Master Luminara deactivates the drones with a sigh, removing her blindfold and clipping her saber to her belt.

She doesn't have the resources on the shuttle to test herself properly. She knew that when she began drills aboard the shuttle, but the alternative was-

The abomination burned like a saber wound. At every moment, agony radiated from it, pain and grief and loss and hate. The sabers it wielded screamed in the Force, wept for their lost masters, hated the abomination and hated all others for daring to live.

The rage was overwhelming, and Dooku - Dooku who had fallen, Dooku who finally let his own darkness roil, Dooku who bled his saber crimson - had escaped. They fled, leapt from the balcony and into the killing field. The abomination did not pursue, but disappeared. He stank of death as he did, and Luminara mourned for Master Ur-Sema, though she did not know it yet.

Droids. Droids without number or end. She carved through them as easily as wheat before the scythe, but there were more. There were always more.

Brothers and sisters in the Force fell. Exhaustion slowed her. A blaster bolt scorched her robes, left a sizzling burn on her bicep. More Jedi died. Geonosian civilians died screaming, caught between droids that would not stop to help them and Jedi that could not.

A memory, but not quite true. A vision, but not quite assured. A dream, but not quite false. She feels, suddenly, that she wants to cry.

There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force.

All Jedi struggle with the code. It would not be the code if it were easy.

Padawans were gunned down in front of her, children as young as thirteen. Entire lives before them, experiences they will never have. She inhales through her nose, slow and calm. Clearing her mind, centering herself.

Masters who were old when she joined the order, cut down by the sheer weight of fire. Soulless automatons stepped on the bodies as they advanced, uncaring of the lives they snuffed out, the knowledge and wisdom they burnt away for this damnable war. She holds the breath, gathers her feelings. Every ugly emotion that collects in her chest.

Knights alive in the Force, bright and unwavering, ideals untempered by cynicism and time. Killing a dozen droids before falling to a dozen more, a dozen more. Bravery and heroism seen only by the droids who do not understand it, cannot understand it. She feels the breath she is holding begin to burn in her lungs. Accesses her feelings, examines them, and accepts them.

Clones. Little half-fires in the force, souls as simple as children's, loyal without question. They fight and die for the Jedi, for the Republic, without question. Perfect soldiers, in the perfect army. Children the Order is sending to fight for the Republic, because they don't know how to say no. She looks over, uneasy, at the cot where Barriss sleeps. Perhaps they are comfortable with the clones because this is nothing new. She exhales, releasing her breath into the air as she releases her feelings into the Force.

This is how the Dark Side works. Create a dilemma with no good option, and wait for the Jedi to tear themselves apart trying to find one. She will not give Dooku, will not give the Sith the satisfaction. When they are eradicated again, when peace rules the Galaxy. Only then will Luminara Unduli permit herself to break, to collapse and weep for what has been lost. If the Force has mercy, there will be other Jedi there to catch her.

Adi Gallia was at first glance an odd choice as Jedi Representative on the Joint Chiefs.

She had neither the experience with command and military acumen of Master Rancisis, nor the personal combat experience of Master Windu. She was not the order's foremost warrior or its most wizened sage. That was not what the job required. Adi Gallia was first and foremost a diplomat, someone who could be relied upon to smooth over ruffled feathers, clear up miscommunications, and ensure that everyone was on the same page.

Yet as she poured over lists of military deployments, inteligent reports and Jedi personnel files, she could see the war with a frightening clarity. All of it was connected through the living force, a web of sentients which together made up the machinery of mass slaughter. It was beautiful in a perverse way. The political dance which Adi had become so attuned to had shed its mask, and her worst fears had been realized. Dooku, fallen, at the head of legions of droids, the corporate titans of the Rim at his back, the very manifestation of the Republic's rot.

The Jedi would have to become the master of this wretched machine to stop him. Adi did not doubt they could do it. There was no place for fear in a Jedi Master's heart. She only hoped that when all was said and done the Jedi Order would still be worthy of the title of Jedi.

Outer-Rim, Hyperspace, Slave-I

Boba looked up from the blaster he was cleaning. Still clutched in his hand was the rag stained with oils and chemicals to remove the crimson geonosian sand that stubbornly refused to cease clinging to the metal of its barrel. The rough detritus seemed to get everywhere.

"Buir, do you hate the Jedi?" He asked his father as the man went through their ritualistic maintenance of another weapon.

Jango didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

"Should I hate the Jedi?" Boba asked, brow furrowed by thought.

Jango paused for a moment, inspecting his work.

"Not because I hate them."

"I don't understand." came the expected childish whine. Then again, Jango supposed, Boba was a child. And he deserved something approaching an explanation.

"When I was your age, I watched my parents die. It was not Jedi who saved me. Jaster Mereel did. It was not Jedi who fought to return honor to Mandalore. My new family, my….clan did."

"And then the Jedi killed them?" asked Boba

"And then the Jedi killed them." Jango agreed.

"But Dooku was one of those Jedi. And we're working for him." Boba continued, voice still confused.

"It's complicated." Jango replied, voice stern, brooking no argument.

It certainly was. Even now he could feel the simmering embers of his rage for Galidraan, waiting to be stoked. But hating Dooku was like hating a knife for slitting a throat. Especially when the knife apologised for it. It was practically embarrassing, shameful even. It was contempt he felt for those who let hut'uun like Tor Viszla and his allies wield them so easily. But that wasn't for Boba to know. Those were his wars, not his son's. He'd kill to make sure of it.

But then again, Boba's deadpan expression indicated the boy was clearly unsatisfied with that answer. Had he been such a little osik as a child? Or was it normal for children of that age to question everything?

"Grudges aside, there is a reason why to dislike the Jedi. They are one of our oldest enemies. Time and time again the Mandalorians of old tested their might against the Jedi and were thrown back. And do you know what they did with their victory? They did nothing."

Beyond turn Mandalore into blasted grey sand and neutered lapdogs. But that wasn't his war to fight any longer.

"They let the galaxy be carved up by honorless scavengers, so long as it looked legal enough."

Senators more devoted to their paymasters than their constituents. Entire sectors at the mercy of the strongest corporation or pirate gang to strip them of wealth. The Outer-Rim, the truest victim of the Jedi's peace. A galaxy rotten to the core, held together by sheer inertia. Until now.

"I don't expect you to hate the Jedi Boba. But if I raise you right, I expect you to understand enough that they disgust you."

The New Mandalorians could have their graveyard. He would be satisfied with his revenge.

The holocrystal flickered with a shimmer that should not have existed. Pale-blue light licked at the edge of the pedestal where it sat, and the sandstone walls of the chamber seemed to inhale the glow, exhaling a silence as absolute as vacuum. No hum of servos. No chirr from outside comms. Just the quiet click of ancient mechanics surrendering to purpose. Dust hung in the air like breath suspended, unmoving. Then a faint click.

Sora Bulq did not move.

He stood in the periphery of the ancient chamber—not quite hidden, not yet revealed. The light of the holocrystal cast long shadows that didn't fall quite right, bending around pillars like they had memory. The walls were old, carved before the Temple above had ever known its name. This place was beneath history, where echoes lingered longer than footsteps and silence breathed on its own.

He had come here alone. Not as the Jedi Master once known on the Temple floor, but as something unmoored. He wore no cloak now, only plain robes, their edges dulled from dust and travel. He was not seated. He did not kneel. He watched.

The holocrystal had not yet been distributed. That would come later.

For now, he reviewed.

Its surface was pristine—deliberately aged with fine micro-scoring, its housing slightly scorched along one edge as though it had seen conflict. The audio encoding had been degraded just enough to create the illusion of time. But it was recent. Fresh. Made not in the light of unity, but in the fracture that followed Geonosis. Made in the stillness after blood was shed and certainty gave way to breathless void.

The message was meant to seem old. As though recorded long before the battle. As though meant for one—Galdos, lost due to the hubris of Yoda and the rest of the council—but passed by mistake or miracle to another. That fiction would hold. It had to.

He activated it with the faintest brush.

A three-quarter figure projected upward, cloaked in the robes of a Weequay Jedi Master. Himself. Sora Bulq. His image was steady, composed—but in the stillness of the hologram, something seemed coiled beneath, like a whisper waiting its turn. He stood not as a warrior, but as a teacher paused between trials, a voice between breaths. The flicker of the projection lent the impression of breath itself, as though Bulq were somehow just behind the veil, watching.

"Galdos," the recording said quietly. The name fell like a pebble into a pond, causing ripples the recording could not erase. "If you're seeing this, then you've woken. And for that, I am thankful. I regret I cannot be there. The mission demands I press forward. But not far. Not long."

He drew in a breath, quiet and steady. The kind of breath taken not to center oneself, but to soften what must follow.

"Lannik was never going to be clean," he said. "Missions like that never are. We walked into uncertainty and came out the other side. Some part of us always stays behind, though. Leaves a shape behind us. A shadow."

He looked down, as if he could see Galdos where he lay recovering. As if his next words were chosen with more care than any blade.

"The healers will mend your body. I trust them. But what you faced—what you felt... that lingers. The Order teaches us to release. To let go. Yet what they do not always say is how. Or when. Or what to do when the letting go does not come."

His hands moved, gently now. Not quite a gesture. More the ghost of one.

"There is a motion. Old. Not hidden, but not spoken of anymore. Preserved in practice, in small corners. I was shown it. Long ago. And I show it to you now not as a secret, but as a thread. Something you may follow, or not."

His right hand came to rest over his heart.

"It is called the Motion That Remembers."

He began to move—a slow outward spiral, tracing a path from chest to air. His hand, palm flat, turned as it moved. The wrist gave a subtle twist at each pass, unwinding, as if releasing something invisible. His foot, barely perceptible, rotated with him—an anchoring pivot that maintained his balance as the spiral widened. The motion was more than physical. It was lyrical. Hypnotic.

"You do not chase emotion with this. You do not speak to it. You do not name it. You let it pass. The spiral draws it outward—not violently. Not quickly. But with grace."

He moved again, the spiral larger now, and his breath seemed to guide the pace—slow inhalation as the hand reached the outer arc, slower exhale as the hand returned to the heart, not to hold, but to begin again.

"The Jedi Code says there is no emotion, there is peace. And that is true. But they rarely speak of the space between those words. Peace does not mean absence. It means... permission. It is what remains when the fire has passed, when the storm recedes."

He paused mid-motion, held his hand aloft in the spiral's outermost curve.

"When the sharp edge of memory returns—a face, a scream, a decision—you do not confront it. You begin the spiral. You guide it outward. Not with fear. Not with anger. You spiral it away. Let it dissolve at the edge of motion."

His voice had softened now to the point of prayer. Each word unspooled slowly, heavy with meaning, light with delivery.

"You must not grip it. You must not fight it. That is how it burrows. Let it go not with disdain, but with permission. Not cast away, but returned to the current."

He stepped slightly. A single footfall. A movement that changed the axis of his spiral without disrupting its rhythm.

"Pain resists. Doubt clings. They are not enemies. They are echoes. You may feel them tighten, try to root themselves in your center. That is not a failing. That is their nature. But you are not the echo. You are the space it leaves behind."

The spiral continued. The chamber, still as tombstone and dusk, felt warmer now. Not in temperature, but in tone. As if the motion itself changed the way the air settled.

"This is not a cure. This is not a forgetting. It is the motion of letting. Letting the self remember, and then letting the memory go. A breath. A shape. A motion that releases without erasure."

He lowered his hand, let it hang at his side, and drew in a long breath.

"There are other motions," he said. "Other steps. This is the first. It prepares you, not just for silence, but for resonance. Not for serenity, but for truth."

His gaze sharpened, as if narrowing toward something behind the recording—toward the moment in the future where he would speak again, not as hologram, but in person.

"Practice this when the silence thickens. When your breath grows tight. When your hand aches for the hilt and the moment screams for action. This is not for the battle. This is for the moment after. When the weapon lowers and the weight does not."

He exhaled, and for the first time, a faint shimmer pulsed from the holocrystal—a synchronized breath from stone and spirit.

"If this form steadies you, if you feel it resonate beneath the skin—we will speak again. There is more to learn."

He bowed his head, the motion slow and deliberate.

"The Force is not the fire or the wind. It is the shape left behind when both pass. Let what does not serve you spiral outward."

The projection dimmed, not all at once, but as if dissolving into dust. Fading from the edges inward, as if echoing the motion it had taught.

But the spiral remained.

It would move again, in another room, in another body. A quiet pattern mistaken for healing. A gesture repeated not in faith, but in need. A motion that promised peace, but asked first for silence. Then surrender.

And beneath it all, the Spiral echoed still.

Sora Bulq stepped forward at last. Not hurried. Not triumphant. As if approaching a grave that had been prepared in advance.

He looked down at the crystal with something that might have been reverence. Or regret. Or satisfaction. Perhaps all three. Then, silently, he turned to the console and began the process of duplication.

There would be more. Dozens. Perhaps hundreds. Each one seeded in a place the Jedi Council would overlook: tucked in a field kit, embedded in the lining of a satchel, left behind like a whisper. Each one bearing his voice. His first gift.

He picked up the first copy and turned it over in his hand.

By the time it reached another—one who had bled on Geonosis, one who woke shaking in the dark, one who found silence where there should have been answers—his name would be forgotten. Or remembered differently. Or not at all.

In the weeks to come, he would disappear. The man who stood here now would vanish from light and name. Something else would rise in his place. Something without identity. Without face. A presence that moved through corridors unmarked, speaking with many voices but always watching.

For now, he allowed himself one final breath.

Then he pulled the hood over his head.

The shadows accepted him without protest. And when he turned, it was not Sora Bulq who left the room, but the thing he must become.....for now.

The spiral would grow.

"The Cressida reports all loaded captain, as do Chorus and the Rainfall." There's nervousness in the comms officer's voice as the report is made.

"That's everyone then?" Can't hold it against him though. There's nervousness all about the bridge, doubtlessly across the ship and fleet too.

"It is sir. All ships are crewed, supplied, and assembling in orbit." Hard to hold it against them. A week ago, anyone could walk away and go back to their old lives, but now? Too much is at stake, and they all made their choice. The only thing left to do is pray and wonder if the last two years were enough to prepare them.

"Give me the fleet Essak." He orders the comms officer.

"Yes sir, you're on fleet wide comms... now."

"To all Sons and Daughters, this is Slayke. We've all got a lot to do so I won't take too much of your time. This wasn't what most of you signed up for, and this isn't what most of us wanted. Regardless, when the news broke you all stood and swore to fight, and for that you have my undying respect. For that I swear to do everything in my power to do right by all of you, so I will be honest. This mission of ours may be a death march. We must cross two enemy systems, breach a third, and assist a force in retaking a planet that is completely surrounded and vastly outnumbered. Our only chance for success is to reach Praesitlyn before the traitors can mobilize and lock it down. If we make it there, then retreat will not be an option. We don't have the transport capacity to evacuate the loyalist force, and we can't afford to let the communications center fall or be destroyed. I have never asked you to fly into a situation this dangerous before, but the stakes have never been this high either. Like it or not, Praesitlyn will decide the fate of this sector for months, if not years, or even decades to come. The Republic Senate and Judicials called us pirates and terrorists, and none of you owe any of them anything. But if we fail here then untold billions of innocents will suffer for it. So to all Sons and Daughters, freedom is calling. Who will stand with me and answer her?" The Captain leans back in his chair as a chorus of voices answer. Crewmen, soldiers, pilots, all cheer and swear to fight, hopefully buoying each other's spirits in the maelstrom that looms ahead.

"Helm, take us to the front of the formation and lay in a course. We're jumping first."

"Aye-aye sir, to the vanguard." The Consular flies to the front of the ragtag fleet, to lead the Sons and Daughters of Freedom through hyperspace and into war.

Varykino Villa
Lake Country
Naboo

The sun was setting behind the distant hills, blanketing the great lake in a haze of orange and red light. A gentle breeze carried white clouds along in its wake, all the while rustling and shifting the tree branches above her head. Despite the pleasant temperature surrounding her on all sides, she felt cold, almost enough to shiver. She knew this dark pit in her stomach would not close up until Anakin was in her arms once more…

Idly, Padmé shifted her stance and gazed out over the lake, its glittering waters washing away painful memories barely a few days old, of red dust, of blaster fire, of screams and death. Beneath her wedding garments, the bandages itched fiercely, as if the mere thought of Geonosis would split open the great gashes the Nexu had left upon her back. Her fingers tightened ever-so-slightly against the stone railings, and both memories and feelings were buried deep in her mind once more.

The thought came to her quickly, for she knew if she left her mind to wander once more, it would not end pleasantly. 'I must remember to thank Yané for her efforts…' Though she was queen no longer, the former handmaiden had nonetheless taken time out of her own wedding preparations to knit together the veil which even now Padme wore upon her head, the Naberrie family wedding fabrics expertly woven into a beautiful pattern without compare. Her heart ached at the knowledge she had to conceal from her friend, but the less that knew of what was happening here on this day, the better.

'Perhaps one day, they'd… Maybe…' Behind her, she heard the footsteps of Anakin, and whatever thoughts she had on the matter, she let lie by the wayside. They could be mused upon and discussed in the future. Today was to be a day of joy. For both of them.

---

He had seen her before she heard him, Padmé by the lakeside a vision of beauty he was still afraid would disappear if he looked away too long. For a heartbeat, Anakin just stood there, observing her from afar.

Was this really real?

Only a few days ago, they'd been captives of the separatists. She'd fallen onto the sands of Geonosis, and he had lifted her up, afraid he'd lost her, just like on Tatooine. And now, here she stood, alive, radiant, dressed as a bride.

A bride. His bride. His chest tightened into knots. What would his mother have said, if she saw him like this? Would she have been proud? Would Qui-Gon?
Deep down, he knew this was rebellion. Going against everything Obi-Wan had taught him. What the code taught him. It went against everything Master Yoda and the Jedi Order stood for, with their antipathy to attachment and averseness to love. But then why did it feel so right?

He looked at her again. The Order wouldn't understand. Couldn't understand. Was it so wrong of him to want something for himself? Was it a betrayal for him to take this one thing that made him happy, truly happy, after everything?

He was still a Jedi. The Order spoke of balance, of peace, in the same breath as they asked him to let go of everything he'd ever held dear. They said love was a sin, then sent him to battle expecting compassion and serenity.

It was hypocrisy. This, this, Padmé standing before him by the lake, as ready to be his as he was to be her's. That was real.

Anakin knew he was breaking the rules.

He'd break a thousand rules for her.

---

With a newfound smile upon her lips, Padmé stepped forward, so-eagerly wishing to embrace Anakin then and there, but with the elderly Pontifex mere feet away, it would be unbecoming for him to find them in such a compromising position. After a few moments of struggling to find her words, she at last uttered out: "I am sorry I could not have…found something appropriate for you to wear on this special day. Not…not that Jedi robes are ugly-" And whatever else she planned to say once more died in her throat. With a pause and a deep breath, she continued. "I am nervous, and I should not be, not after all we have already faced, and yet…"

He took her hand in his. "You think I care what I'm wearing, Padmé? You could've married me in one of those horrible caves on Geonosis and I'd still be the luckiest man in the world." His fingers interlaced with hers as he glanced down at his tunic and robe, "This thing is probably the cleanest it has been in a month," he joked, trying to lighten her mood, even as his own nerves threatened mutiny, "For the record, these are ugly. You're just too…too polite to say so. If I had my way, I'd wear something better. Black Armor, maybe, with a cape."

He looked at the Priest waiting to do their ceremony, and stepped forward, unwilling to let go of her hand still. "I'm nervous too," he admitted, "Not because I doubt this, doubt us, but because I keep thinking of more and more ways that I could lose you."

At the mention of armor, whatever resistance Padmé could have mustered broke away like sand against the tides, and with a soft giggle upon her lips, she tried in vain to imagine him in something so outlandish. "You're terrible!" She struggled through short fits of laughter, the whole exercise nearly making her lean into his oh-so-inviting chest.

After a short moment of calm, she continued, voice now a low whisper. "I understand. It's a dangerous time for us all. I can't exactly say I am thrilled to see you throw yourself into this war either, but we both have our duties that we must attend to. I promise to do whatever I can to always come back to you, like I know in my heart, that you will do the same for me." With a hand grasping his cheek, it appeared as though she would kiss him right then and there, but at the last moment she withdrew.

Taking a step forward, Anakin still clasped in her hands, Padmé led the pair towards the awaiting monk and their droid companions.

---

"Thank you again for coming on such short notice, Pontifex Agolerga." Padmé began as they approached, receiving a humble nod from the monk in turn.

"It truly is no great burden, miss Veré. To officiate such an example of young love as this brings a great warmth to this old priest's heart. Are you both ready to begin?"

With smiles upon their lips, the pair nodded, and the Pontifex thus stood between them, reciting a few short words in honor of Shiraya, Naboo's lunar goddess. The words themselves were quickly drowned out, for nothing else mattered now. Nothing but each other.

"-Thus, do you, sir Set, take this young maiden, miss Veré, as your lawfully wedded wife?" concluded the Pontifex, his aged visage now focused upon Anakin.
The words lawfully wedded echoed in his ears. Despite all the lies they were forced to tell, to the Senate, the Order, even her family, this was real. For a split second, an image appeared in front of him. Master Windu's judgemental look, The Council's fears about his attachments becoming true. Worst of all was Obi-Wan. Not judgemental, not angry, just…..disappointed.

Then he looked at her again. If she was willing to risk it all for him, her career in the senate, her reputation, if she loved him as much as he loved her, it was worth it. Even if the Order knew, they could never take this moment away from him.

"I do." He said, his voice low but sure, no hesitation whatsoever.

"And do you, miss Veré, take this young gentleman, sir Set, as your lawfully wedded husband?" The monk continued, his question promptly answered.

"I do."

With Padmé's consent given, the old man smiled, and carried on.

"Then may Shiraya, in her goodness, strengthen your bond, and fill you both with her blessings." With an appropriately dramatic step back, the Pontifex concluded the ceremony.

"You may now kiss the bride."

And that was all that needed to be said, as the two lovers eagerly embraced each other.

High upon the Mesa of the Capital City the Royal Palace of Zygerria shortly after the festival of the founding, light streamed through a high narrow window, illuminating the sprawling chamber that saw a single woman walking up and down sunken into heavy pondering. Around her it was silent and secluded, only the trio of her Kiros birds watching her heavy thoughts pondering away from their golden seats at the wall.

Despite the bright suns beyond the narrow window the light inside the room was dampened, not so much by the forcefield protecting it from shots fired from beyond, but more so from the light curtains embroidered in the geometric patterns of her people. The steps, taking her up and down the room, were muffled by the thick carpets, woven on distant worlds and embroidered by the best hands her father was able to acquire for the task. They only made space for the centre piece of the vast mosaic placed beneath her feet that bore the likeness of a star map, dozens of colours, precious stones and minerals lying before her feat and showing the empire in all its glory - in all its glory of the past.

Subdued and languid streaks of light illuminated the golden colour of the walls, showcasing the long rows of Emperors and Empresses, Kings and Queens, that came before her in small precious busts, each fitted into a small perfectly gem that cast a greater image when placed before a light source. And as often as she passed these rows, her hand reached out, perfectly manicured and sharp nails lightly tracing the bust of her father in pensive wonder.

Finally coming to a stop before a small curtain, she pulled it aside to observe her own countenance, hand reaching to feel her sharp features, fingertips shifting along the golden covering her eager ears and lips pursing to control the control she had over every aspect of her features. It was a beautiful face, sharp yes, but it had seen terrible things in the years past and it had seen great things, beauty that the gross of sentients, the weak and the unworthy could only dream about. But it was a restless face, as her eyes tracked back to the bust of her father, her words coming out imperious and firm even as she voiced her doubts: "Should I dare?"

Pulling the curtain back and holding out her hand, smiling as her elegant and precious birds flew to her side, she whispered for only them to hear: "Did not Queen Sejra dream - and became Empress. Did not my ancestor dream and set our blood upon the throne?"

She might have pondered for long - if it had not been for the slave that raised the purpure curtains of the door ever so silent before sinking to her knees, before raising both arms crossed over her chest: "Your Majesty, the Archivists you called for."

Casting a glance on her servant, the Twi'lek still and silent as she was trained to be, the Queen gave a small wave, stepping towards an ancient column of the great and lost temples of Melas, sawed down to this high for her elbow to lean easily on it, favouring her coming servants with a looser and no less majestic poise and attitude : "They may enter."

And so they did, the faithful servants of the crown, kneeling like the girl before them, their features witty and their clothing noble, their obedience pleasant and their minds the resource she needed right now: "We have called upon you to hear your advice. Your knowledge and the depths of the archives have always given wise counsel and I have given you all the necessary documents: the letters of our envoys, the reports of the hunter cadres and the financial constitution of the guild. Three days you had time. I shall listen to you first, Archivist Jorec."

Stepping back towards the end of the room, lowering herself into the seat that had been her fathers and grandmother's before, Queen Scintel kept her eyes on the kneeling form of her subjects, who only dared to raise when she let out a barely audible little huff and raised her hand, allowing them to stand before her: two twins who could hardly be anymore different. Jorec, large and broad was not a darling of the court, his manners too simple, his appearance too unkempt and bordering the line of slovenly - but they were true councillors when she needed them most. The taller twins face was broad, his features open and friendly and his feel cheeks gave fit well with his reputation of being light and merciful on the slaves of the archives:

"Mistress. My advice is as ever: to trust in the strength of the Royal Guard, the greed of the noble families and the traditions that have kept us strong during the last millenia. The galaxy is changing: yes, war is growing: yes, but has the crown ever feared risk? We had the privilege to grow at your side and at the feet of your father, did he not always bemoan the fact that during his long and prosperous reign no chance revealed itself to him to grasp for the ancient splendour? Now the chance is before you my Queen - and if you dare to grasp it the old power might once again be ours."

A smile darted over the Queens lips, her mind pleased and her features as well - for she knew Jorec would not speak mere flattery and had instead given it thought, burying his way through the archives for the tales of old, the grand ventures of her people in the days before when the Jedi and the Republic were humble and fearful things not yet full of arrogance. But still, even as she was pleased she turned her eyes to the second twin.

Mard was short and wiry, with a statue that was less-than-intimidating, something that was hardly appreciated in a society like theirs. But this never made him submit to the ridicule of his peers, resulting in an abrasive attitude towards his lessers and a meticulous grooming that was the envy of more than a noble scion at her court. His council was sharp and in his hands he brought sheets of the economical nature, laying down his points skillfully:

"It is a venture your Majesty is embarking on, in accordance with the laws of the republic - and those of the rising CIS, with the treasury at its back and a great many armed hands ready to conduct it. But it is a venture nonetheless: I do fear that the signs of war will mean that many commodities will rise in price, that we will find ourselves struggling to fund the debts you are planning to take on in the short term. But still, the work of the royal envoys is promising even if venturing into the ... .sentient aid sector is a decision that will lead to many nobles derision for they do not see the bigger picture. Still my Queen: with care, with well balanced finances and just the right mix of blaster fire as my brother outlined: it can be done."

Allowing her smile to blossom fully now, Queen Miraj Scintel lightly petted her birds and gave her archivist and appreciative nod. They had counselled her - and had found things possible. What Queen would she be if she did not grasp for the possibilities when they presented them to herself? Fate would follow her plans - or she would break it and wear it down like any other thing that disobeyed her will.