Syndulla Resistance Camp, Ryloth | 19 BBY
I woke to the sound of someone sharpening a blade.
Not the mechanical hum of a vibroblade being calibrated. Real sharpening, metal on stone, that rhythmic scraping sound that had existed since humans first figured out how to make edges cut. The noise pulled me up from unconsciousness with the kind of insistence that suggested my body had decided sleep was less important than awareness of potential threats.
My ribs screamed protest when I tried to sit up. The world tilted sideways for three seconds before stabilizing into something approaching normal. I was in a tent, simple construction with fabric walls that diffused the harsh Ryloth sunlight into amber glow. Medical supplies occupied a shelf near my cot.
The person sharpening the blade sat on a stool near the entrance. Twi'lek, female, green skin marked with scars that spoke of experience earned the hard way. She looked up when I moved, her lekku shifting with the motion. "You're awake. Good. Hera was getting worried you'd stay unconscious long enough to become a liability."
My mouth felt like it had been packed with sand. "How long?"
"Two days. You crashed hard enough to crack ribs and scramble your brain pretty thoroughly." She set aside the knife she'd been working on and moved closer, professional assessment in her eyes. "The bacta helped, but you're still running maybe sixty percent functional. Whatever you did to survive that landing, it wasn't gentle."
Two days. The memory came back in fragments. The Fifth Brother's attack. The desperate escape. The pod screaming through atmosphere while I'd tried to cushion the impact with abilities I barely understood.
"The Fifth Brother," I said. "Did he survive?"
Her expression hardened. "If you're talking about the Imperial ship that exploded, we tracked debris falling across three sectors. Nobody survived that." She studied my face. "You want to explain why an Inquisitor was hunting you specifically?"
The question carried weight beyond simple curiosity. These people had saved my life, had spent resources keeping me alive while I'd been unconscious and vulnerable. They deserved answers, or at least enough truth to decide whether I was worth the investment.
"I'm what the Empire is calling a traitor to the Republic." I met her eyes directly. "Jedi Padawan. Survived Order 66. Been running ever since."
She didn't react with the shock I'd expected. Just nodded slowly, as if I'd confirmed a suspicion rather than revealed something surprising. "That explains the weapon we found on you. Lightsaber, right? Hera wanted to examine it but I told her that seemed like a bad idea without permission."
The fact that my lightsaber was still in their possession rather than confiscated or destroyed said something about these people. They'd had two days to take it, turn me over to Imperial authorities for whatever bounty the Empire was offering. Instead they'd kept me alive and respected my property.
"Where is it?"
She reached beneath my cot and pulled out my weapon, handed it over without ceremony. The metal felt right in my palm, familiar weight that grounded me in ways nothing else could. "I'm Numa, by the way. Captain in Cham Syndulla's resistance. And before you ask, yes, Bail Organa sent word you might be coming. Though his message didn't mention you'd arrive by crashing an escape pod into our patrol sector."
"It wasn't my first choice of entrance." I activated my lightsaber briefly, watched the blue blade snap to life. The system flickered weakly in my peripheral vision, confirming what I already felt through my body's complaints.
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STATUS UPDATE
HP: 678/1,200
Debuffs Active:
[Healing Injuries] - Stamina regeneration reduced by 25%
[Concussion Recovery] - Wisdom temporarily reduced by 2
Estimated Full Recovery: 4 days
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Four days to full strength. I didn't have four days. The Fifth Brother might be dead, but the Empire would send more. They always sent more.
Numa watched me test my range of motion, cataloging limitations with the eye of someone who'd assessed combat readiness countless times. "Hera wants to meet you. Cham too, once he gets back from the western sector. But that can wait until you're steady on your feet."
"I'm steady enough." It was mostly true. The ribs hurt but pain was just another sensation. I'd fought through worse during the war.
She looked skeptical but didn't argue. "Your funeral. Follow me."
The tent opened onto a camp that sprawled across a canyon floor, hidden from aerial surveillance by rock overhangs and camouflage netting. Maybe fifty people moved through the space with purpose, checking weapons and equipment, conducting the endless maintenance that kept resistance operations functional. Most were Twi'lek but I spotted humans and other species mixed in. The Empire's tyranny was equal opportunity, apparently.
Numa led me through the camp to a larger tent that served as command center. Inside, a young Twi'lek woman hunched over a holographic display showing Imperial patrol routes. She couldn't have been more than sixteen standard years, but her eyes carried the kind of focused intensity that made age irrelevant.
She looked up when we entered and something like relief crossed her features. "You're awake. Good. We need to talk about your timing."
"Hera Syndulla," Numa said by way of introduction. "Cham's daughter. Best pilot in the sector and the closest thing we have to a tactical genius."
Hera waved away the compliment, though I caught the brief flicker of pleasure at the recognition. "Numa exaggerates. But she's right that we need to talk." She gestured at the holographic display. "Three days ago, the Empire established a supply depot in the eastern sector. Weapons, equipment, enough resources to support a full battalion. They're using it as a staging ground for expansion into the outer territories."
I studied the display, let my tactical training parse the information. The depot sat in a naturally defensible position with clear sight lines and limited approach vectors. Not impregnable but difficult enough that a frontal assault would be costly.
"You want to hit it," I said.
"We need to hit it." Hera's correction was subtle but important. "The weapons alone would supply our resistance for six months. Plus there are prisoners. Twi'leks taken from villages the Empire is pacifying." The word carried bitter emphasis. "If we don't extract them now, they'll be shipped offworld to labor camps."
I could refuse. Claim I was too injured, too compromised, too focused on personal survival to risk myself for strangers. It would be the smart choice. The safe choice.
Master Drallig's voice echoed in memory. Safety is a luxury Jedi can't afford. Our strength comes from choosing service over self-preservation.
"What's the plan?" I asked.
Hera's expression shifted into something that might have been respect. "Stealth infiltration under cover of darkness. Disable their communications first, prevent them from calling for reinforcements. Free the prisoners while a second team plants charges on their munitions storage. Extract before the explosions bring the entire garrison down."
"How many people do you have for this?"
"Twelve fighters including you and Numa. Against approximately forty Imperial troops plus whatever automated defenses they've established." She met my eyes. "The numbers aren't ideal. But waiting means more prisoners shipped out and the depot becomes permanent."
Twelve against forty. The odds were terrible even with the element of surprise. People would die. Probably several people. The mission would succeed or fail based on choices made in seconds, on luck and skill and the kind of calculated risk that separated victory from massacre.
The system pulsed.
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MANDATORY QUEST ACTIVATED
QUEST: Strike in the Dark
Difficulty: High
Description: Lead resistance fighters in raid against Imperial supply depot. Free prisoners and acquire weapons while minimizing casualties.
Objectives:
1) Disable communications array
2) Free Twi'lek prisoners
3) Secure weapons cache
4) Extract team with minimal losses
Reward: +400 XP, Rare equipment, Reputation increase
Failure Penalty: Rebel casualties, Imperial retaliation
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I thought about refusing the quest. The system couldn't force me to accept, couldn't make me take responsibility for an operation that would likely get people killed. But refusing meant watching the prisoners get shipped to labor camps. Meant letting the Empire consolidate its grip on another sector.
Meant choosing safety over the principles Master Drallig had died defending.
Accept, I thought.
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QUEST ACCEPTED
Analysis Available
Note: Your leadership will significantly impact mission success probability
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"I'm in," I said aloud. "But if I'm going to help with this, we do it properly. No heroics, no unnecessary risks. We hit them fast and smart, get what we came for, and leave before they can organize a response."
Hera nodded slowly. "Agreed. We move tonight. Gives you a few hours to rest and prepare." She pulled up a more detailed schematic of the depot. "I'll brief the full team at sunset. For now, get familiar with the layout and think about where a Jedi's abilities might make the biggest difference."
The acknowledgment of what I was came without judgment or ceremony. Just tactical assessment of available resources. These people didn't care about the Order's philosophy or the Republic's propaganda. They cared about whether I could help them survive and win.
It was refreshing in a way I hadn't expected.
Numa walked me back to my tent, her silence companionable rather than awkward. At the entrance she paused. "Most of the team hasn't worked with a Jedi before. They'll be nervous, probably skeptical about your abilities. Show them what you can do and they'll follow. Fail them and they'll remember that more than any Force tricks."
"Understood."
She left me alone with my thoughts and the tent's amber-filtered light. I sat on the cot and pulled up the depot schematics on my datapad, studying approach vectors and defensive positions while part of my mind worried at the larger implications.
This was different from the warehouse extraction on Nar Shaddaa. That had been a contract, a transaction where success meant credits and completion. This was volunteering to lead people into danger for a cause that wasn't strictly mine.
Except maybe it was mine now. Maybe the line between mercenary survival and committed resistance was thinner than I'd thought. Maybe choosing to fight made me part of something whether I'd intended it or not.
I spent the afternoon preparing. Checked my lightsaber's power cell and focusing crystals. Reviewed the depot schematics until I could navigate them in my sleep. Practiced Form IV sequences in the limited space, testing how much my injuries would limit mobility.
The system tracked everything, quantifying my readiness in ways that should have felt clinical but somehow didn't.
Sunset came with the dramatic color shifts that marked Ryloth's day-night transition. The camp's tone changed, became more focused as people prepared for the night's operation. I joined the strike team outside Hera's command tent and studied the people I'd be fighting beside.
Numa I knew. The others were strangers. A human male who introduced himself as Gobi, carrying a rifle with the ease of long familiarity. Two Twi'lek brothers named Tann and Krill who moved with the synchronized precision of people who'd trained together their entire lives. Others whose names I committed to memory while knowing some of them might not survive to morning.
Hera emerged from the tent and the casual conversations died. "Listen up. We have one shot at this. The Imperials rotate patrols every four hours. Our window opens at midnight and closes at 0400. Miss that window and we're fighting reinforcements we can't handle."
She activated a holographic display of the depot. "Zett leads the primary team. Objective is the communications array on the north side. Once that's disabled, Numa's team hits the prisoner holding area here. Gobi, you're on demolitions. Plant charges on the munitions storage but don't detonate until everyone is clear."
The plan was sound. Simple enough to execute under stress but with contingencies built in for when things inevitably went wrong. I'd seen worse during the Clone Wars and those operations had succeeded more often than not.
"Questions?" Hera asked.
Tann raised a hand. "What about automated defenses? Surveillance droids, turrets?"
"Zett handles those." Hera's confidence in my abilities was either genuine or an excellent performance. "Any other concerns?"
Silence. These people had done this before, knew what they were signing up for. The fear was there, visible in tight expressions and nervous fidgeting, but controlled. Channeled into preparation rather than paralysis.
"Move out in ten minutes," Hera said. "And be careful. These are our people we're saving. Let's make sure we all come home to celebrate."
The team dispersed to final preparations. I checked my equipment one last time, felt the weight of my lightsaber on my belt and the responsibility settling across my shoulders.
Numa appeared beside me. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"Good answer." She handed me a commlink. "Stay on channel three. If things go wrong, we adapt. Don't try to be a hero."
I almost laughed at the irony. Heroism was what the Jedi had been built on, the foundation of everything I'd been trained to value. But Numa wasn't wrong. Heroics got people killed.
The strike team assembled near the camp's eastern edge where speeders waited in the darkness. We mounted up in silence and headed into the night, toward an Imperial depot and whatever waited there.