Ord Mantell, Slum District | 18 BBY
The Black Sun enforcer's blood was still drying on my knuckles when I realized I'd crossed another line I hadn't meant to cross.
He lay crumpled in the alley behind the cantina where he'd tried to shake me down, his neck bent at an angle that spoke of finality. I hadn't meant to kill him. The fight had started simple enough: posturing, threats, the usual territorial display that passed for negotiation in places like this. But he'd reached for his blaster and my body had responded before conscious thought could intervene, muscle memory from three years of war executing a disarm-and-strike sequence that Master Drallig had drilled into me until it became reflex.
The problem was, Master Drallig had taught those sequences for training sabers set to stun, for controlled Temple duels where mistakes meant bruises rather than corpses.
I'd forgotten to pull the strike.
The Force moved around the enforcer's body in currents that felt like accusation, his life-presence fading into the background noise of a billion other souls on this overcrowded world. Just another casualty in a galaxy that produced them with industrial efficiency. Nobody would miss him. Black Sun would replace him within a day. The universe would continue its indifferent rotation.
But I would remember.
I wiped my hands on my jacket and left the body where it had fallen, moved deeper into the slum district's maze of corridors and staircases that connected levels in patterns that defied municipal planning. The kill had been clean enough that I probably had twenty minutes before someone found the corpse and another hour before anyone cared enough to investigate.
Time to disappear.
My safehouse was compromised now. Standard protocol when you left bodies behind: assume your last known location was burned and find new shelter before whoever sent the first enforcer sent more. I'd learned that lesson during my early months on Nar Shaddaa, back when I'd still been naive enough to think patterns wouldn't be noticed.
The system pulsed as I walked, overlaying tactical information across my vision with the kind of helpful persistence that had become familiar over the past year.
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COMBAT ENCOUNTER COMPLETE
Hostile Eliminated: Black Sun Enforcer
Method: Unarmed Combat (Lethal Force)
+25 XP
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WARNING: Unintended Casualty Detected
Reputation Impact Analysis:
Black Sun Syndicate: -15 (Now: Hostile)
Outer Rim Underworld: -2 (Now: +3, Cautious)
Recommended Action: Relocate immediately. Avoid Black Sun territories for 72 hours minimum.
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The reputation drop stung worse than the physical act. I'd spent months carefully maintaining neutral standing with the major syndicates, positioning myself as someone who could work for anyone without carrying baggage from previous contracts. One dead enforcer and that careful construction collapsed, replaced by a target on my back and the need to rebuild from a worse starting position.
The mathematics of survival were unforgiving.
I found a flophouse three levels down, the kind of establishment that rented rooms by the hour and didn't ask questions as long as credits transferred cleanly. The room was barely large enough for the narrow bed and refresher stall, but it had a door that locked and a window that opened onto a fire escape. Good enough.
I sat on the bed and let myself feel the weight of what had just happened. Not the kill itself, though that carried its own gravity. The realization that killing had become my default response to threat, that the Padawan who'd fled Coruscant would have found a dozen non-lethal solutions to that confrontation, but I'd gone straight to maximum force without conscious consideration.
Oh, how times change...
The datapad in my pack chirped with an incoming message. Encrypted, bounced through three relay servers, the signature suggesting it came from one of the information brokers I'd cultivated during my time on Ord Mantell. I decrypted it and read:
Meeting. Urgent. Karth's Cantina, sub-level seven. One hour. Come alone. Intelligence about your interests. - V
V was Vex Tannor, a human information broker who specialized in Imperial intelligence and Force-sensitive tracking. I'd bought information from him twice before, both times walking away with leads that had ultimately gone nowhere. But he was reliable in the ways that mattered: his intelligence was usually accurate even if incomplete, and he didn't sell his clients to the Empire for bounty money.
Usually.
The timing felt suspicious. One hour after I'd killed a Black Sun enforcer, an information broker wanted a meeting about "my interests." Either impressive coincidence or someone was tracking me better than I'd realized.
The system offered its assessment without prompting.
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OPTIONAL QUEST AVAILABLE
[INFORMATION BROKER MEETING]
Difficulty: Moderate
Risk Assessment: MEDIUM
Potential Trap Probability: 34.7%
Potential Legitimate Intelligence: 65.3%
Reward: Unknown (Intelligence dependent)
Accept? Y/N
Note: Meeting location is in neutral territory. Armed backup recommended.
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Thirty-five percent chance of walking into a trap. Not terrible odds by recent standards. And if Vex actually had intelligence about Force-sensitives or Jedi survivors, the risk might be worth taking.
I thought accept and immediately regretted the decision. This was how people died in the underworld... Chasing leads that turned out to be bait, walking into situations where the mathematics stopped favoring survival.
But what was the alternative? Spend another year running spice and killing enforcers until I forgot why I'd started this hunt in the first place?
I checked my equipment. Lightsaber secured in its concealed compartment. Backup blaster charged and holstered at my hip. Vibroblade in my boot. Enough weapons that I could fight my way out of most situations but not so many that I'd look like I was expecting trouble.
The walk to Karth's Cantina took thirty minutes through corridors that grew progressively darker and less maintained. Sub-level seven was deep enough that municipal services had given up pretending to care, leaving the space to be claimed by whoever had the force to hold it. The cantina itself was a hole in the wall establishment that catered to the kind of clientele who preferred shadows to scrutiny.
Perfect for illegal meetings.
Vex waited in a back booth, his cybernetic eye glowing faintly in the dim light. He was thin in the way people got when they spent more time plugged into data networks than eating, his fingers twitching slightly as if typing on invisible keyboards. The information broker's occupational hazard: total immersion in data streams until the physical world became secondary.
I slid into the booth across from him and kept my hands visible, made sure my back was to the wall and my sightlines covered the entrance. Standard paranoia.
"You're being tracked," Vex said without preamble. His voice carried the flat affect of someone who'd replaced enough of their biology with machinery that emotional inflection became optional. "ISB. Three agents, rotating surveillance shifts. They've been following you for four days."
The words hit like cold water. ISB meant Imperial Security Bureau. Meant Force-sensitive interrogators and enhanced investigative resources. Meant they'd identified me as more than just another underworld operator.
"Why tell me?" I asked. Information brokers didn't give away intelligence for free, especially intelligence that could get them killed for possessing.
"Because they came to me asking questions about Jedi survivors. Offered significant credits for information." Vex's cybernetic eye flickered. "I don't work for fascists. But I thought you'd want to know they're looking."
The Force whispered warnings I should have noticed earlier. Three agents, rotating surveillance. I reached out with my senses, tried to identify presences in the cantina that felt wrong. Found two immediately... human males nursing drinks near the bar, their attention too focused on casual conversation to be genuine patrons.
ISB. Here. Now.
The system erupted across my vision.
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CRITICAL THREAT DETECTED
MANDATORY QUEST ACTIVATED
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QUEST: ESCAPE THE ISB TRAP
Difficulty: HIGH
Failure Condition: Capture or Death
Time Limit: IMMEDIATE
Hostiles Identified:
- ISB Agent (x2, Visible)
- Unknown additional forces (Estimated 3-5)
Recommended Strategy: Immediate evacuation via secondary exit. Avoid direct confrontation.
Current Survival Probability: 41.8%
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Forty-two percent. Worse odds than the Black Sun ambush. I stood slowly, didn't reach for weapons yet, just moved with the casual confidence of someone who had every right to be here. "Back exit?"
"Through the kitchen. Leads to maintenance tunnels." Vex's expression didn't change. "They'll have those covered too. Your best chance is causing enough chaos that their coordination breaks down."
Sound advice from someone who'd clearly thought this through. Which raised the question of whether Vex had set up the trap or was genuinely trying to help me escape it. The distinction mattered less than immediate survival.
I moved toward the kitchen entrance while extending my senses through the Force. Found the third agent in the maintenance corridor Vex had mentioned, positioned to cut off exactly the escape route I was considering. Standard ISB tactics: offer an obvious exit and wait for the target to take it.
The two agents at the bar noticed my movement. One spoke into his commlink while the other started to rise, hand drifting toward his holster with the kind of deliberate casualness that suggested professional training.
No time for subtlety.
I reached into the Force and found the cantina's main power junction, felt the electrical systems that kept lights functioning and refrigeration running. Pulled at the weakest connection with everything I had, felt something fundamental give way.
The lights died.
Emergency illumination kicked in three seconds later, casting everything in sickly red glow that turned the cantina into something from a nightmare. I used those three seconds of darkness to move, flowing through the confused patrons toward the kitchen entrance. Behind me, someone shouted orders in Basic. Blaster fire screamed through the space I'd occupied two heartbeats earlier.
The kitchen was chaos. Cooks scrambling for cover, equipment overturning, someone screaming about Imperial raids. I vaulted over a preparation counter and hit the maintenance corridor door with my shoulder, felt it give way into darkness beyond.
The third agent was waiting exactly where the Force had suggested, his blaster already tracking toward my center mass. I twisted sideways, felt the bolt pass close enough to singe my jacket, and closed the distance before he could fire again.
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Skill Usage: Unarmed Combat
Enhanced by Force Augmentation
Chance: 78.2%
~~~
Success! Target disarmed, +15 XP
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My knee found his solar plexus and he folded, gasping for air that wouldn't come. I took his blaster and his commlink, left him unconscious in the corridor while I ran deeper into the maintenance tunnels. Behind me, the sounds of pursuit echoed off metal walls, multiple sets of boots suggesting they'd called for backup.
The tunnels branched in three directions. I chose left because the Force whispered that right led to a dead end and straight led to more ISB agents. Navigation by instinct and desperation, the same combination that had kept me alive for the past year.
The system tracked everything with clinical precision, overlaying tactical data I was already processing through Force-enhanced awareness.
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PURSUIT ANALYSIS
Hostiles: 5-7 ISB Agents
Distance: 40 meters and closing
Escape Routes: 3 viable options identified
Stamina: 82%
Warning: Prolonged chase not sustainable. Recommend immediate intervention or hiding.
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The tunnel opened onto a vertical shaft, maintenance ladder descending into darkness. I didn't hesitate, just grabbed the rungs and started climbing down faster than safety protocols recommended. Above, the sounds of pursuit grew louder. Someone shouted about sealing the exits.
I was twenty meters down when the ladder gave way.
Not broke, exactly. Just detached from its mounting points with enough force that I suddenly found myself in freefall with nothing but darkness below and ISB agents above. The Force screamed warnings but offered no solutions, just the visceral certainty that hitting bottom at terminal velocity would end badly.
I reached out desperately, found purchase not with hands but with the Force itself. Grabbed at the shaft walls with telekinetic pressure, tried to slow my descent through methods Master Drallig had never taught because they fell outside standard Padawan curriculum.
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Emergency Skill Usage: Force Cushion (Advanced Application)
Difficulty: EXTREME
Chance: 23.1%
~~~
Critical Success!
New Skill Unlocked: Force Slow Fall (Rank 1)
+100 XP (Emergency Innovation Bonus)
-120 FP
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I hit the bottom of the shaft hard enough to crack ribs but not hard enough to die. The impact drove air from my lungs and sent white sparks across my vision. For three seconds I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, just lay in the darkness while my body tried to remember how respiratory systems functioned.
Above, lights appeared at the shaft opening. The ISB agents had reached the ladder, were assessing the drop, probably calling for equipment to pursue.
I forced myself upright despite every nerve screaming protest. The shaft bottom connected to a horizontal tunnel that smelled like sewage and industrial runoff, heading in directions I couldn't see without light. I stumbled forward into darkness, one hand on the wall for guidance, leaving the ISB agents behind.
The pursuit sounds faded as I put distance between myself and the shaft. They'd find another way down eventually, but I'd bought time. Time to find an exit. Time to disappear back into Ord Mantell's labyrinth of forgotten infrastructure.
Time to figure out how ISB had identified me in the first place.
I walked through the darkness for what felt like hours but was probably thirty minutes, guided more by Force-sense than vision. Eventually found a maintenance hatch that opened onto sub-level four, far enough from the cantina that immediate pursuit seemed unlikely.
I emerged into relatively civilized territory, actual lighting and people moving through corridors on legitimate business. Adjusted my appearance to look less like someone who'd just fallen down a vertical shaft and more like a worker finishing a maintenance shift. Walked with the kind of tired confidence that suggested I had every right to be here.
Nobody looked twice.
The system registered mission completion with its usual clinical assessment.
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QUEST COMPLETE: ESCAPE THE ISB TRAP
Status: SUCCESSFUL (Narrow Victory)
+150 XP
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LEVEL UP!
Congratulations, Player
Level 15 → 16
+3 Attribute Points Available
New abilities unlocked. View character sheet for details.
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REPUTATION UPDATED:
Galactic Empire: -25 → -30 (Active Manhunt)
Outer Rim Underworld: +3 → +8 (Respect: Successfully Evaded ISB)
Note: Imperial attention significantly increased. Recommend deep cover protocols.
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The level-up should have felt like victory. Instead it just felt like another measurement of survival purchased through desperation and improvised Force techniques that probably would have gotten me expelled from the Order if anyone had witnessed them.
I found another flophouse, different district, paid extra for a room with actual security measures. Collapsed onto the bed and finally let myself process what had happened.
ISB was tracking me. Not just casually monitoring but actively hunting with multiple agents and coordinated surveillance. That meant someone had flagged me as high-priority, had connected enough dots to identify me as Force-sensitive despite my efforts at concealment.
The question was how.
I'd been careful. Avoided using the Force in public. Kept my lightsaber hidden. Used false identities and moved frequently enough that patterns shouldn't emerge. But obviously I'd made mistakes, left traces that Imperial intelligence had assembled into a profile.
Vex's warning suggested the ISB was asking about Jedi survivors specifically. Which meant they knew the purge hadn't been total, knew some Padawans had escaped. Were systematically hunting down the remnants.
The thought made something cold settle in my chest. If they were hunting me, they were hunting others. Every Jedi who'd survived Order 66 was being tracked, and exterminated.
I pulled up the character sheet to distribute the attribute points, needed something concrete to focus on instead of spiraling into paranoid speculation about Imperial capabilities.
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CHARACTER STATUS
Name: Zett Jukassa
Level: 16
Class: Jedi Padawan(Evolution Available)
Age: 17 standard years
HP: 1,150/1,200(Injured)
FP: 432/700(Depleted)
Stamina: 61%
Attributes:
STR: 18 | VIT: 22 | AGI: 26
INT: 16 | WIS: 19 | CHA: 13
LUK: 11
Unallocated Points: 3
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I allocated the points quickly. Two to Agility because speed had saved me more times than strength. One to Vitality because my ribs felt like they'd been hit with a speeder and healing faster seemed wise.
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Attributes Updated:
AGI: 26 → 28
VIT: 22 → 23
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NEW SKILLS UNLOCKED:
- Force Slow Fall: Rank 1(Reduce fall damage through Force application)
- Emergency Improvisation: Rank 2(+15% success chance when using untrained abilities under extreme pressure)
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SKILL TREE PREVIEW UNLOCKED
New branch visible: Underworld Tactics
Requirements: CHA 15, Deception 8, Level 18
Abilities include:
- Information Networks
- Safe House Establishment
- Identity Fabrication
- Criminal Contacts
Status: LOCKED (Requirements not met)
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The Underworld Tactics tree represented everything I was becoming. Skills for operating in shadows, for building networks of criminal contacts, for establishing false identities. The kind of abilities that would have been forbidden to Jedi Padawans but were essential for someone trying to survive in the Empire's galaxy.
I studied the requirements. CHA 15 meant two more points in Charisma, achievable through level-ups or specific quest rewards. Deception 8 meant more contracts that required lying, more situations where truth became a liability. Level 18 was just time and experience.
All achievable. All pulling me further from the Padawan I'd been.
Master Drallig's voice whispered in memory, something he'd said during one of our last training sessions before the war pulled us in different directions: The path to darkness isn't a single choice, Zett. It's a thousand small compromises. Each one seems justified in the moment. Together they transform you into someone unrecognizable.
I'd thought he was warning me about battlefield decisions, about the moral weight of command during the Clone Wars. Now I understood he'd been teaching something more fundamental about identity and the slow erosion of principle under sustained pressure.
I was making those compromises. Had been making them for a year now. Each contract that required working with criminals. Each fight where I chose lethal force because it was faster than alternatives. Each time I prioritized survival over the Jedi Code's constraints.
The question was whether I could stop before those compromises consumed what remained of who I'd been.
Or whether that person was already gone, replaced by someone who could kill enforcers without hesitation and escape ISB ambushes through techniques no Master had sanctioned.
I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of choices settling across my shoulders like a cloak grown too heavy to remove.
My commlink chirped. Encrypted message, different encryption protocol than Vex used. I decrypted it carefully, half-expecting another trap.
Heard you had trouble with mutual friends. Might have work that keeps you away from their attention. Interested? - M.V.
Mara Vakarian. The syndicate operator whose spice run I'd protected. Offering more contracts, more opportunities to build reputation and earn credits while the ISB hunted me.
Sounds like just what I need....