Chapter 26: Storming the Castle
You can tell when you're being hunted by an amateur.
There's noise to it. A kind of eagerness. Presence in the Force that flares too brightly, like someone waving their arms and shouting here I am, please notice me murdering you. I'd dealt with that kind of foe before. They rushed. They overcommitted. They tried to impress themselves.
This was not that.
This felt like absence.
Mos Eisley's outskirts were quiet in the way only an occupied city could be. Too orderly. Too controlled. The HK battalion had done its job efficiently, ruthlessly, and with an enthusiasm that bordered on artistic expression. Patrol routes were locked in. Sightlines overlapped. Motion sensors hummed softly beneath the sand-baked rooftops.
And yet.
Something threaded through it all, slipping between angles that should have been impossible. The Force didn't prickle. It didn't warn. It withheld.
I walked anyway.
Cloak drawn close, mask on, boots crunching softly against duracrete as I moved across the rooftops. Below, freed locals moved cautiously through streets that had belonged to Hutts and slavers yesterday and now belonged to nobody at all. That vacuum attracted attention. Always did.
"STATEMENT," HK-77 said over the comm, tone clipped and pleased, "PROBABILITY OF HOSTILE ENGAGEMENT WITHIN THE NEXT THIRTY SECONDS HAS RISEN TO EIGHTY-TWO PERCENT."
"Low," I muttered. "You're slipping."
"PROTEST," HK-55 cut in. "THIS UNIT HAS ACCOUNTED FOR ALL KNOWN VARIABLES."
Known being the operative word.
I slowed, reaching out with the Force—not searching, exactly. That was how you got stabbed. I let my awareness soften instead, loosen, the way Wrath had taught us. Don't grab. Let it come to you.
Nothing.
Which was, frankly, disappointing. And made me feel paranoid. Of course, it's not paranoia, if they really are out to get you.
The first shot came almost immediately after I finished that thought.
Not a dramatic blaster bolt screaming through the air. Not a warning. Just a sharp crack and a whisper of displaced air as something punched through the edge of my cloak where my head had been a heartbeat earlier.
I twisted, more reflex than thought, dropping into a roll as the duracrete behind me exploded in a spray of molten fragments.
Sniper round. High caliber. Clean.
"THREAT CONFIRMED," multiple HK units chimed in at once. "TARGET ACQUIRED—CORRECTION—TARGET LOST."
Of course she was. Like I said, this wasn't an amateur.
Another shot rang out, this one angled to herd rather than kill. Clever. She wasn't trying to pin me down. She was shaping the battlefield, nudging me toward cover that she had already measured.
"STATEMENT," HK-77 added, offended, "TARGET IS DISPLAYING ADVANCED TACTICAL COMPETENCE."
"I noticed," I said, ducking behind a low ventilation unit as a third round chewed through where my shoulder had been. "Flank left. Spread. Don't cluster."
"QUERY," HK-55 said, "MAY THIS UNIT EMPLOY MAXIMUM LETHAL RESPONSE?"
"Not yet."
"DISAPPOINTMENT," HK-55 replied, sincerely wounded.
The Force shifted then, a subtle pressure against my thoughts. Not an attack. A test. Whoever this was, she wasn't just lining up shots. She was listening.
That narrowed it down considerably.
A figure moved along the far ridge of rooftops, pale skin catching the light for just a second before disappearing again. Blue markings. White hair. Long rifle dismantled and reassembled in one fluid motion as she relocated.
Aurra Sing.
I sighed behind my mask.
"Bounty hunter," I said quietly. "How very creative of you, Jabba."
"STATEMENT," HK-88 chimed in, "THIS UNIT HAS HISTORICAL DATA. TARGET HAS A HIGH SUCCESS RATE AND A LOW REGARD FOR SELF-PRESERVATION."
"Great," I said. "One of those."
Another shot. This one should have hit.
I felt it before it happened, the faint tug in the Force as her intent sharpened, the moment she committed. I leaned aside, letting the round scream past close enough to heat my cheek through the mask.
She adjusted instantly. No frustration. No wasted motion.
Professional.
"MASTER," HK-77 said, almost accusatory, "TARGET IS LEARNING."
"Good," I replied. "I'd be most disappointed otherwise."
Lightning cracked faintly in the distance, a lingering artifact of the storm I'd dragged kicking and screaming across half the planet. The sky glowed briefly, throwing stark shadows across the rooftops.
Aurra used the flash to move.
She dropped from her perch, landing three rooftops closer in a blur of motion, rifle slung as she transitioned to blades. Twin electrodaggers hummed to life as she sprinted straight at my position.
Bold.
"INTERJECTION," HK-55 said, "THIS UNIT RECOMMENDS IMMEDIATE DISMEMBERMENT."
"Let her come," I replied.
Because this was the interesting part.
She moved like someone who had killed Force-users before. Not afraid of the space around me. Not hesitant. She didn't overextend, didn't rush the strike. She waited for me to move first.
I did.
I stepped out from cover, igniting my saber in a flash of red, then deliberately slowed my swing. Just enough.
She slid under it, daggers flashing, one blade scraping sparks off my saber as the other went for my ribs. I twisted, letting it glance off armor, Force-shoving her back a step.
She smiled.
Actually smiled.
"Oh, Aurra," I muttered. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
Before she could reengage, the air shifted.
Aurra's instincts screamed. She spun, blades up—
And Maris was already there.
She didn't announce herself. Didn't flare in the Force. One moment the space beside Aurra was empty, the next it was occupied by a pale Zabrak girl with yellow eyes and a grin that promised violence. Maris was fond of her little invisibility trick.
Maris let Aurra strike first.
Aurra lunged, daggers slashing in a precise, brutal pattern. Maris leaned into it, letting one blade skim past her shoulder close enough to draw blood, just to prove she could.
Then Maris moved.
It wasn't flashy. No acrobatics. Just raw, contemptuous efficiency. She caught Aurra's wrist, twisted, and drove a knee into her center of mass hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Aurra staggered, recovered instantly—
And Maris headbutted her.
"Hi," Maris said pleasantly, as Aurra reeled, bruised and bleeding. Who knew having horns could be so advantageous?
Aurra swung again. Maris disarmed her in two motions, sent one dagger skittering across the rooftop, and kicked Aurra's legs out from under her.
Aurra hit the ground hard, rolled, came up on one knee—
And froze.
Because the HKs had arrived.
They hadn't rushed. They hadn't panicked. They had encircled.
Red optics locked on. Rifles leveled with almost petty precision.
"STATEMENT," HK-55 said, delighted, "TARGET IS NOW IN A STATISTICALLY INSURMOUNTABLE KILL BOX."
Aurra's eyes flicked around, calculating, and for the first time since she'd pulled the trigger—
She hesitated.
I stepped forward, extinguishing my saber.
She tensed immediately, expecting a killing blow.
Instead, I held up a hand.
"Relax," I said. "If we wanted you dead, this would have ended five minutes ago."
"PROTEST," HK-88 said. "THIS UNIT WOULD HAVE REQUIRED ONLY THREE."
"Overachiever," I replied.
Aurra's breathing was controlled again. She looked at me, then at Maris, then at the droids. Something like amusement crept into her expression, thin and sharp.
"So," she said. "This is the part where you torture me?"
I tilted my head. "Kriff, no. That's so cliché."
"QUERY," HK-55 added, "MAY THIS UNIT TORTURE TARGET ANYWAY?"
"No."
"DISAPPOINTMENT."
I crouched in front of Aurra, close enough that she could feel the weight of the Force around me, but not pressing. Not threatening. Just… present.
"Here's the thing," I said. "You're very good at what you do."
She snorted. "Didn't look like it."
"You didn't hit your target, hit man." I agreed. "That's because this wasn't an assassination mission."
Her eyes narrowed.
"This was a suicide mission," I continued. "You were sent here to see what would happen. To provoke. To measure. I have to admit, sending a Force User assassin to take down a Force User target, not a bad idea. Thing is? We're the people who eradicate Force Users. It was like sending a murderer to hunt down a serial killer."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Aurra laughed. Low. Genuine.
"Yeah," she admitted. "Evidently, a few things were left out of the dossier. So, if you're not going to kill me, what are you going to do?"
I straightened. "Well, I'm not going to interrogate you, for one. I don't care who hired you. They're about to be irrelevant."
Maris folded her arms, smirking. "He's doing the pitch."
"I am," I confirmed, looking down at Aurra. "I'm offering you a job."
The HKs exploded.
"OBJECTION."
"COUNTERPROPOSAL: EXECUTION."
"STATEMENT: RECRUITMENT OF HOSTILE ASSET IS STATISTICALLY SUBOPTIMAL."
Aurra blinked. "Is… is this a joke?"
"No," I said. "This is me being practical." I gestured at the HKs. "They're very good at killing. They're terrible at nuance. You havenuance."
Maris shrugged. "Also, you tried to kill him. That's usually how we make friends."
Aurra stared at us for a long moment, then looked down at the ground, then back up again.
Finally, she exhaled.
"You're insane," she said. "Both of you."
"Frequently," I agreed.
She smiled, slow and sharp. "But I do like not being dead."
I felt it then. The shift. Interest. Not loyalty. Not trust.
But curiosity.
Ben Kryze, Sith Lord, making good decisions.
This was probably going to end terribly.
Maris glanced at me. "She does kind of remind me of me."
Aurra snorted.
I sighed. "Yeah. I noticed."
Maris frowned. "What's with thattone?"
"You really have to ask?"
Maris glared harder, before offering a shrug.
"Fair enough."
Aurra laughed again, quieter this time.
"Alright," she said. "I'm listening."
Behind us, HK-55 recalibrated its rifle.
"STATEMENT," it said, grudgingly, "THIS UNIT WILL ALLOW RECRUITMENT. FOR NOW."
I smiled behind my mask.
Successful interview.
...
Aurra Sing had been captured before.
It usually involved drugs, restraints, or a truly irritating amount of lecturing. Sometimes all three. There was a rhythm to it. A humiliation. A sense of being contained.
This was not that.
She walked into the occupied Mos Eisley command center under her own power, unbound, flanked by two HK-series droids who made no effort to pretend they weren't calculating the exact number of ways they could kill her in under a second. The building itself had once belonged to a Hutt lieutenant. Gaudy. Excessive. Now it had been stripped down to something leaner and colder. Maps projected across the walls. Patrol routes. Resource allocations. Names she recognized. Names she didn't.
And at the center of it all stood the two Sith she had underestimated so catastrophically.
Darth Sol was shorter than she'd expected. So was Darth Nox.
That still bothered her.
They wore their masks and cloaks like they'd been born in them, posture relaxed but deliberate, the way people stood when they were used to others reacting first. Sol leaned against the edge of a holo-table, hands folded behind his back. Nox sat on top of it, boots dangling, attention flicking between displays with open, almost bored curiosity.
Children, her brain insisted.
Which was absurd. She'd felt their presence in the Force. She'd foughtthem. Whatever else they were, they weren't green.
Experience didn't outrank skill, she reminded herself. She'd learned that lesson the hard way.
Her gaze drifted past them.
The HK battalion filled the room in loose formation, red optics tracking everything. They weren't standing at attention. They were looming. Assassin droids didn't posture like soldiers. They postured like predators waiting to be unleashed.
And then there was the protocol droid.
Silver. Polished. Standing a little too close to Darth Sol for comfort, photoreceptors flicking nervously between the armed droids, the gathered locals, and the cluster of Sand People who had arrived only minutes earlier and were now occupying the far side of the chamber with an unsettling stillness.
Aurra blinked.
Sand People. In Mos Eisley. Negotiating.
Alright. That was new.
"STATEMENT," one of the HKs said, angling its head toward her, "TARGET IS BEING OBSERVED FOR SIGNS OF BETRAYAL."
"Good," Aurra replied. "I'd be offended if I wasn't."
The droid paused.
"QUERY," it said, "IS THAT SARCASM?"
"Yes."
"PROCESSING."
Darth Sol let out a soft huff that might have been a laugh.
"Welcome," he said mildly. "Command center's a mess. We're redecorating."
Aurra's eyes flicked to the far wall, where former slave owners—recognizable from Jabba's payroll—stood under guard, handing out ration packs and equipment to people they'd once sold. One man flinched when a Twi'lek woman snapped an order at him, and Aurra felt a faint, unexpected twist of satisfaction.
She'd never been a good Jedi. Never patient enough. Never soft enough.
But there were some principles that never quite erased.
"I see you've been busy," Aurra said.
Darth Nox glanced over, smiling sharply. "You should've seen their faces when we told them they worked for everyone now."
One of the former masters dropped a crate. An HK unit's rifle twitched meaningfully.
Aurra watched it all, cataloging details automatically. Sol's restraint was real. Not weakness. Control. He could have ruled this place through terror alone. He'd chosen something… messier.
Nox, on the other hand, was enjoying every second of it.
That dynamic was interesting.
"So," Aurra said at last, "what do you have for me, boss? Or have you changed your mind about executing me? Kind of curious how you'd do it. Decapitation? Impalement? Disinigration? Feed me to something?"
"STATEMENT," HK-55 cut in, eager, "THIS UNIT ADVOCATES FEEDING."
"Relax," Sol said. "We'll get to the feeding-things-to-monsters bit later."
Aurra snorted despite herself.
Movement at the far end of the room drew her attention. The Sand People shifted as one, robes whispering softly. Their leader stepped forward, gaffi stick tapping once against the floor.
The silver droid straightened immediately.
"Oh—yes. Right," it said, voice calm, composed. "They are requesting clarification on territory boundaries and trade protections. And they would like to reiterate that they do not appreciate being referred to as 'cannon fodder,' even hypothetically."
Aurra's eyebrows rose.
Darth Sol winced. "My apologies. As you can see, my other droids are lacking in tact."
"STATEMENT," HK-77 interjected, "THIS UNIT NEVER IMPLIED 'HYPOTHETICAL.'"
The protocol droid continued without missing a beat, translating the Sand People's gestures and guttural sounds into precise, respectful Basic. There was no fear in his voice. No condescension. Just competence.
Aurra watched the HKs bristle.
"OBSERVATION," HK-55 said, "MEAT-SPEAKER IS PERFORMING NON-LETHAL TASKS WITH UNWARRANTED CONFIDENCE."
"EXPLANATION," the protocol droid replied, unperturbed, almost mocking the HK-Unit's method of speech. "I am fluent in over sixmillion forms of communication."
"STATEMENT," HK-55 shot back, "THIS UNIT IS FLUENT IN THREATENING ALL OF THEM."
"HK-55," Sol said gently, "don't be jealous."
"I AM NOT CAPABLE OF JEALOUSY," the droid snapped. "CLARIFICATION: MEAT-SPEAKER IS STILL INFERIOR."
Aurra stared at the scene, then laughed. A sharp, genuine sound that cut through the tension.
"You favor the protocol droid," she said, incredulous. "Out of all of them."
Sol tilted his head. "He's useful."
"And polite," Nox added. "Which annoys them."
The HKs made several offended noises at once.
Aurra shook her head slowly. "You're all insane."
"Yes," Sol agreed. "But we're organized. Speaking of which…"
He gestured toward the holo-table. Seats had been arranged around it. Not thrones. Chairs. Equal height. Equal spacing.
Interesting choice.
"We're forming a council," Sol continued. "A ruling body for our fledgling empire. Someone to make the big decisions, and frighten those who would defy us into submission."
Aurra felt the weight of his attention settle on her, measured and deliberate.
"I want you on it."
The room went quiet.
Even the HKs paused.
Aurra blinked. "You want me."
"Yes."
"You know who I work for."
"Worked," Nox corrected, hopping down from the table. She circled Aurra slowly, eyes bright. "Past tense."
Aurra tracked her with peripheral vision, muscles loose, ready. "And if I say no?"
Sol shrugged. "Then you leave."
HK-55 leaned forward. "ADDENDUM: AFTER EXTENSIVE SURVEILLANCE."
"Or," Sol amended, "you stay and see what happens next."
That was the real hook. Aurra felt it sink in, sharp and undeniable.
Curiosity had always been her weakness.
Nox stopped in front of her, looking up—still shorter than her, damn it—and grinned. "Also, we're terrible at naming things, so you're Darth Song now."
Aurra stared at her.
"That's it?" she asked. "No ritual? No lightning? No dramatic monologue?"
Nox shrugged. "We're workshopping."
Aurra let the silence stretch, felt the eyes on her—Sith, droids, locals, ghosts of Hutts she'd pissed off before. Jabba's shadow loomed large in her mind, but for the first time, it didn't feel inevitable.
She smiled, slow and sharp.
"Alright," she said. "I'll sit."
HK-55 emitted a sound suspiciously like a growl.
Aurra took the offered seat, leaning back comfortably. "But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to shoot my way out."
"Reasonable," Sol said.
As the meeting resumed, Aurra glanced around the room again. At the freed slaves. At the Sand People negotiating instead of raiding. At the assassin droids arguing with a protocol droid over linguistic supremacy.
She should have been worried.
Instead, she felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.
Anticipation.
Because whatever this was, whatever these two masked Sith were building—
Jabba the Hutt no longer owned Tatooine.
And Aurra Sing had just bought a front-row seat to the fallout.
...
C-3PO had always prided himself on being adaptable.
After all, etiquette protocols varied wildly across the galaxy. One had to be flexible when dealing with moisture farmers, senators, crime lords, and occasionally beings made entirely of sentient gas who found blinking rude. Adaptability was the cornerstone of polite civilization.
This, however, felt less like adaptability and more like a prolonged nervous breakdown with legs.
The convoy cut across the Dune Sea in a disciplined formation that made C-3PO's internal threat-assessment subroutines weep quietly. Repurposed speeders, captured skiffs, and a truly alarming number of HK-series assassin droids moved in lockstep, weapons angled outward with the casual confidence of beings who expected to be attacked and deeply hoped they would be.
At the center of it all walked Darth Sol and Darth Nox.
C-3PO had been purchased only days ago, yet he already knew this much with perfect certainty: Sith Lords were dreadful. Not merely evil. Not merely ominous. Dreadful, in the sense that they restructured one's understanding of reality simply by existing in it.
Darth Sol, tall for his apparent age but still unmistakably young, moved with a calm restraint that unsettled C-3PO far more than overt cruelty ever could. His presence pressed against the Force like a held breath, controlled and deliberate, as though violence were a carefully shelved option rather than an impulse.
Darth Nox, by contrast, delighted in the moment. Her posture radiated amused menace. She walked like someone enjoying a particularly engaging play, one where the audience might catch fire if they applauded incorrectly.
C-3PO walked two steps behind them, posture immaculate, vocabulator modulated to what he fervently hoped was "non-executable."
He was horrified by everything.
The sand. The weapons. The fact that the weapons were arguing. Though, at least they were finally able to repair their audio output. The screaming was getting rather tiresome.
"Observation," intoned HK-55, cranial photoreceptors swiveling toward him. "The Meat-Speaker's gait suggests terror. Hypothesis: terror enhances announcement efficacy."
"Correction," HK-47 replied cheerfully. "Terror enhances screaming. This unit recommends screaming."
C-3PO stiffened, turning his head just enough to address them without appearing confrontational. "I do not scream. I enunciate."
"Disappointment," HK-55 said. "Statement: pacifism is inefficient."
"I am not a pacifist," C-3PO protested. "I am a protocol droid."
"Clarification," HK-47 said. "I fail to see the distinction."
C-3PO made a small, wounded sound that he would later log as a "dignified huff."
Despite everything, despite the occupation and the droids and the unsettling number of freed slaves now marching with visible, fragile hope, he was doing his job. Every settlement they passed received a flawless announcement of arrival.
"Attention, esteemed residents," C-3PO would say, voice ringing clearly across the dunes. "Please remain calm. You are being visited by Darth Sol and Darth Nox of the Sith Order. They come in pursuit of negotiations, structural reorganization, and—if necessary—decisive force. Cooperation is strongly advised. Thank you for your time."
It worked. Horrifyingly well.
People listened.
People stared.
People knelt, sometimes without fully understanding why.
The HK units noticed.
"Analysis," HK-88 said during a brief halt. "The Meat-Speaker inspires awe with minimal bloodshed."
"Counterpoint," HK-47 replied. "Bloodshed remains preferable."
"Query," HK-55 added. "May we add bloodshed to the announcement?"
"No!" C-3PO said, scandalized. "Absolutely not. That would be most improper."
"Observation," HK-47 said. "The Meat-Speaker is offended."
C-3PO straightened. "I am deeply offended."
Darth Sol slowed his pace just enough to glance back. The black mask turned, inscrutable lenses settling on C-3PO. For a terrible moment, C-3PO wondered if he had overstepped.
Then Darth Sol spoke quietly, pitched only for him.
"Don't mind them. You're doing wonderfully."
C-3PO froze.
"R-really?" he asked.
"Yes," Darth Sol said. "You're my favorite."
If C-3PO had possessed tear ducts, he would have wept openly.
Behind them, Darth Nox snorted. "You say that now. Give it time." She tilted her head, studying C-3PO with open appraisal. "We should paint him."
C-3PO recoiled. "Paint me?"
"Black and red," she continued thoughtfully. "More Sith."
Darth Sol did not even hesitate. "No."
"Why not?"
"He's perfect as is."
C-3PO straightened to his full height, plating gleaming dully in the sun. Perfect. He recorded the word for later contemplation.
"If anything," Darth Sol added, almost absently, "we could upgrade his plating. Gold suits him."
Every HK unit present went still.
"Objection," HK-47 said immediately. "Gold is reserved for trophies."
"Correction," HK-55 said. "Gold is inefficient."
"Counter-objection," HK-88 said. "Gold would increase intimidation."
C-3PO chose not to point out that he did not wish to be intimidating. He was far too busy basking.
As Jabba's Palace crested the horizon, C-3PO's internal anxiety spiked to record levels. The fortress loomed, ancient and bloated with power, its very architecture screaming entitlement.
He began rehearsing.
"Esteemed and most exalted Jabba the Hutt," he murmured, pacing carefully along the sand. "I humbly announce the arrival of Darth Sol and Darth Nox, who—no, too deferential—who claim sovereign authority over Mos Eisley and surrounding territories—oh dear."
He tried again.
"They come bearing an offer of mutual coexistence, strategic partnership, and—"
"Suggestion," HK-47 interjected. "Add 'or else.'"
"No," C-3PO said faintly.
"Alternate suggestion," HK-55 said. "Add 'or die screaming.'"
C-3PO clutched his hands together. "I cannot say that."
"Clarification," HK-47 said. "You could."
"I will not."
"Amendment," HK-88 added brightly. "We could say it for you."
C-3PO turned toward Darth Sol in open desperation. "Sir, I fear my wording may not adequately convey the… gravity of the situation."
Darth Sol considered. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself."
"That is precisely what worries me," C-3PO whispered.
As they approached the gates, C-3PO squared his shoulders. History would remember this moment. He was certain of it. He only hoped history would be kind.
The doors groaned open.
C-3PO stepped forward, voice rising with practiced clarity.
"Your Excellency, Jabba Desilijic Tiure," he announced. "I present Darth Sol and Darth Nox, who have come to formally inform you that your exclusive claim over Tatooine has been… renegotiated."
Behind him, the HK units hummed happily.
C-3PO closed his photoreceptors for half a second and made peace with it.
If history insisted on madness, then so be it.
At least he would be remembered as the sane one.
And somehow, that felt like the most alarming legacy of all.
...
Maris decided, roughly three seconds into breaching Jabba's Palace, that this was the best day of her life.
The first blast door didn't so much open as it did surrender. A coordinated barrage of ion pulses and precision charges from the HK units reduced centuries of Hutt paranoia to sparking metal and confused screams. The door buckled inward, folded like it had been embarrassed to be in their way, and then vanished entirely in a concussive wave that rattled the ancient stone halls.
Maris stepped through the smoke with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Oh, this was fun.
The palace interior was exactly what she'd expected: ostentatious, dimly lit, and absolutely convinced of its own invulnerability. Torches flickered along the walls, casting shadows that had probably terrified underpaid guards for generations. Alcoves hid weapon emplacements that would have been impressive, once, if technology had politely frozen in time to accommodate Jabba's ego.
It had not.
"Invisibility," Maris murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
The Force folded around her like a conspirator. Her presence blurred, then vanished entirely, leaving behind only the faintest whisper of displaced air. A heartbeat later, lightning cracked from her fingertips, arcing low and wide.
The first line of guards never even saw her.
Gamorreans were brave, she would give them that. Brave and loyal and profoundly outmatched. The lightning hit them like divine judgment, green skin locking up mid-roar as weapons clattered uselessly to the floor. A second burst followed, tighter this time, and the survivors collapsed in smoking heaps.
Maris giggled.
She probably should have felt something about that. Guilt. Reflection. A distant echo of the Jedi Code screaming in protest from wherever she'd buried it on Korriban.
Instead, she felt alive.
Blaster fire erupted from deeper within the palace, bright streaks of red and blue slicing through the haze. HK units advanced in disciplined waves, suppressing corridors with ruthless efficiency.
"Statement," one of them said calmly as it fired. "This unit finds the palace layout inefficient for sustained resistance."
"Agreement," another replied. "Recommendation: continued eradication."
Maris reappeared behind a pair of guards who were valiantly attempting to decide which direction to shoot. She cut one down with her saber, then used the Force to hurl the other bodily into a wall hard enough to leave a permanent impression.
She stepped back as Aurra Sing vaulted past her, moving like a blade given legs.
Aurra didn't waste motion. She didn't waste bullets. She didn't waste anything. Her blasters sang in precise, lethal harmony, each shot placed with professional detachment. Where Maris reveled, Aurra worked.
And stars, she was good at it.
Maris watched her for half a second longer than strictly necessary as Aurra slid across the floor, took cover, and popped up just long enough to put three guards down before they could finish swearing.
Killing for money and power, Maris thought, watching her move. Yeah. She got the appeal.
Darth Sol moved through the chaos like a constant. Where Maris was lightning and laughter, he was a juggernaut. Blaster bolts slammed into him, and he absorbed them all like a mountain. When he struck, it was decisive. A single motion, a single outcome. No wasted effort.
He caught Maris watching and tilted his head.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.
"Immensely," she replied, sending another bolt of lightning down a side corridor just to hear the screaming stop.
The palace defenses tried, briefly, to adapt.
Hidden turrets dropped from the ceiling. Shielded doors slammed shut. Reinforcements poured in from secondary halls, yelling orders that were outdated the moment they left their mouths.
The HKs adjusted instantly.
Ion fire took out the turrets. Breaching charges dealt with the doors. Reinforcements met overlapping fields of fire and fell in orderly piles.
Maris danced through it all, saber humming as she leapt from wall to wall, Force-enhanced steps carrying her over cover and into the thick of it. She vanished and reappeared at will, a pale blur of motion and malice.
This was better than training. Better than rituals. Better than Wrath's endless lectures about discipline and legacy and the pursuit of power.
This was real.
Somewhere deeper in the palace, Jabba the Hutt felt it.
She could see the Hutt's thoughts as clearly as her own. Clearer, even. The overgrown slugs were not the bright, luminous, and emotionally complex beings they were. When they felt, they felt strongly. And Maris sensed one emotion above all others.
Fear.
Jabba sat upon his dais, massive bulk trembling as reports flooded in. Guards dead. Doors breached. Weapon systems offline. The name Sith repeated with increasing frequency, each utterance more panicked than the last.
This wasn't a simple raid.
His enemies were storming the castle. And they were going to take it.
Jabba bellowed orders, tail thrashing as he demanded reinforcements, demanded explanations, demanded solutions. He had weathered challenges before. Jedi. Bounty hunters. Rivals.
This felt different.
She couldn't wait to see the look on the petty crime lord's face. It was time this arrogant slime learned what true power looked like. Best not to keep him waiting.
Maris landed beside Aurra as the last of a resistance pocket collapsed. A quick knife throw from the latter, dispatching a guard who had been cowering under his friend. Nice.
"You look like you belong here," Maris said, genuinely impressed. Even as she decapitated the poor fool hoping to get the drop on her from behind.
Aurra fired one last shot, then reloaded smoothly. "So do you."
Maris grinned. Compliments were nice.
They pushed deeper, the architecture growing more ornate, more desperate. Artifacts lined the walls. Weapons mounted more for intimidation than use. Every step screamed of accumulated power now being stripped bare.
Maris could feel the shift in the Force, the subtle panic rippling outward as Jabba finally understood.
Too late.
A final set of doors loomed ahead. Massive. Reinforced. Symbolic in the way only things built to intimidate could be.
The HK units fanned out automatically, weapons trained. Aurra rolled her shoulders, eyes bright. Darth Sol stepped forward, calm as ever.
Maris stood at his side, heart racing, grin wide enough to hurt.
The doors began to open.
...
The throne room smelled like old meat, burned incense, and fear that had finally realized it was justified.
Jabba the Hutt loomed on his dais, folds of blubber shifting as he tried to rearrange himself into something resembling authority. He failed. There was no posture that made a creature like him look anything but vulnerable once the illusion of strength was stripped away.
I stepped forward anyway.
Not dramatically. No flourish. No speech.
Just a measured walk across a floor that had seen too many people dragged across it in chains.
The doors sealed behind us with a final, echoing thoom. HK units fanned out, rifles raised, optics glowing. Aurra leaned against a pillar like she was waiting for a payment terminal to boot up. Maris drifted closer to me, eyes bright, taking in every detail like this was her favorite holodrama and she'd scored front-row seats.
Jabba made a wet, rumbling sound. His translator droid hurried to keep up.
"Darth Sol," the translator said, voice trembling despite its programming. "The illustrious Jabba Desilijic Tiure greets you. He expresses his displeasure at your… intrusion."
I stopped about ten meters from the dais.
That was close enough.
"I didn't come to negotiate," I said calmly.
Jabba's tail twitched. He laughed. A deep, rolling sound meant to shake confidence and remind everyone present that this room existed to serve him.
It fell flat.
He spoke again, the translator scrambling. "Jabba offers wealth beyond measure. Spice routes. Armies. Alliances. The Hutt Cartel is eternal."
I glanced around the room.
Chains. Bones worked into décor. A pit trap hidden beneath a grate that had claimed more lives than most wars.
Eternal was doing a lot of heavy lifting there.
"No," I said.
Just that.
The word hit harder than any threat.
Jabba leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You dare refuse Jabba?"
"Yes."
HK-55 tilted his head. "Statement: Target exhibits delusions of relevance."
Another HK chimed in. "Observation: Negotiation probability currently calculated at zero point zero zero zero one percent."
"Addendum," a third said thoughtfully. "This unit recommends immediate execution via methods that maximize symbolic deterrence."
They began listing them.
"Suggestion one: dismemberment followed by public display."
"Suggestion two: prolonged exposure to vacuum."
"Suggestion three: forced ingestion of corrosive substances."
"Suggestion four," HK-55 said cheerfully, "involves the dancers that the large meatbag used as entertainers."
Maris snorted. Aurra raised a brow, faintly impressed.
Jabba roared in fury, shouting orders, threats, promises of vengeance that rang hollow when his guards did nothing. They were either dead, gone, or very wisely pretending not to exist.
I tuned it out.
The Force was quiet around Jabba. Heavy. Sluggish. Like mud that thought itself a lake.
I reached out.
The trapdoor beneath his dais was old. Maintained, but complacent. Designed to drop victims downward, never upward. Just like how some doers would open outward, but never inward.
The mechanism screamed as I forced it open anyway.
Jabba's eyes widened.
His bulk lifted off the stone with a startled bellow, the Force wrapping around him like invisible hands. The room went silent except for the whir of servos and Jabba's panicked translator trying desperately to keep up.
"Wait," Jabba barked. "Jabba commands—"
"No," I said again, and released him.
He dropped.
The grate yawned open and swallowed him whole, his scream cutting off as gravity finally remembered its job.
A distant roar echoed up from below. Deep. Hungry.
The Rancor.
I stepped closer to the edge, looking down as the creature surged into view, claws the size of speeders, eyes gleaming with animal delight. Jabba didn't last long. There was thrashing. A wet crunch. A sound I suspected would haunt someone else later.
I felt… nothing.
No triumph. No horror.
Just completion.
Maybe that said something about me. Or maybe it said everything about Jabba.
Maris leaned over beside me, snapping holos with enthusiastic abandon.
"Seriously?" I asked, rubbing my temple. "We talked about this."
She didn't stop. "What? I can't take illicit holos of farm MILFs, or Hutt snuff? Do you even want to profit off of all the repressed younglings back at the Temple?"
"No," I said flatly. "No, I do not."
"Oh," she replied, finally lowering the device. "Okay, more for me."
"Stop it."
She grinned, entirely unrepentant.
The Rancor roared again, satisfied. The sound reverberated through the throne room, shaking loose dust and the last illusions of Hutt dominion.
HK units relaxed marginally, weapons lowering as execution probabilities recalculated themselves into irrelevance.
Aurra watched the pit for a long moment, then nodded once to herself. Professional respect.
I turned away from the edge.
Jabba the Hutt was dead.
And somehow, the galaxy felt lighter for it.
...
The desert did not care.
Aurra Sing had learned that lesson young, and relearned it often. Tatooine swallowed empires the same way it swallowed footprints. The wind erased everything eventually, no matter how loudly it had screamed on the way down.
The Great Pit of Carkoon waited in silence, its vast, circular maw stretching into shadow. The air around it vibrated faintly, not with sound, but with presence. The Sarlacc did not announce itself. It simply existed, ancient and patient, like a god that had never bothered to answer its people's prayers.
Aurra stood with the others at the edge, cloak snapping in the hot wind. HK units formed a loose perimeter, weapons lowered but very much ready. C-3PO hovered several careful steps back, wringing his hands and murmuring about sand corrosion. Maris sat cross-legged on a rock like she'd brought snacks and expected a show.
Aurra kept her eyes on the Rancor.
The beast had been sedated, restrained, dragged here by machinery and the Force in equal measure. Even unconscious, it was massive. A living engine of muscle and appetite. Jabba's pet. Jabba's symbol.
Jabba's mistake.
The chains groaned as the Rancor was hauled closer to the pit's edge. Its chest rose and fell, slow and heavy. Aurra felt a flicker of something she hadn't expected.
Pity.
It annoyed her.
This wasn't a mercy killing. It wasn't revenge either. She'd seen plenty of both. This felt… deliberate. Curated.
She glanced sideways at Darth Sol.
He stood with his hands folded behind his back, mask impassive, posture relaxed. Not triumphant. Not cruel. He looked like someone overseeing a construction project.
Aurra had killed for less. Much less.
The Rancor stirred, one massive eye fluttering open just as the chains locked into place. It let out a confused, rumbling sound, claws scraping stone.
The pit answered.
A deep, resonant shift rippled up from below, sand cascading inward as the Sarlacc woke to the promise of food. Tentacles breached the surface, slick and enormous, curling with slow, inevitable intent.
Aurra inhaled sharply.
Now that was a message.
The HK units perked up immediately.
"Observation," one said. "Predatory organism demonstrates optimal receptivity."
"Suggestion," another added. "Recommend release."
The chains disengaged.
The Rancor roared as gravity reclaimed it, massive body tipping forward. It tried to scramble, claws digging furrows into stone, but there was nowhere to go. The pit took it.
The Sarlacc surged upward in response, tendrils wrapping, pulling, dragging the beast down in a violent, thrashing embrace. The Rancor fought. Stars, it fought. Roars echoed across the desert, shaking the air, shaking Aurra's bones.
And then, gradually, inevitably, the sound faded.
The pit settled.
Silence reclaimed the desert.
Aurra exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.
She turned back to Darth Sol.
"That wasn't necessary," she said finally.
He tilted his head slightly. Not offended. Considering.
"No," he agreed. "It wasn't."
That answer bothered her more than if he'd justified it.
She waited.
He stepped closer to the edge, looking down into the pit like someone checking the weather.
"Jabba built himself a pyramid," he said calmly. "Placed himself at the top so everyone else would look up and think he was bigger than he was."
Aurra snorted softly despite herself. "Impressive trick. Considering how fat he was."
Maris laughed. Loudly. "Right?"
Darth Sol continued, unfazed. "Jabba himself was weak. Always was. He browse from the strength of others. Mercenaries. Bounty hunters. Assassins. Cartels. Monsters."
His gaze flicked briefly to the pit, then back to Aurra.
"The Rancor was the purest expression of that. His threat made flesh. Something terrifying that stood beneath him at all times. Ready to dispose of whatever was sent its way."
Aurra folded her arms, listening now. Really listening.
"I don't need that," he said. "My power doesn't come from what I own. Or who I command. It comes from me."
She felt it then. The Force around him. Dense. Controlled. Not flaring, not screaming. Just there. Like a blade held perfectly still.
People would learn to respect that, whether they wanted to or not.
"And," he added almost casually, "the Sarlacc needed feeding anyway. This should keep it occupied for a while."
Maris leaned back on her hands, peering into the pit. "A long while."
Aurra barked a short laugh before she could stop herself.
She shook her head slowly. "You're not cruel."
Darth Sol glanced at her. "No."
"You're worse," she corrected. "You're pragmatic."
He didn't deny it.
That settled something in her chest she hadn't realized was unsettled.
This wasn't a gang taking over territory. This wasn't a power grab driven by appetite or greed. This was restructuring. Pruning. Removing load-bearing myths and replacing them with something simpler.
Him.
Aurra had served monsters before. She'd worked for tyrants who pretended they were gods and gods who pretended they were men.
This one didn't pretend.
She looked back at the pit.
The Sarlacc had gone still again, tentacles retreating, sand smoothing over like nothing had happened. Content. Sated.
The food chain had been corrected.
HK-55 broke the silence. "Query: Should this unit record this event for instructional purposes?"
"Instructional?" C-3PO squeaked. "Oh my, I should very much hope not!"
"Clarification," HK-55 replied. "Instructional for future deterrence."
Darth Sol waved a hand. "No recordings. Let it become a story."
Aurra smiled thinly.
Stories were better anyway. Stories grew teeth.
She turned away from the pit, adjusting her grip on her rifle. Somewhere out there, Hutt lieutenants were panicking. Cartel accounts were freezing. Bounty hunters were recalculating loyalties.
Jabba's shadow was gone.
And in its place stood something sharper.
Aurra followed Darth Sol back toward the transports, sand crunching beneath her boots.
She wasn't worried about betraying a Hutt.
She was curious to see what the galaxy did next.
Because for the first time in a long while, Tatooine wasn't ruled by fear of what lurked beneath the sand.
It was ruled by the certainty of what stood above it.
And the desert, indifferent as ever, watched it happen.
...
Jabba's palace smelled different without Jabba.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Less rot. Less fear-sweat baked into the walls. Still plenty of blood, sure, but blood washed out. Fear lingered. It soaked into stone. It had weight.
We were in the middle of correcting that.
The throne room floor was crowded, but not with courtiers or dancers or sycophants pretending not to watch each other die. Now it was lined with freed slaves standing shoulder to shoulder, blinking like people waking up from anesthesia. Some were still wearing collars. Some had scars so old they'd healed wrong. Some just looked… empty.
I hated that look.
HK units moved through the room with mechanical precision, unlocking restraints, cataloging individuals, scanning vitals. Their voices overlapped in a low, constant murmur of efficiency.
"Statement: Removal of restraining device successful."
"Observation: Subject exhibits signs of malnutrition."
"Recommendation: Nutrient paste allocation increased by forty-seven percent."
One of the freed slaves flinched every time an HK spoke near her. I made a note to deal with that later. Psychological fallout was a tomorrow problem. Today was about triage.
Behind them, the other group knelt.
Former masters. Slavers. Overseers. Crime lords who'd been important five hours ago and were now very aware that gravity still worked the same way for everyone.
Their collars were new. Clean. Shockingly shiny.
Maris had insisted on that part.
"If they're going to suffer," she'd said earlier, hands on hips, "they should do it with good presentation."
I'd told her she was terrible.
She'd taken it as a compliment.
I stepped forward, boots echoing against the stone. The room quieted. Even the HKs lowered their volume a notch.
"I'm not executing you," I said, projecting my voice without shouting. "I want that clear."
Relief rippled through the kneeling criminals. Premature relief. The worst kind.
"I'm also not forgiving you."
That did more damage.
"You lived comfortably on the backs of people who didn't have a choice. You owned lives. Time. Bodies. Futures." I gestured to the freed slaves behind me. "So now you're going to return the favor."
Murmurs. Fear. Confusion.
"You'll serve the people you wronged," I continued. "Not forever. I'm not that petty. You'll serve for as many years as your slaves did."
A beat.
"If you owned more than one," I added, "we'll tact that on."
That did it. Someone sobbed.
"Some of you are very old," I said conversationally. "That's fine. Bacta exists. Cybernetics exist. Medicine is amazing when it's not being hoarded by Hutts."
I smiled behind the mask. They could probably hear it anyway.
"I gave my word," I said. "You will not be allowed to die until you've finished your sentence."
The silence that followed was… satisfying.
Behind me, one of the freed slaves let out a quiet, broken laugh. Another started crying. A third just stared at the kneeling figures like she was trying to reconcile two incompatible realities.
Good. Let it sink in.
HK-55 leaned slightly closer to me. "Clarification: Does this unit have authorization to apply motivational shock levels?"
"Only if they slack off," I said. "I'm fair, not soft."
"Statement: This unit approves of this distinction."
Around us, the palace was changing.
HK units moved through corridors, sealing doors, disabling old traps, rerouting power. Weapons caches were cataloged. Vaults were cracked. Data terminals were stripped bare of Jabba's records and rerouted into our own systems.
Jabba's banners came down.
I watched one get torn from the wall and tossed aside like trash. It felt symbolic enough to be worth the moment.
C-3PO stood near the central dais, polishing himself nervously with a cloth he absolutely did not need. His posture was rigid, optics bright.
"Are you quite certain this is necessary, Master Sol?" he asked, voice trembling but precise. "Announcing regime changes is a delicate affair. Historically speaking, the phrasing alone can incite panic, revolt, or—oh my—existential despair."
"That's kind of the point," I said. "You'll do great."
He straightened despite himself. "Very well," he said. "I do have extensive experience in formal declarations."
"That's the spirit!"
...
When everything was ready, when the palace had been secured and the prisoners relocated and the freed slaves fed and sheltered, I nodded to C-3PO.
He stepped forward.
Cleared his throat.
And delivered history.
"People of Tatooine," he began, voice ringing through the palace transmitters and outward into Mos Eisley and beyond, "please remain calm. This announcement is being made in the interest of transparency, stability, and a significant reduction in random acts of cruelty."
One HK whispered, "Excellent opener."
"Effective immediately," C-3PO continued, "the criminal entity previously known as Jabba Desilijic Tiure has been dissolved. Permanently."
A pause. Perfectly timed.
"In its place," he said, "a new governing body has assumed control. You may refer to it as the First Order."
The words carried.
I felt them settle into the Force like stones dropped into still water.
"Slavery is abolished," C-3PO said. "Those formerly bound are now protected citizens. Those who profited from their suffering will be… reassigned."
Somewhere, across the planet, I knew panic was blooming. Confusion. Hope. Rage. All of it tangled together. It's how I knew I was doing something right.
Change was supposed to hurt a little.
Later, when the sun dipped low and the palace finally went quiet, I stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the desert.
The twin suns were setting, painting the dunes in gold and fire.
I thought of Anakin. Of Luke. Of all the little Skywalkers who'd looked at this view and seen only dust and heat and something to escape.
I smiled.
Because standing there, watching that light stretch across the world we'd just broken and rebuilt in the same day, I couldn't imagine a better view.