Chapter Text
The sun bleeds across Korran's Hold in shades of copper and rust, stretching long shadows over the rocky crags that jut from the moon's surface like broken teeth. Shaak Ti moves through the settlement's narrow streets with the unhurried grace of someone who has learned to make herself small, unremarkable. The heat clings to her skin, thick and oppressive even as dusk approaches. Sweat traces the curve of her montrals, and she resists the urge to wipe it away. Drawing attention here would be unwise.
The town sprawls across the desert plain in haphazard clusters: buildings of sun-bleached stone and rusted metal that seem to grow from the landscape rather than rest upon it. Dust coats everything. It rises with each footfall, settles in the creases of her robes, tastes gritty on her tongue. But beneath the dust, beneath the acrid smell of fuel and unwashed bodies, there's something else. Iron. Sharp and metallic, drifting from the mines that honeycomb the hills beyond the settlement. A human probably wouldn't notice it, but her senses are sharper, and the scent curls in her nostrils like a warning. It smells too much like blood.
She's been here three days. Three days of watching, listening, piecing together fragments of conversation overheard in crowded market stalls. The locals don't talk to her, not really. At the cantina last night, the barkeep had barely grunted acknowledgment when she'd ordered water, his eyes sliding away as though looking at her too long might invite trouble. The patrons had been the same: hunched over their drinks, voices low, glances darting toward the door every time it opened. Fear lives here, thick as the heat.
The Force hums beneath it all, a constant presence that has grown stranger with each passing hour. She'd felt it on the transport from Coruscant, a subtle pull that had made her choose this moon over the three other pirate strongholds in the sector. During meditation, she'd reached for clarity and found only that persistent tug, gentle but insistent. Come here. Something waits here.
She doesn't know what. But she trusts the Force, even when it doesn't offer explanations. Even when the Council might call it reckless.
The thought of the Council brings a familiar tightness to her chest. Master Plo had supported this mission, but she'd seen the doubt in other Masters' eyes during the briefing. Too impulsive, they'd said. Too willing to follow instinct over protocol. They wanted evidence, documentation, careful deliberation before action. They wanted to debate while people disappeared, while weapons flooded into the Outer Rim and turned small conflicts into bloodbaths.
The Force doesn't work on a committee timeline.
Shaak pauses at the corner of a building, pressing her back against sun-warmed stone. Ahead, the street opens into a wider plaza where a handful of vendors pack up their wares for the evening. And there: three figures in mismatched armor, swaggering through the dispersing crowd with the easy confidence of people who know no one will challenge them. Pirates. She's seen this crew before, though never this close. They've been using the building across the plaza as a staging point, moving in and out at irregular intervals. She's documented their patterns, noted the crates they carry, the way they check the streets before entering.
She needs one more piece of information. Just one. Then she can return to her ship, compile her report, and let the Council decide whether to send a task force or negotiate with local authorities or simply add this to the growing list of Outer Rim problems they're too cautious to address.
The thought tastes bitter. She pushes it aside.
The Force shivers.
It's not a warning, exactly. More like a shift in current, the way water changes direction before a stone breaks the surface. Her attention sharpens. The pirates have stopped near a cluster of women loading goods onto a repulsor cart. One of the women says something, her voice too low to carry, but her body language speaks clearly enough: shoulders tight, gaze averted, hands fumbling with the cargo netting.
The tallest pirate laughs. He steps closer, backing the woman against the cart. His companions spread out, flanking the group. One reaches for a woman's arm.
Shaak moves.
The distance closes in heartbeats. She doesn't run, doesn't draw obvious attention, but she's suddenly there, inserting herself between the pirates and their targets with the kind of smooth inevitability that makes it seem like she'd been standing there all along.
"Excuse me," she says, voice calm, pleasant. "I think these women have somewhere to be."
The tall pirate blinks at her. For a moment, there's confusion on his scarred face, as though he can't quite process her sudden appearance. Then his expression hardens. "You think wrong, Togruta. Move along."
Behind her, she feels the women shifting, edging toward the cart. Good. She doesn't turn, doesn't break eye contact with the pirate. "I don't think I will."
He reaches for the blaster at his hip.
The Force flows through her like water finding level. She doesn't think about it, doesn't plan. Her hand rises, and the blaster tears free from his holster, skittering across the plaza stones. His companions lurch forward, and she sweeps her arm in a wide arc. They fly backward, limbs flailing, crashing into vendor stalls with sounds of splintering wood and shouted curses.
The tall pirate stares at his empty holster. Stares at his crew sprawled across the plaza. Stares at her.
"Go," Shaak says quietly to the women behind her.
They go. She hears the repulsor cart hum to life, hears rapid footsteps fading into the narrow streets. The plaza has gone still. Faces peer from windows and doorways, but no one emerges. No one offers help or asks questions.
The pirate's hand moves to a comm on his belt. "We've got a problem at the south plaza. A Jedi."
Ah.
Shaak centers herself, feeling the Force settle into her bones. This wasn't the plan, but plans are guidelines, not prophecies. She can handle a few more pirates. She's handled worse.
They come from three directions at once: a dozen, maybe more, pouring into the plaza with weapons drawn. They fan out with surprising coordination, cutting off escape routes, establishing a perimeter. Not as disorganized as she'd thought, then. Interesting.
She could fight. The Force sings with possibility, showing her the paths: disarm that one, deflect that shot, use their momentum against them. Easy. Almost insultingly easy.
But.
The Force shifts again. That same strange current, stronger now, pulling at something deep in her chest. It doesn't feel like warning. It feels like... invitation. Like a door opening in the darkness, waiting for her to step through.
Let them take you.
The thought arrives fully formed, impossible to ignore. Her muscles tense in instinctive rejection. Let herself be captured? Surrender to pirates without knowing where they'll take her, what they'll do? Every piece of her training screams against it.
But hadn't she just been arguing with the Council over caution? About their unwillingness to trust the Force when it didn't align with their carefully constructed protocols?
The Force brought her here. The Force has been calling her since Coruscant, pulling her toward this moon, this town, this moment. And now it's asking her to trust it one step further.
Her heart hammers against her ribs. This is foolish. This is dangerous. This is—
This is the way.
"Hold your fire!" someone shouts, and the voice carries the particular combination of charm and threat that she's learned to associate with leaders. A Weequay pushes through the crowd of pirates, grinning beneath his wide-brimmed hat. "Well, well. What do we have here? A Jedi?"
Shaak doesn't answer. She's still caught in that moment of tension, balanced on the knife's edge between action and surrender. The Force pulses through her, steady and sure. Trust me.
She's always trusted the Force. Even when it frightened her. Even when it hurt.
The decision settles over her like a weight.
She lets her shoulders drop, just slightly. Lets her stance shift from ready to neutral. The Weequay's grin widens, and she sees the moment he recognizes what she's doing. Or thinks he does.
"Smart girl," he says. "Boys, take her. And someone get the—"
The stun bolt catches her in the chest before he finishes speaking.
Pain explodes through her nervous system, white-hot and all-consuming. Her muscles lock. The world tilts, and she's falling, the dusty ground rushing up to meet her. The impact drives the air from her lungs. She can't move, can't speak, can't do anything but lie there as the electricity courses through her and her vision fractures into static.
Through the haze, she hears footsteps. Hears the Weequay's voice, closer now, amused. "Get the cuffs. Force-suppressing ones, I'm not taking chances with this one. And shoot her again. I want her very unconscious when we move her."
The Force flickers, dims. Something cold and heavy closes around her wrists, and it's like a door slamming shut. The presence that has been her constant companion since childhood suddenly muffles, distant, as though she's hearing it through thick walls.
Panic spikes, sharp and immediate. She can't feel it properly. Can't reach it. Can't—
Another bolt hits her. The pain doubles, triples, obliterates thought.
The last thing she registers before darkness takes her is the Weequay's laughter, bright and unconcerned, echoing across the plaza like the cry of some satisfied predator.
And beneath it, barely perceptible, the faintest whisper of the Force: Trust me.
Then nothing.