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.
Chapter Text
Shaak wakes to darkness and the taste of iron.
For a moment, she doesn't remember. Her body feels heavy, distant, as though someone has packed her limbs in wet sand. The ground beneath her is cold and uneven, pressing rocks into her spine through the thin fabric of her tunic. She tries to reach for the Force, for that familiar warmth that has been her companion since childhood, the thing that whispers you are not alone even in the deepest silence.
Nothing answers.
The absence hits her like a physical blow. Her chest constricts, breath catching in her throat. She reaches again, stretching for that connection with desperate urgency, and finds only void. No, not void. Worse than void. She can feel it there, just beyond her grasp, like trying to touch something through thick transparisteel. She can see the shape of it, the light and movement on the other side, but her fingers meet only cold barrier. Again and again she reaches, and again and again the connection fails, and the panic builds in her chest like water rising.
Breathe.
The thought comes unbidden, automatic, a reminder from years of training. She forces air into her lungs. Out. In. The rhythm steadies her pulse, but it doesn't touch the fear coiling in her gut.
She opens her eyes.
Artificial light flickers somewhere to her left, casting long shadows across rough stone walls. A cave. The ceiling stretches above her, natural rock interrupted by metal support beams that look recent, hastily installed. The air is cooler here than it was in the town, almost pleasant after the oppressive heat of the day. But the iron smell is stronger. It coats the back of her throat, seeps into her sinuses. Not blood, she reminds herself. Mines. There must be mines nearby.
The smell doesn't listen. It still makes her stomach turn.
She tries to sit up and discovers the full extent of her restraints. Metal cuffs circle her wrists, heavier than standard binders. When she shifts, she feels matching weight around her ankles. And her neck. Something cold presses against her throat, a collar that seems to hum with faint, unpleasant energy. The cuffs must be the same. Force-suppressing technology. She's heard of it, studied accounts of its use during the Sith-Jedi wars thousands of years ago, but she didn’t think they existed anymore. She’s never felt anything like it before.
She wishes she never had.
The fear pulses again, stronger now. She's a Jedi. The Force is what she is, not just what she does. Without it, she's untethered. Adrift. The wrongness of it crawls across her skin like insects, and she has to focus on breathing again, on not letting the panic spiral into something worse.
You chose this, she reminds herself. You felt the Force calling you to surrender. You trusted it.
The Force doesn't answer. Can't answer. And the doubt creeps in with the cold.
Hours must have passed since her capture. Maybe three? Four? Impossible to tell without seeing the sky, without the Force to help her sense the passage of time. Her body aches from the stun bolts, but the disorientation is fading. Small mercy. The exhaustion that pulls at her is deeper than it should be, as though the cuffs are draining something vital. Which they are, she supposes. Just not her blood.
She closes her eyes and tries to center herself without the Force. It feels like learning to walk after losing a leg.
Footsteps echo through the cave system. Multiple sets, getting closer. She sits up properly, arranging herself into a meditative position despite the cuffs. When they arrive, she wants to look calm. Collected. Not like someone barely holding terror at bay.
The footsteps stop outside her cell. She hears a soft chuckle, familiar from the plaza.
"Ah, awake at last! I was beginning to think we'd overdone it with the stun bolts. That would have been a shame. Dead Jedi are worth much less than living ones, you understand."
Hondo Ohnaka steps into view beyond the bars, backlit by the corridor lights. He's removed his hat, and without it he looks younger than she'd thought. Close to her own age, maybe. He carries himself with the kind of easy confidence that comes from either genuine competence or profound delusion. Given that he's managed to build a pirate operation significant enough to draw Jedi attention, probably the former.
He's holding her lightsaber.
The sight of it in his hands makes something in her chest clench. It's not just a weapon. She built it herself under Master Plo's guidance, poured hours of meditation into each component, let the Force guide her hands as she assembled it. Seeing it reduced to a trophy in a pirate's grip feels like a violation.
Hondo notices her staring. His grin widens. "Beautiful craftsmanship. Truly. I tried to activate it, you know. Pushed every button, waved it around." He demonstrates, swinging the deactivated hilt through the air with theatrical flourish. "Nothing! Very disappointing. Perhaps you could tell me the trick?"
Shaak keeps her voice level. "Only a Force wielder can activate that particular lightsaber. It was designed that way."
Hondo's eyebrows rise. "How delightfully paranoid. Were you worried about thieves?" He laughs at his own joke. "Smart girl. Though I suppose it makes this less valuable as merchandise. Still, I'm sure the Jedi Order will pay handsomely for its return. Along with you, of course."
The embarrassment that floods through her is immediate and unwelcome. The Council will find out she was captured. Master Plo will find out. Every doubt they've ever had about her judgment will be confirmed. Too impulsive. Too reckless. Too quick to follow instinct over protocol.
She pushes the shame down. It doesn't matter. What matters is surviving this, understanding why the Force led her here, and getting free.
"The Jedi Order doesn't negotiate with pirates," she says.
"Ah, but they make exceptions for their own, don't they?" Hondo taps the lightsaber against his palm thoughtfully. "Especially young, promising Knights. You are a Knight, yes? Too old to be a Padawan and too inexperienced to be a Master. Am I right?" She was beginning to think the male just liked to hear himself talk.
"I'm a Knight,” she said with a raised lip, a fang glinting in the flickering light.
"Excellent. That should increase the price." He tucks her lightsaber into his belt with casual possession that makes her jaw tighten. "I've sent word to Coruscant already. Very official, very professional. I even offered a discount for prompt payment. We'll see if they respond. In the meantime, I'm afraid you'll have to get comfortable. The accommodations are not luxurious, but I assure you we keep our merchandise in good condition."
He's trying to intimidate her, she realizes. Testing her reactions, seeing if she'll break or beg or offer information he can use. The attempt is almost clumsy. She's seen better interrogation techniques from Padawans.
"If you're waiting for me to be frightened," she says quietly, "you'll be waiting a long time."
Something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Curiosity, maybe. Or reassessment. "We'll see," he says finally. Then he turns and walks away, leaving her alone in the cell with the iron smell and the absent Force and her own mounting dread.
Night comes, though she only knows because the temperature drops.
The cave grows cold. Not unbearably so, not at first, but the chill seeps through stone and metal until her breath mists in the air. Her Togruta biology helps. She runs warmer than humans, her body better adapted to temperature regulation. But the cold still presses against her, relentless, and without the Force to help her stay centered, she feels it more acutely.
She doesn't sleep. Can't sleep. Every time she closes her eyes, the absence of the Force becomes overwhelming, and the panic threatens to drag her under. So she stays awake, listening.
The pirates move through the cave system with irregular frequency. She can hear them if she focuses her hearing: voices echoing through stone, laughter, the clank of equipment. No words, just sound. But it tells her enough. They're numerous. Established. This isn't some temporary hideout.
She tries again to reach the Force. And again. And again. Each time, she touches that barrier and can go no further. On the other side, she can sense movement, activity, something trying to reach back. But the chasm between them is absolute.
The hours stretch.
She's beginning to drift, exhaustion finally winning over fear, when shouts erupt somewhere in the cave system.
Shaak jerks upright, heart hammering. The shouts aren't organized, aren't coordinated. They're chaotic, angry, getting closer. She pushes herself to her feet, cuffs clanking, and moves to the bars.
A boy appears at the end of the corridor, dragged between two pirates. He's fighting. Not effectively, not with any real skill, but with absolute fury. His feet kick at shins, his body twists and writhes, and a constant stream of invective pours from his mouth: curses in Basic and several other languages she doesn't immediately recognize. One of the pirates slaps him across the face. The boy spits at him.
They reach her cell. The bars slide open with a hydraulic hiss, and the pirates hurl the boy inside. He hits the ground hard, rolls, comes up already shouting.
"—bastards! When my buir gets here, he's going to—"
Hondo appears in the corridor, and his hand moves to something at his belt. A control device. The boy's voice cuts off in a strangled gasp as electricity arcs through his body. He collapses, convulsing, a thin, terrible sound escaping his throat.
"Stop!" The word tears out of Shaak before she can think, emerging as a snarl that doesn't sound like her voice at all. "Stop hurting him!"
Hondo's finger lifts from the button. The electricity ceases. The boy lies motionless on the cave floor, chest heaving.
"Well," Hondo says, eyeing Shaak with renewed interest. "Soft-hearted Jedi. How predictable. You should be pleased—my luck is improving. Now I have two people I can ransom for excellent money." He grins. "Try to play nicely together, yes?"
The bars slide shut. And Shaak is left alone with a child who trembles on the cold stone, wearing a shock collar like an animal.
She moves toward him slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. "Are you—"
"Don't touch me!" The boy scrambles backward, pressing himself against the far wall. His eyes are wide, feral. A small animal cornered. "Stay back!"
Shaak stops immediately, raises her cuffed hands. "All right. I won't come closer." She lowers herself to sit, putting them at the same height. Less threatening. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine." The words snap out like a challenge. He's breathing hard, and she can see the way his hands shake before he clenches them into fists. Probably eleven, maybe twelve. Young enough that he should be crying, should be terrified. Instead, he's all sharp edges and bravado.
"I'm sure your family is looking for you," Shaak says gently. "They'll help you."
"Of course my buir is coming." The boy's chin lifts. "But not to pay some stupid ransom. He's going to break me out of here."
Buir. Mandalorian. The word sends a small chill through her that has nothing to do with temperature. She hasn't seen Mandalorians on Korran's Hold, but that doesn't mean they're not here. And if this boy's family is Mandalorian...
She keeps her voice carefully neutral. "What were you doing on this moon?"
His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. "None of your business."
The hostility catches her off guard. She hasn't done anything to earn it, but clearly, trust will need to be built slowly. She nods, accepting the boundary. "That's fair."
They sit in silence. The boy glares at her from across the cell, and Shaak carefully doesn't glare back. She notices details: the bruises on his arms, the split lip, the way he holds himself. Fighting injuries, not torture. The pirates must have had trouble subduing him. Given the fire in his eyes, she's not surprised.
He's also, she realizes, surprisingly composed for a child who's been captured and electrocuted. No tears. No visible panic. Either he's very brave, or he's been through worse, or he's in shock. Possibly all three.
"I'm Shaak Ti," she offers finally. "And I know you probably don't want to tell me your real name. That's all right. But it would help if I had something to call you."
The boy studies her for a long moment. His jaw works like he's chewing on the decision. Finally, reluctantly: "Jango."
"Thank you, Jango." She keeps her tone warm but not condescending. If there was anything she learned from her time working in the Youngling Creche at the Temple, children can always tell when you're talking down to them. "It's good to meet you. Even if the circumstances aren't ideal."
He snorts. Doesn't respond.
The silence stretches again, but it feels less hostile now. Shaak lets it sit, doesn't try to fill it. She's learned that sometimes people, especially children, need space to decide you're safe. Pushing only makes them retreat further.
The day passes in increments marked by pirate visits.
Food arrives: ration packets tossed through the bars without ceremony. Shaak catches hers before it hits the ground. Jango lets his fall, then retrieves it with exaggerated disdain.
He paces. Constantly. Like a caged animal testing the boundaries of its enclosure. Shaak watches him wear a path in the dirt floor and says nothing. When he finally sits, it's with his back to the wall and his eyes on the corridor, alert for any approaching threat.
"How'd you get caught?" Shaak asks eventually. "You seem like a good fighter."
The boy's spine straightens immediately. Pride flashes across his face before suspicion reasserts itself. But the compliment has done its work. He wants to tell her. Wants someone to acknowledge his competence.
"I was stealing something for my buir," he says finally. "These pirates had something he needed. I almost had it too. Would have, if there hadn't been so many of them."
Shaak keeps her expression neutral, but alarm bells are ringing in her mind. "Did your buir ask you to steal it?"
"No." Jango's jaw sets. "I heard him talking about it with his men. I wanted to help."
"So you snuck out." She's trying to piece together the situation, trying to understand what kind of guardian allows an eleven-year-old to infiltrate a pirate stronghold alone. "How did you get past him?"
Jango's pride shines through again. "I stole clothes to blend in. Made a false trail so he wouldn't know where I'd gone. I'm good at that."
The admission sends conflicting feelings through her. Impressed by his resourcefulness. Horrified by his situation. What kind of life teaches a child these skills?
"Are you afraid of your buir?" She asks it carefully, watching his face.
The scowl returns immediately. "No! Of course not."
But there's something in his eyes. A flicker of emotion quickly suppressed. Fear? Shame? She can't read it clearly, and without the Force to guide her, she has to rely on instinct alone.
She doesn't push. Pushing will only make him defensive.
Night falls again, and the temperature drops faster this time.
Jango tries to hide his shivering, but Shaak can see it. His clothes are thin, designed for working in heat, not for desert nights in stone caves. The tremors shake his small frame until his teeth chatter.
"I run warmer than humans," Shaak offers quietly. "If you want to sit closer, it would help keep you warm."
"No." The word is immediate, sharp. "I'm fine."
"All right. The offer stands if you change your mind."
When the guard brings their evening meal, Shaak catches his attention. "We need blankets. It's too cold in here."
The pirate sneers. "Poor little prisoners. Should we bring you pillows too? Maybe some nice hot tea?"
"Tell Hondo." She puts command in her voice, the tone Master Plo uses when he expects to be obeyed. "Tell him I'm requesting blankets. Now."
The pirate mutters something unflattering but leaves. Shaak doesn't know if he'll actually pass the message, but it's worth trying.
An cold hour later, Hondo appears.
He's carrying a single thin blanket, and his expression says he's enjoying this. "I hear you're making demands now. How bold. You're lucky I'm generous."
He tosses the blanket through the bars. It lands in a heap between them.
"One blanket for two people?" Shaak's voice drops into a growl she didn't know she had. "You're keeping a child here."
"And you got captured by pirates. We all make poor life choices." Hondo shrugs. "This is what I have. Take it or leave it."
Shaak is already moving, snatching up the blanket and carrying it to Jango. She drapes it around his shoulders despite his look of surprise. "Here."
"Aww." Hondo's tone is mocking. "What a soft heart you have. I'm sure the Council will be proud when they hear how you prioritized a strange child over your own comfort." He pauses. "Oh, wait. They still haven't responded to my ransom demand. Perhaps they don't care as much as you thought?"
Shaak turns her back on him, returning to her corner. She won't give him the satisfaction of a response.
"Neither of your people have answered," Hondo continues, clearly disappointed by her silence. "The boy's mysterious buir. Perhaps you're both less valuable than you believe. Sad, really."
He leaves. The corridor falls silent again.
"Thank you." Jango's voice is quiet, almost reluctant. "For the blanket."
"You're welcome."
Shaak settles against the wall and closes her eyes. Without the blanket, the cold is immediately worse. It seeps into her bones, makes her muscles ache. But the boy needs it more than she does, and that's not even a question worth debating.
She tries to meditate, to find some center without the Force. It doesn't work. The cold keeps pulling her back to physical awareness, and beneath it, fear gnaws at her. Why hasn't the Council responded? Maybe the message hasn't reached them yet. Galactic bureaucracy moves slowly, and getting an audience with the Council requires proper channels, proper authorization. It could be days before Hondo's ransom demand makes it through the layers of protocol.
She hopes that's the reason.
Across the cell, she hears Jango shifting. Then, so quietly she almost misses it: a soft, hitching breath. The sound of someone crying into a blanket, trying desperately to stay silent.
Her heart clenches. She wants to go to him, to offer comfort, but she knows he'd reject it. Would see it as pity. So she stays where she is and pretends not to hear, giving him the dignity of privacy.
But her worry grows. Why hasn't his buir responded? What kind of guardian leaves a child in pirate hands overnight?
Unless he doesn't know. Unless Jango's false trail worked too well.
The thought is somehow worse.
Morning comes with the sound of a single food packet hitting stone.
Shaak opens her eyes to find a pirate retreating down the corridor. One meal. For two of them.
She picks it up and carries it to Jango, ignoring the way he tries to scrub evidence of tears from his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy. She pretends not to notice.
"Here," she says, offering the packet.
He stares at it. "We can split it."
"I'm not hungry. You eat."
"But—"
"Jango." She keeps her voice gentle but firm. "Please. Eat."
He takes it slowly, suspicion warring with hunger. Hunger wins. He tears into the packet with a desperation that makes her chest hurt.
When did he last eat properly? Yesterday's meal was small, and who knows what he had before that. She watches him devour the rations and tries not to think about her own growing hunger. It doesn't matter. She's an adult. She can handle discomfort.
Footsteps approach again. Multiple sets, moving fast.
Hondo appears at the bars with three guards flanking him. His expression has lost its humor. "The boy's parent isn't responding to my messages. This is becoming very annoying. I think it's time we convinced them to take this seriously."
Jango's face goes carefully blank, but Shaak sees fear flash in his eyes. He stands, putting on his best scowl. "My buir will kill you when he gets here! He'll—"
"Yes, yes, very intimidating." Hondo waves dismissively. "But threats don't pay my bills. Open the cell. Bring the boy. I think we need to send a more... compelling message."
The guards move forward.
Shaak is on her feet before conscious thought, placing herself between them and Jango. The growl that comes from her throat is pure instinct, primal. "No."
"Don't be foolish. You're outnumbered and powerless."
"I don't care."
The first guard reaches for her. She drives her elbow into his throat, hears him choke and stumble back. The cuffs limit her mobility, but she's trained to fight in restraints. The second guard swings at her head. She ducks, pivots, and kicks his knee sideways. It gives with a sickening crack.
The third guard pulls his blaster.
Shaak freezes. The barrel points at her chest, and there's nowhere to dodge in the confined space. Behind her, she hears Jango's rapid breathing.
Then the world moves.
An explosion rocks the cave system. Dirt rains from the ceiling. The ground bucks beneath her feet, and she staggers, catching herself against the wall. The lights flicker. Somewhere distant, alarms begin to wail.
Hondo curses. "Status report! What was that?"
A voice crackles over his comm: "—under attack! Multiple breaches! They've got—" Static drowns the rest.
"Hold them here!" Hondo snaps at his guards. "Don't let them escape, but don't kill them. They're still valuable."
The guards back out of the cell, blasters trained on Shaak. One of them drags his injured companion. They seal the bars and retreat down the corridor at a run, leaving only their unconscious colleague slumped against the wall outside.
Another explosion. Closer this time. The walls shudder.
"That's him!" Jango's voice is bright with sudden hope. "That's my buir! I told you he'd come!"
Shaak turns to look at him. The boy is practically vibrating with excitement, all his earlier fear transmuted into vindication. She wants to share his relief. She does. But the thought of meeting the person who raised this child, who let this child attempt to infiltrate a pirate base alone, fills her with unease.
And there's nothing she can do about it. They're locked in a cell, cuffed and collared, forced to wait while violence echoes through stone.
The Force stirs on the other side of that unbridgeable chasm. She feels it moving, active, purposeful. But she can't reach it. Can't hear what it's trying to tell her.
She only knows that something is coming.
And she has no idea if that's salvation or something worse.
Notes:
I would love to hear your thoughts!!
Chapter 3
Summary:
:) Okay, last update for tonight's frantic writing session lol
Chapter Text
The explosion still echoes in Shaak's chest when she hears boots pounding down the corridor.
Not pirates. The rhythm is different: coordinated, purposeful, moving with military precision. She presses herself against the bars, straining to see through the flickering emergency lights. Jango is beside her, practically vibrating with anticipation.
"That's him," the boy breathes. "I know it is."
Three figures round the corner in full armor: silver and slate blue in the lead, copper and brown flanking, forest green bringing up the rear. They move like water, like they've fought together so long they don't need to communicate. The lead Mandalorian—taller, broader than the others—stops at the sight of the cell.
His helmet tilts toward Jango, and even through the visor, Shaak can feel the weight of his attention.
"Ad'ika." The word comes out rough, filtered through the vocoder. Relief and fury wrapped together.
Jango surges forward, hands gripping the bars. "Buir! I knew you'd—"
Shaak moves without thinking, putting herself between the boy and the Mandalorians. Her cuffed hands come up, defensive, and she hears her own voice emerge low and dangerous. "Stay back."
The lead Mandalorian goes very still. The other two shift, adjusting their stances, and Shaak knows she's made herself a threat. Good. Let them see her as dangerous. Let them hesitate.
"Shaak, what are you—" Jango's confusion bleeds into his voice, but she doesn't take her eyes off the armored figures.
"Who are you?" She keeps her tone level despite the adrenaline singing through her veins. "Are you the one who's supposed to be taking care of this child?"
The tension in the corridor crystallizes into something sharp enough to cut. The copper-brown Mandalorian's hand drifts toward his blaster. The lead one's shoulders square, and when he speaks again, the vocoder can't quite filter the edge from his words.
"Get out of my way."
"No."
"Shaak!" Jango sounds genuinely distressed now. "That's my buir! Let me—"
"Not until I know you're safe with him." She shifts her weight, ready to move despite the cuffs. Without the Force, she's half-blind, but she's not helpless. She's survived worse odds.
The copper-brown Mandalorian's blaster clears its holster. The barrel points directly at her chest, and somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice that sounds like Master Plo observes that she's made some truly questionable decisions in the last few days.
"I will not allow you to harm this child," Shaak says, and she's gratified that her voice doesn't shake.
Both Mandalorians flinch. Actually flinch, like she's struck them.
The lead one's hand comes up sharply, and the copper-brown Mando lowers his weapon immediately. Then the leader reaches up, releases the seal on his helmet with a hiss of pressurized air, and pulls it off.
The face that emerges is all hard lines and steel-grey eyes. A scar cuts across one cheek, pale against tanned skin. Dark hair sticks up at odd angles from helmet compression. He looks at her like he's trying to solve an equation that doesn't add up.
"What?" The word is quieter than she expects. Almost bewildered. "I would never harm my ad'ika."
The truth of it hits her like a physical thing. Without the Force, she can't sense deception through vibrations in the air, can't feel the subtle shifts in someone's energy. But she doesn't need it. This man's confusion is absolute, his offense genuine. The very suggestion that he might hurt Jango has thrown him completely off balance.
Ad'ika. She doesn't know the word, but the way he says it—soft, protective, fierce—tells her everything she needs to know.
Her shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. "I'm sorry. I had to be sure."
"Buir!" Jango doesn't wait for permission. He darts around Shaak the moment she relaxes, pressing himself against the bars. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just wanted to help, I thought—"
"We'll discuss it later." The Mandalorian's voice is firm, but his free hand comes up to rest against the bars where Jango's fingers grip them. "Are you hurt?"
"No. Well. The collar—"
"I see it." His jaw tightens. He looks past Jango to Shaak, and something in his expression shifts. Reassesses. As if to silently say, Thank you for looking after him.
Before Shaak can respond, the forest-green Mandalorian steps forward with a device in hand. "We need to move. Now."
The bars slide open with an electronic whine. Jango lunges through, and the lead Mandalorian catches him, one arm wrapping around the boy's shoulders. For just a moment, his expression cracks open: relief so profound it borders on pain. Then it smooths over, professionalism reasserting itself.
He looks at Shaak. "You're welcome to leave with us. Anyone willing to fight for my ad'ika deserves safe passage."
"I—" Shaak starts to respond, but an alarm blares through the cave system. Shouts echo from multiple directions.
"Jaster!" The copper-brown Mando's voice is urgent. "They're rallying. We have maybe two minutes."
Jaster. The name registers, tries to mean something, but Shaak can't place it. Not important right now. What's important is getting out of this cave before the pirates regroup.
She nods. "Let's go."
They move.
Jaster takes point with Jango tucked close behind him, one hand on the boy's shoulder keeping him in position. The forest-green Mandalorian falls in beside Shaak. The copper-brown one brings up the rear, weapon raised.
The corridor branches. Jaster doesn't hesitate, taking the left path like he's memorized the layout. They pass unconscious pirates, scorch marks on the walls, evidence of the Mandalorians' entry. Shaak's hands are still cuffed, but she scans for weapons anyway, anything she can use if this goes wrong.
They burst into a larger cavern, and chaos erupts.
Pirates pour from three different tunnels, weapons raised. Blaster fire cuts through the air in brilliant red streaks. Shaak drops into a crouch on instinct, but the Mandalorians are already moving: a coordinated dance of cover fire and advance that speaks to years of training together.
"Stay with me!" The woman’s voice cuts through the noise, and Shaak realizes the command is meant for her.
She stays close, matching her movements as they weave through the cavern. The Mandalorians' formation never breaks. They flow around obstacles, cover each other's blind spots, maintain control of the space with frightening efficiency. Shaak watches them work and understands, with sudden clarity, why the Republic fears them.
Jango stumbles. Too small, too young, falling behind despite his best efforts.
"Jango!" Jaster's shout cuts through everything else.
Shaak sees it happening: three pirates converging, blasters trained on the boy's back. She doesn't think. Thinking takes time. She moves.
Her shoulder hits Jango's side, momentum carrying them both into a roll. The ground rushes up. Something hot and searingly bright tears through her right shoulder, and the pain is immediate and absolute. For a moment, there's nothing but white noise and the smell of burned flesh.
"Cover!" Someone's voice, distorted by helmet speakers.
Arms wrap around her and Jango both, hauling them up and forward. Shaak tries to use her right arm and discovers it won't respond properly. The pain has locked it in place, useless. Blood soaks hot through her tunic.
They're moving again. Someone has Jango. Someone else has their hand on Shaak's good shoulder, guiding her forward. Blaster fire follows them, but the Mandalorians return it with devastating accuracy.
Through the pain-haze, Shaak sees him: Hondo, crouched behind an overturned table near the cavern's far exit. His focus is entirely on the Mandalorians advancing toward him, blaster raised. And there, hanging from his belt, catching the emergency lights.
Her lightsaber.
Shaak's bends and her hand closes around a fallen pipe, metal cool against her palm. The weight is wrong, the balance unfamiliar, but it doesn't matter. She breaks from the Mandalorian covering her, ignoring the shouted warning, and crosses the space in four strides.
Hondo never sees her coming.
The pipe connects with the back of his skull with a sound like a cracked bell. He drops, and Shaak is already moving, fingers fumbling at his belt, closing around the familiar cylinder of her weapon. She tucks it into her waistband, hidden beneath her torn tunic.
"Move!" Jaster's voice, and then he's there beside her, his free hand gripping her good arm and pulling her toward the exit.
They spill out into Korran's Hold's perpetual heat. A ship waits fifty meters away, ramp already lowering. The Mandalorians sprint for it in formation, and Shaak runs with them despite the fire in her shoulder and the blood loss making the world tilt sideways.
Pirates boil out of the cave entrance behind them. Blaster bolts carve through the air. The Mandalorians return fire without breaking stride, and Shaak marvels distantly at their coordination. No wasted movement. No panic.
They hit the ramp at full speed. Jaster practically throws Jango up it, then turns to provide cover fire. The copper-brown Mando does the same. The green Mando catches Shaak as she stumbles, one arm supporting her weight.
"Almost there," she says, and there's something almost gentle in the filtered voice.
The ramp closes behind them with hydraulic finality. The ship lifts, engines screaming, and the force of acceleration sends Shaak to her knees. The pain in her shoulder spikes, bright and vicious. She tastes copper.
Then Jaster is there, helmet off again, checking Jango with quick, efficient movements. His hands frame the boy's face, tilt his head to check for injuries. The rapid-fire Mando'a that pours from him is too fast for Shaak to even attempt to parse, but the emotion underneath needs no translation: relief and fury and desperate love all tangled together.
"I'm okay, buir," Jango keeps saying. "I'm okay, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just wanted to help."
"We'll discuss your definition of 'helping' later." But Jaster pulls the boy against his chest, one hand cradling the back of Jango's head. The fierce embrace lasts only a moment before professionalism reasserts itself. He pulls back, hands moving to examine the collar around Jango's neck. "Can you breathe? Does it hurt?"
"It's fine. It only hurts when they—" Jango's voice cracks slightly. "When they activate it."
Jaster's jaw goes tight. He looks at the green Mando. "Can you remove it?"
She kneels beside them, running her fingers along the collar's edge. After a moment, she shakes her head. "Not here. I'll need my tools on the main ship."
"Then we make it quick." Jaster stands, turning to sweep his gaze across his team. His eyes land on Shaak, still slumped against the wall with blood painting her shoulder crimson. Something in his expression shifts.
"Sila, check her wound."
"I'm fine," Shaak manages, though her voice sounds thin even to her own ears.
"You're bleeding through your tunic. You're not fine." The green Mando, Sila, approaches slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. "May I?"
Shaak tenses despite herself, and the movement sends fresh pain radiating down her arm. She forces herself to nod.
Sila's examination is quick and professional. Her gloved fingers probe the wound's edges, and Shaak has to bite down on a sound that wants to escape. "Blaster bolt. Didn't hit bone, but it's deep. She needs proper medical attention."
"Main ship," Jaster confirms. He looks at Shaak again, and there's something considering in his gaze. "You have somewhere you need to be? Someone waiting for you?"
The question catches her off guard. She should say yes. Should tell them to drop her at the nearest spaceport. Should get as far from Mandalorians as possible before they start asking questions she can't answer.
But she doesn't have her commlink. Doesn't have her ship—it's still parked somewhere in that pirate-infested town. And she's bleeding, exhausted, cut off from the Force, and surrounded by warriors who could kill her in a heartbeat if they discover what she is.
She needs time. Time to think, to plan, to figure out her next move.
"I..." The words stick. "I don't know."
Jango appears at her side, his small face creased with worry. "You should come with us. Just until you're healed. Right, buir?"
Jaster's expression is unreadable. Then he nods. "You're welcome on our ship until you decide where you want to go. It's the least we can do."
Shaak wants to refuse. Should refuse. But the pain in her shoulder is intensifying, and the adrenaline is wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. She's not in any condition to make demands.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
The rest of the flight passes in a blur. The copper-brown Mando, Myles, cracks jokes that make Jango smile despite the collar around his neck. Sila runs checks on their equipment with methodical focus. Jaster speaks into his comm, coordinating something with whoever's on the main ship.
And Shaak sits with her back against the bulkhead, one hand pressed to her bleeding shoulder, trying to ignore the lightsaber pressing against her spine. Hidden but not forgotten.
She needs a plan. Needs to figure out how to contact Master Plo without revealing herself. Needs to get these cuffs off and her connection to the Force restored. Needs to—
"Almost there," Myles announces from the pilot's seat. "Two minutes."
Shaak looks out the small viewport and feels her stomach drop.
The ship waiting for them is massive. A proper cruiser, bristling with weapons, built for war. And painted across its hull in gleaming silver is a symbol she recognizes from her diplomatic studies: the crossed beskad blades of the True Mandalorians.
Her mind races, piecing together information she should have connected earlier. Jango called him buir. The pirates were after something he had. The level of coordination, the resources, the authority in his voice when he gives orders.
Jaster.
Not just any Mandalorian. Jaster Mereel. Leader of the True Mandalorians. One of the most dangerous men in the Outer Rim.
The man who she threatened to protect his son from.
The ground beneath her feels like it's dissolving. She's just agreed to board the flagship of a Mandalorian military force. As a Jedi. With force-suppressing cuffs that anyone with technical knowledge will immediately identify as unusual. With a lightsaber hidden in her waistband.
This is bad. This is catastrophically bad.
"You okay?" Jango's voice pulls her back. He's watching her with those sharp eyes, concern written across his young face. "You look scared."
She feels her expression soften at the care in the boy’s tone. "I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Just... the wound."
She's not fine. She's the opposite of fine. But she pastes on a calm expression and waits for the ship to dock, because what other choice does she have?
The hangar bay is organized chaos.
The moment their ship touches down, people swarm: Mandalorians in various colors of armor, support crew in practical jumpsuits, all moving with purpose. Shaak's legs shake when she tries to stand, and Sila is immediately there, offering support without making it feel like charity.
"Easy. Blood loss will do that."
"I can walk."
"I know you can. Doesn't mean you should."
Before Shaak can argue, a medical team arrives with a gurney. Two humans in white uniforms, both looking competent and concerned. One of them—a woman with greying hair and kind eyes—gestures to the gurney.
"Please. You need treatment now, or that wound will get infected."
Shaak hesitates. Once she's on that gurney, she's committed. She's accepting their help, putting herself in their hands. The smart thing would be to refuse, to insist on being dropped at the nearest port.
But Jango is watching her with those worried eyes, and one of the Mandalorians—she can't tell which through their helmet—leans toward Jaster and murmurs something. Jaster's response is too quiet to hear, but the helmeted figure nods and approaches Jango.
"Your buir says you're grounded for a month. Maybe two. Depends on how creative his punishments get."
Jango groans, but there's no real heat in it. "I was trying to help."
"I know. Doesn't make it less stupid." But the Mandalorian's hand rests gently on Jango's shoulder. "He'll cool down. Eventually."
The casual affection, the clear care for the boy's wellbeing—it eases something in Shaak's chest. Whatever else these people are, they love this child. That has to count for something.
She lets herself be guided to the gurney, lying back despite every instinct screaming at her to stay mobile, stay ready. The moment she's horizontal, exhaustion crashes over her like a wave. Her shoulder throbs in time with her heartbeat.
"We'll take good care of you," the medic promises, and then they're moving, wheeling her through the hangar toward interior corridors.
She catches one last glimpse of Jango, still surrounded by armored figures, looking small and young and safe.
Then the doors close, and she's alone with strangers who don't know what she is.
Yet.
The medical bay is surprisingly well-equipped: scanning equipment that looks recent, beds with proper bacta infusion systems, even a surgical suite visible through a transparisteel partition. The medic—who introduces herself as Healer Rynn—guides Shaak to a bed and begins setting up equipment with practiced efficiency.
"I need to remove your tunic to access the wound properly. Is that all right?"
Shaak nods. What choice does she have?
The fabric peels away from the wound with a wet sound that makes her stomach turn. Healer Rynn's face remains professionally neutral as she examines the damage, but Shaak can feel the woman's eyes tracking across her exposed skin.
Tracking across her scars.
Two white lines across her back, parallel, from a slaver's whip on a mission gone wrong. The edges of them curl around her side, visible to the woman as Shaak lays on her back, lightsaber still precariously hidden. A puckered blaster scar on her abdomen from the time she'd been too slow during a firefight. Evidence of a life spent in conflict, written in scar tissue.
"These are old," Healer Rynn says quietly. Her voice has gone soft, sad. "Some of them very old."
Shaak doesn't respond. Can't respond without lying, and Master Plo always said she couldn't lie to save her life. The scars are from Jedi missions—the whip marks from rescuing slaves on Zygerria, the blaster scar from protecting a senator—but she can't explain that without revealing everything.
"You don't have to tell me." Healer Rynn's hand rests briefly on Shaak's good shoulder, a gesture of comfort. "I can guess enough. I'm just sorry."
The assumption sits heavy between them. Shaak knows what Healer Rynn thinks: slavery, abuse, a hard life before whatever brought her to Korran's Hold. Let her think it. Let her make her own story. It's easier than the truth.
The bacta injection stings, but the pain in her shoulder begins to fade almost immediately. Healer Rynn works with quiet competence, cleaning the wound, applying synthetic skin, wrapping it in clean bandages. The process takes maybe twenty minutes, and by the end, Shaak's exhaustion has intensified into something that feels like gravity pulling at her bones.
"Rest now," Healer Rynn says. "I'll be nearby if you need anything."
Shaak wants to protest. Wants to stay alert, stay ready. But her body has other ideas, and consciousness slips away before she can stop it.
Voices wake her.
Not loud. Just close enough to penetrate the fog of sleep and drag her back toward awareness. Shaak keeps her eyes closed, breathing steady, listening.
"—unprecedented. I've never seen restraints like this." A woman's voice. Sila. "The exterior is standard durasteel, but there's a hollow core with some kind of power source. Sophisticated work."
"Can you remove them?" Jaster's voice, unmistakable.
"The ankle cuffs, yes. I figured out the mechanism. But I want to be careful with the wrist cuffs and the collar. If I trigger something—"
"Understood. Do what you can."
Footsteps approach the bed. Shaak forces her body to stay relaxed, her breathing even. If they think she's asleep, maybe they'll say something revealing.
The privacy curtain slides open. Through her eyelashes, she can see three figures: Jaster without his helmet, face serious. Sila, similarly helmetless—narrow features, ash-brown hair pulled back, dark green eyes that miss nothing. And a third man, copper-brown armor removed to reveal freckled skin and curly auburn hair. Myles.
"Is she stable?" Jaster asks quietly.
"Healer Rynn says yes. The wound is clean, and the bacta's doing its work." Sila moves closer, and Shaak feels her examining the cuffs around her ankles. "I'll start with these."
The sound of tools engaging, metal scraping against metal. Shaak maintains her façade of sleep while her heart rate picks up. The cuffs. They're removing the cuffs.
She's not ready. She needs to be ready for the Force to return, needs to be prepared for the overwhelming rush of sensation. But there's no way to prepare that won't reveal she's awake.
Something clicks. The pressure around her left ankle releases.
And the Force floods back.
Not completely. Not fully. But enough that she gasps, can't help it, the sensation too intense to hide. It's like being underwater for too long and finally breaking the surface, like the first breath after drowning. Her senses expand outward in a rush: life signatures throughout the ship, the hum of the engines, the emotional landscapes of the three Mandalorians in the room.
Concern. Curiosity. Wariness.
"Are you all right?" Jaster's voice cuts through the sensory overload.
Shaak opens her eyes, tries to focus through the dizziness. "I'm fine."
She's not fine. The room tilts, her connection to the Force unstable, like trying to stand on a ship in rough seas. She reaches for stability and finds only chaos. Too much input. Too fast. Her body wasn't ready for this.
"Take it slow," Sila advises. She's already working on the second ankle cuff. "Whatever reaction you're having, it'll pass."
The second cuff comes free, and the Force surges again. Stronger. Fuller. But still not complete—the collar around her neck maintains its restriction, keeping her from full connection. The bridge between her and the Force is rebuilt, but there's still a gate blocking the path.
Shaak's head swims. She's grateful to be lying down, because standing would be impossible right now.
Jaster settles against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with that analytical gaze. Myles remains by the door, alert, one hand near his blaster. Guard position. She doesn't blame them.
"Now the wrists." Sila moves to Shaak's cuffed hands, examining them with the same careful attention she gave the ankles. She makes a surprised sound. "These are different from Jango's. Same external shell, but the internal mechanism..." She looks up at Jaster. "I can remove them, but it'll take a few minutes."
While Sila works, Jaster shifts his weight, and the movement draws Shaak's attention. He's studying her—not hostile, but evaluating. Like he's solving an equation.
"You have somewhere you need to go after this?" he asks. "Someone expecting you?"
The question catches her off guard. She should say yes. Should tell them to drop her at the nearest spaceport. Should get as far from Mandalorians as possible before they start asking questions she can't answer.
But she doesn't have her commlink. Doesn't have her ship—it's still parked somewhere in that pirate-infested town. And she's bleeding, exhausted, cut off from the full Force, and surrounded by warriors who could kill her in a heartbeat if they discover what she is.
"I..." The words stick. "I don't know where to go."
Jaster's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts. Relaxes, maybe. "I'd like to make you an offer."
Shaak blinks. "What?"
"You fought well back there. Even with your hands restrained, you took down two armed men. You have the heart of a warrior—the instinct to protect those weaker than yourself." He pauses, and those steel-grey eyes pin her in place. "You were willing to stand between me and my ad’ika when you thought he was in danger. That kind of courage, that kind of conviction... those are qualities I value in the people who fight beside me."
The words wash over her, and she doesn't know how to respond. Is he—is he recruiting her?
"I don't even know you," she says finally. "You don't know me. How could you—" She struggles to find words. "You've seen me fight once. For all you know, I could stab you in the back the first chance I get."
A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaster's mouth. "You won't."
The certainty in his voice is mildly infuriating. Even if he's right.
"I'm serious," Jaster continues. "Stay with us. For a while, at least. Train with us. See if this life suits you. If it doesn't, I'll personally ensure you get wherever you need to go with enough credits to start fresh."
Shaak stares at him. The offer is... she doesn't even know what it is. Generous? Insane? Part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity. A Jedi, recruited by the leader of the True Mandalorians. The Council would have a collective stroke.
But another part of her—a part she doesn't want to examine too closely—responds to something in his words. The way he assessed her. Saw her. Not as a Jedi or a tool of the Order, but as a person with skills and heart and value. When was the last time the Council looked at her like that?
She thinks of soft days in the Temple with Master Plo. Meditation in the gardens. Baking in the communal kitchens, flour dusting her hands while Plo gently teased her about her terrible bread-making skills. Training sessions where he'd correct her form with patient hands. Game nights with other Padawans, laughter echoing through the corridors.
She already has a family. She doesn't need another one. Doesn't want to abandon Plo, who's been more father than teacher to her.
But the way Jaster looks at her—like she's capable, like she's worthy, like her instincts matter—it makes something in her chest ache.
"I appreciate the offer," she says carefully. "But I can't make that decision right now."
"Fair enough." Jaster nods. "The offer stands. Think about it."
Sila makes a triumphant sound. "Got it. First wrist cuff coming off in three... two..."
The cuff releases.
The Force slams into her with the force of a physical blow. Every cell in her body lights up, reconnecting to the cosmic energy she's been cut off from. It's too much. Too fast. Like her body forgot how to process this much input, and now it's all rushing back at once.
She hears someone gasp and realizes it's her. The world fractures into sensory overload: she can feel the engines three decks below, the life force of hundreds of beings throughout the ship, the interplay of light and shadow and gravity. She's drowning in sensation, and she doesn't remember how to swim.
Breathe, something whispers. Not Master Plo. The Force itself, maybe. You know how to do this. Breathe.
She tries. Opens her mouth. Takes in air.
"Steady," Jaster says, and she realizes he's moved closer, one hand hovering near her shoulder like he wants to offer support but doesn't know if touch would help or harm.
Sila works quickly on the second cuff. "Almost done. Just hold on."
The second wrist cuff releases.
And everything goes black.
When consciousness returns, it comes slowly. Carefully. Like her body has learned to be cautious about the transition between states.
The Force is there, humming beneath her skin. Still not complete—the collar remains, a constant pressure against her throat—but so much more accessible than it was. She can reach it now. Can touch it. Can let it flow through her if she's gentle about it.
Shaak opens her eyes to find Healer Rynn at her bedside, reading something on a datapad. The woman notices immediately.
"Welcome back. How are you feeling?"
Shaak takes inventory: head aching, body exhausted, shoulder a dull throb despite the bacta. But alive. Stable. "I've been better."
"I imagine so." Healer Rynn sets down the datapad, her expression concerned. "Can I ask you something? Have you ever had a reaction like that before?"
"Like what?"
"Your vitals spiked dramatically when those restraints were removed. Heart rate, blood pressure, neural activity—everything went haywire before you passed out." She pauses, and the concern deepens into something that looks almost like suspicion. "The pattern was similar to someone experiencing withdrawal, then receiving the substance they'd been denied. But you said earlier you hadn't experienced this before."
Shaak's mind races. The truth—that the Force-suppressing cuffs had severed her connection to an energy field that's integral to her existence—is impossible to explain. But lying convincingly has never been her strength.
"I... I don't know what happened," she says finally. It's not exactly a lie. She doesn't know why her body reacted so violently to the Force's return. "Has Jango experienced anything similar?"
"No. His collar is still in place, but removing his ankle and wrist restraints didn't cause any adverse effects." Healer Rynn studies her. "Yours were different, weren't they? Sila said she'd never seen anything like them."
"I don't know." Another non-lie. "I was unconscious when they put them on me."
It's weak, and she knows it. But it's all she has.
"I'd like to remove your collar as well," Healer Rynn continues, "but after that reaction, I'm concerned. I want to monitor you for a few more hours before we try."
"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. "I want it off. Now."
"I understand, but—"
"Please." Shaak softens her tone, tries to project calm despite the desperation clawing at her chest. "I need it off."
Healer Rynn's expression is troubled, but after a long moment, she nods. "I'll get Sila. But if you start showing signs of distress, we're stopping immediately. Understood?"
Shaak agrees because she has no choice. And as Healer Rynn leaves to find Sila, she lies back and tries not to think about what will happen when these Mandalorians realize what she is.
She needs to get out of here. Soon. Before the questions get too specific, before someone recognizes her lightsaber, before her inability to lie catches up with her.
But first, she needs the Force back. Fully. Completely.
Then she can figure out how to escape the flagship of the True Mandalorians without starting a war.
And maybe, just maybe, she can stop thinking about Jaster Mereel's offer and the way he looked at her like she mattered.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Welcome back! Bit of a slower chapter before we get to more interesting things :)
Chapter Text
The medical bay is quiet except for the soft hum of equipment and the distant thrum of the ship's engines. Shaak sits propped against pillows, the bacta patch on her shoulder itching beneath clean bandages. The pain has dulled to a manageable ache, and she tests her right arm carefully, rolling her shoulder. The movement pulls, but it's bearable. By tomorrow, she should have full use of it again.
The Force hums beneath her skin, muffled but present. Like looking through foggy glass. She can reach it, touch it, but the collar around her neck keeps the full connection just beyond her grasp. It's better than the absolute void of the cuffs, but the restriction still makes her nervous system buzz with wrongness.
She's testing her range—reaching for small objects on the side table, seeing if she can sense their weight in the Force—when footsteps approach. The rhythm is familiar now: confident, unhurried, the gait of someone who expects doors to open for him.
Jaster Mereel appears in the doorway, and Shaak's awareness of him sharpens immediately. Through the Force, even muffled as it is, she can feel him. Warm. Solid. Like standing near a fire on a cold night. His presence bends the Force around him in subtle ways, drawing attention without effort. No wonder people follow him. Even those who can't touch the Force probably feel that pull instinctively.
He's removed most of his armor, down to the underlayer and boots. Without the beskar, he looks more human, less like a walking weapon. The scar across his cheek catches the medical bay's sterile light.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, and the professional courtesy from before is still there, but there's something gentler now too. Genuine concern.
"Better." Shaak shifts, trying to sit straighter. "The bacta is working."
"Good." He moves into the room, settling into the chair beside her bed with easy confidence. Through the Force, she can sense his interest—not threatening, just... curious. Engaged. Like she's a puzzle he wants to understand. "Healer Rynn says you should have full mobility in the arm by tomorrow."
"That's what she told me."
Silence stretches between them, not quite uncomfortable but weighted with unspoken things. Shaak can see Myles through the open doorway, standing guard with casual alertness. Making sure this conversation stays private, or making sure she doesn't try to leave? Probably both.
"I need to ask you something," Shaak says finally.
Jaster's eyebrows rise slightly. "Go ahead."
"Where are you going? The ship, I mean. Where are we headed?"
"Back to Mandalore." His answer is immediate, no hesitation. "Now that I have Jango back, there's no reason to stay in the Outer Rim."
Shaak nods slowly, processing. "What were you doing so far from home?"
Jaster's expression shifts—not closed off exactly, but carefully neutral. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "That's Mandalorian business."
The gentle rebuff makes Shaak smile despite herself. "Fair enough."
She's not one of them. Not part of whatever operation brought them to the Outer Rim, not privy to their military movements. It makes sense that he wouldn't share details. The fact that he's even letting her stay on his ship is more trust than she probably deserves.
The thought makes guilt twist in her stomach, but she pushes it down.
"I need a communicator," she says, changing tack. "To contact someone."
Jaster goes still. Not tense, exactly, but his attention sharpens. Through the Force, she feels curiosity spike—bright and focused. "Who do you want to speak with?"
The question surprises her. It's so direct, so plainly asked. She's used to Jedi who gather information through observation, through leading questions, through carefully orchestrated conversations that make you reveal things without realizing it. But Jaster just... asks.
"Why didn't you ask before?" he continues. "When I offered to help you contact someone earlier, you said you didn't know where to go."
Shaak hesitates. The truth is complicated, wrapped up in her capture and the Force's call and her own confusion about what she's supposed to do next. But she can feel his genuine curiosity in the Force, can sense that he's not trying to trap her. He actually wants to know.
"I was embarrassed," she admits finally. The words taste strange. "About being captured. About needing to be rescued. I didn't want to have to explain that to... to the person who raised me."
Jaster's expression softens immediately. The change is subtle—a slight easing around his eyes, a downward tilt of his head—but in the Force, his presence warms further. Sympathy. Understanding.
"Your buir?" The Mando'a word sounds natural in his mouth.
"Essentially, yes." It's close enough to the truth. Master Plo isn't her parent by blood or law, but he's been more father to her than teacher. The distinction feels important to maintain—attachments are forbidden—but right now, it's splitting hairs.
"Why didn't you say something?" Jaster leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "There's no shame in what happened to you. Being captured doesn't make you weak."
The sincerity in his voice reverberates through the Force. He means it. Completely. Without reservation. It catches Shaak off guard, makes something in her chest tighten.
"Thank you," she says quietly. The words feel inadequate, but she doesn't know what else to offer.
She's grateful for his kindness. Uncomfortable with it too, because she knows—knows—that this gentleness would evaporate if he discovered what she is. A Jedi. A member of the Order that's been at war with his people for millennia. The enemy.
The deception sits heavy in her throat, but she swallows it down.
Jaster studies her for another moment, then nods like he's come to some decision. "All right. You can speak with your buir. After that, we'll work on getting that collar off."
Relief floods through her. "Thank you."
"I'll get you a communicator. Take your time with the call—I'll give you privacy." He stands, moving toward the door. "Then we'll see about making you more comfortable."
He's almost to the corridor when Shaak calls after him. "Jaster?"
He turns back, one eyebrow raised in question.
"Why are you being so kind to me?"
The question hangs in the air between them. For a moment, she thinks he won't answer. But then that small smile returns, and there's something almost sad in it.
"Because you stood between me and my son when you thought he was in danger. Because you took a blaster bolt meant for him. Because you're alone and injured and far from home." He pauses. "And because I think everyone is worth the kindness."
Before Shaak can respond—before she can even process the words—he's gone, leaving her alone with the weight of his sincerity and her own mounting guilt.
The communicator Jaster returns with is small, civilian-grade but well-maintained. He sets it on the table beside her bed without ceremony.
"The signal's encrypted on our end," he says. "Standard security protocol. Take as long as you need."
Then he's gone again, the door sliding shut behind him, and Shaak is left staring at the device like it might bite her.
She picks it up carefully, turning it over in her hands. The casing is smooth, unmarked except for the manufacturer's seal. She activates it with a thought, letting her awareness expand just enough to feel the device's internal systems.
There. Tracking software, embedded in the communication protocols. Not sophisticated enough to pinpoint specific locations, but enough to identify which planet a call connects to. She frowns, running through the code in her mind. It's not malicious, just prudent. Of course they'd track outgoing calls from an unknown passenger.
Coruscant is safe enough. The planet-wide city has a population in the trillions. One call to the Jedi Temple won't stand out, especially if she uses Master Plo's personal comm rather than going through official channels.
The memory surfaces unbidden: her and three other Padawans, maybe fourteen years old, hunched over a datapad in the Temple archives. They'd just learned basic slicing techniques, and someone—she can't even remember who—had suggested they test their skills on Master Plo's comm.
They'd programmed it to play an obnoxiously cheerful tune every time someone sent him a message. She'd been terrified he'd be angry, had spent three days waiting for the inevitable summons to his quarters for discipline.
Instead, Plo had found her in the meditation gardens, sat down beside her, and asked if the song was her favorite.
When she'd stammered out a confused negative, he'd simply smiled—as much as a Kel Dor could smile behind a mask—and said, "Pity. I've grown quite fond of it."
For the next month, that song had followed her everywhere. Playing from her datapad. Humming from training room speakers. Even once, memorably, from the ventilation system in her quarters. Master Plo had never said a word about it, had never acknowledged the prank beyond that one conversation.
But she'd learned her lesson. And she'd learned that her Master's patience was deeper than the Temple's foundations. And that he was perhaps also a prankster.
The memory makes her smile despite the nervousness churning in her stomach. She needs his advice. Needs his steady presence, his calm wisdom, his ability to see paths she's missing.
She inputs his private comm code and waits.
The hologram flickers to life in brilliant blue, and Master Plo Koon's masked face resolves with perfect clarity. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Shaak just drinks in the familiar sight of him: the antiox mask covering the lower half of his face, the talons of his hands folded serenely, the tilt of his head that means he's assessing the situation.
"Shaak Ti." His voice is warm, tinged with relief. "I was beginning to worry."
The knot in Shaak's chest loosens slightly. "Master. I'm sorry I missed our check-in."
"Are you all right? What happened?"
She wants to tell him everything. Wants to pour out the whole chaotic mess of the past few days: the Force's call, the capture, the cuffs, Jango, the rescue, Jaster's offer. But the words stick. Where does she even begin?
"How have you been?" she asks instead, deflecting. "What's the Council had you doing?"
Through the hologram's blue glow, she sees his posture shift. Just slightly, but she knows him too well to miss it. He recognizes the deflection, understands that something is wrong. But he doesn't call her out on it. Doesn't push. Just accepts her need for a moment more before diving into the difficult conversation.
"The Council sent Qui-gon, his Padawan, and I on a reconnaissance mission," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "To the Mid Rim. There are rumors of civil conflict among the Mandalorians, and the Council wants information."
Shaak goes very still. "Mandalorians?"
"Yes. They've been keeping it internal, but the Council is concerned it might spread. We need to know who's leading each faction, what their goals are, whether Republic intervention as peacekeepers will be necessary." He pauses. "I'm headed to Mandalore now to gather intelligence."
The words hit her like cold water. Of course. Of course the Force would lead her here, would place her exactly where she needs to be to help Master Plo with his mission. The certainty of it settles over her like a cloak.
"Why is the Council sending all of you for reconnaissance?" she asks, trying to keep her voice level. "That seems like something you could handle alone."
"I thought so as well." There's a subtle tension in Plo's shoulders now, barely visible but definitely there. "However, Qui-Gon Jinn inserted himself into the mission after it was assigned to me. He claimed the Force was leading him to Mandalore, and he refused to step aside when the Council asked."
Shaak frowns. She respects Qui-Gon's dedication to following the Force—it's something she tries to emulate—but his uncompromising approach has caused friction before. "He brought Obi-Wan with him?"
"Yes. His Padawan accompanies us."
She doesn't miss the careful neutrality in Plo's voice. Her Master is gentle, slow to anger, the kind of Jedi who can work with anyone. But even he has limits, and working with Qui-Gon Jinn tests those limits. She's heard the stories: missions derailed by Qui-Gon's insistence on following the Force's will regardless of orders, his tendency to prioritize his own interpretation of events over the Council's directives.
And then there's Obi-Wan. She doesn't know the boy personally—he's over a decade younger than her—but she's heard rumors. Fights with other younglings when he was young. Nearly shipped off to the AgriCorps when he aged out without finding a Master. Qui-Gon took him on at the last moment, but the whispers say their relationship is... complicated.
She pushes the concern aside. Master Plo can handle himself.
"Master," she says, decision crystallizing. "I need to tell you what has happened."
Plo inclines his head, waiting.
The words come easier now. She explains following the Force to the Outer Rim, investigating the pirates, the women in the plaza, the decision to let herself be captured. She can see Plo's posture tighten when she describes the Force-suppressing cuffs and collar, can sense his concern even through the distance and the hologram's limitations.
"How did you escape?" he asks quietly.
Shaak winces. This is the part she's been dreading. "I had help. There was a child—Jango—captured by the same pirates. His..." She hesitates over the word. "His father came to rescue him. True Mandalorians. They brought me with them when they left."
The silence stretches. She watches Master Plo process the information, watches his fingers flex slightly against his robes.
"Will you be coming home soon?" he asks finally.
The code phrase. The one they established when she was young, when they first started taking missions together. Coming home soon means are you in immediate danger?
"I'm not far," Shaak responds, giving the answering code. "But not yet."
Not in immediate danger, but potential danger exists.
Plo's shoulders relax fractionally. "I see. And the Mandalorians—do they know what you are?"
"No." She lowers her voice instinctively, even though she's alone in the room. "They think I'm just... someone who needed help. They've offered to let me stay with them. Their leader—Jaster Mereel—even offered me a place among his people."
Plo goes very still. If she could see his face fully behind the mask, she imagines his expression would be stunned. She understands the feeling.
"The Force-suppressing equipment," Plo says slowly. "You still have it on?"
"Just the collar now. They removed the cuffs, but..." She touches the metal at her throat. "The healer wants to wait before taking this off. I can access the Force, but it's muffled. And I can't feel our training bond. I think it's just the distance between us, but—"
Plo interrupts gently. "Can you leave without arousing suspicion?"
Shaak considers. "Yes. I think so. But Master..." She takes a breath. "I think I should stay."
"Shaak—"
"You're being sent to gather intelligence on the Mandalorian civil conflict. The Force led me to the Outer Rim, led me to be captured, led me to be rescued by the True Mandalorians. By their leader. I'm in the perfect position to help you with your mission, to gather information for the Council. This can't be coincidence."
The certainty in her own voice surprises her. But it feels right. The Force brought her here for a reason, and now she understands what that reason is.
"You would be alone," Plo says quietly. "Among warriors who would kill you if they discovered your identity. Without full access to the Force. Without backup."
"I know. But I can do this. I can help." She leans forward, willing him to understand. "Jaster has already offered me a place with them. I could accept, stay close, learn about their plans, their leadership, their conflict. I could provide information that would help the Council decide how to proceed. Maybe even help prevent this civil war from spreading."
"You would be spying on people who saved your life."
The words hit harder than they should. Guilt twists in her stomach, but she pushes it down. "I would be serving the Republic. Serving the Order. Preventing potential bloodshed. That's what Jedi do."
Plo is silent for a long moment. She can see him thinking, weighing options, considering outcomes. Finally, he sighs—a sound like wind through empty corridors.
"I can see you've set your mind on this."
"I have."
"Then we will meet on Mandalore and discuss it further. But Shaak..." His voice softens. "Be careful. These are dangerous people, and the situation is more complex than you know. If Jaster Mereel discovers you're a Jedi before you're ready to reveal yourself..."
"I understand.”
"May the Force be with you, my young friend."
"And with you, Master."
The hologram flickers out, leaving Shaak alone in the medical bay with the weight of her decision settling over her shoulders.
She knows Plo is worried. Can imagine him pacing his ship right now, running through scenarios, calculating risks. Part of her wants to call him back, to tell him she'll leave at the first opportunity, that she'll come home where it's safe.
But a larger part—the part that trusts the Force absolutely, the part that believes she was led here for a purpose—knows she's made the right choice.
The Force wanted her on Korran's Hold. Wanted her captured. Wanted her rescued by the True Mandalorians. And now she understands why.
She's exactly where she needs to be to help Master Plo and the Council. To gather information that could prevent war. To serve the Republic.
The fact that she'll be deceiving people who've shown her kindness—deceiving Jaster, who looked at her with genuine respect and offered her a place among his warriors—that's unfortunate. Uncomfortable. But necessary.
Jedi make hard choices. It's part of the job.
She touches the communicator, feeling the weight of it in her palm. Then she sets it aside and settles back against the pillows, trying to ignore the way her shoulder throbs and the Force pulses unevenly through her limited connection.
Tomorrow, she'll accept Jaster's offer. She'll become a temporary member of the True Mandalorians. She'll gather intelligence for the Council.
Tonight, she just needs to convince herself that the guilt churning in her stomach is a small price to pay for serving the greater good.
The Force hums around her, muffled but present. She reaches for it, seeking reassurance, seeking confirmation that she's chosen correctly.
It offers no answers. Just that same persistent pull, that same sense of rightness that's been guiding her since Coruscant.
She has to trust it. Has to believe that following the Force's will—even when it leads somewhere uncomfortable, even when it requires deception—is the right path.
She's a Jedi. This is what they do.
The certainty should comfort her. But as she lies in the darkness of the medical bay, listening to the distant sounds of Mandalorians going about their lives, all she feels is the weight of the collar around her neck and the knowledge that tomorrow, she'll start lying to people who've shown her nothing but kindness.
For the greater good.
Chapter 5
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Chapter Text
The medical bay has become simultaneously familiar and suffocating.
Three days. Shaak has spent three days confined to this sterile room while her shoulder healed and Healer Rynn fussed over her "unusual physiological responses." The blaster wound is nearly closed now, pink scar tissue visible when she changes the bacta patch. Her arm moves without pain, though there's still a tightness in the muscle that will take another day or two to fully resolve.
The collar remains around her neck. A constant pressure. A constant reminder.
Healer Rynn had asked if she was ready to remove it that first night, but after Shaak's conversation with Master Plo, she'd insisted they wait. Made up something about wanting to be sure her body wouldn't react badly again. The medic had readily agreed, and now Shaak sits with partial access to the Force and the growing certainty that she's made the right choice.
Or at least, that's what she tells herself.
The past three days have been a study in patience. She's meditated—as much as the muffled Force connection allows. She's stretched, keeping her body limber despite the confinement. She's read everything she could access on the ship's limited datanet about Mandalorian culture and history, trying to fill in the gaps her Temple education left.
What she's learned has been... complicated.
The Mandalorians aren't the mindless warriors the Republic portrays them as. Their culture is rich, layered, built on concepts of honor and family that resonate uncomfortably with Jedi philosophy. They adopt foundlings—children orphaned by war—and raise them as their own without distinction between blood and choice. They value loyalty, courage, and the willingness to fight for something larger than yourself.
They're not so different from Jedi, in some ways. Except where Jedi are taught to release attachment, Mandalorians embrace it. Build their entire identity around it.
The door slides open, pulling her from her thoughts.
Jaster Mereel fills the doorway, and even after three days, the sight of him sends her awareness spiraling outward through the Force. That warmth. That solidity. The way the Force bends around him like he's a fixed point in a changing galaxy.
He's in full armor today—silver and slate blue gleaming under the medical bay's lights—but his helmet is tucked under one arm. His expression is pleasant, almost relaxed.
"Healer Rynn says you're cleared for release," he says. "I thought you might want a tour. Starting with the mess hall, since you've been eating ration packets for three days."
Shaak stands, grateful to finally be moving. "That sounds perfect."
She falls into step beside him, but as they reach the doorway, she stops. Her hand catches his arm without thinking, and she pulls back immediately when she feels the cool beskar under her fingers.
"Sorry. I just—" She takes a breath. "There's something I need to talk to you about first."
Jaster turns to face her fully, his expression shifting to something more attentive. "All right."
The words should come easily. She's had three days to prepare them, to plan exactly how she'll phrase her acceptance. But standing here with him watching her, feeling his steady presence in the Force, the guilt threatens to choke her.
She's about to lie to him. Not directly—she'll tell herself it's not lying, just omission—but the deception sits heavy in her chest regardless.
For the mission. For Master Plo. For the Republic.
"Your offer," she says quietly. "To stay with your people. Is it still available?"
Something in Jaster's expression transforms. His smile is radiant—genuine pleasure lighting his features in a way that makes him look younger, less burdened by command. "Of course. You're welcome among us, Shaak Ti. For as long as you choose to stay."
The warmth in his voice makes her stomach clench. She forces herself to smile back, to let relief show on her face even as guilt gnaws at her. "Thank you. I... I'd like that."
"Good." He adjusts his grip on his helmet, gesturing toward the corridor. "Then let's get you fed. You can't be a proper Mandalorian on an empty stomach."
They walk through corridors that hum with life.
The ship is massive—Shaak knew that intellectually, but experiencing it is different. These aren't just military passages. There are living quarters, training rooms, what looks like a school for the younger children. Whole families live here, she realizes. This isn't just a warship. It's a mobile city.
Jaster explains as they walk, his voice carrying easily over the ambient noise. "The main hangar is three decks down. We've got secondary bays on levels four and six—mostly for smaller craft and emergency evacuation. Training facilities are concentrated on deck seven, though we've got smaller practice rooms scattered throughout. The command center is—"
He breaks off as a pair of Mandalorians round the corner. They stop immediately, snapping to attention with crisp salutes. Jaster returns the gesture with easy authority, and the two continue past, their helmeted heads swiveling to track Shaak as they go.
Everywhere they go, Mandalorians stop to acknowledge Jaster. Some with formal salutes, others with casual nods or called greetings. He knows them all by name, asks about their families, remembers details about their lives.
He's not just their military leader, Shaak realizes. He's their Mand'alor—a title she'd read about but hadn't fully understood until now. Father of his people. Protector. The one they look to for guidance and strength.
The weight of that responsibility should be crushing. But Jaster carries it easily, with the same steady warmth that radiates from him in the Force.
She's getting used to the stares. Has been since the moment she left the medical bay. Mandalorians don't seem to believe in subtlety—they look openly, assessing her with frank curiosity. Some nod acknowledgment. Others just watch.
It makes her skin crawl.
As a Jedi, she's learned to fade into the background. To be present but unobtrusive, noticed only when necessary. This constant attention feels like exposure, like walking around without her skin.
She tries to center herself in the Force, seeking calm, but the collar makes everything harder. The connection is there but muted, and she has to work for the kind of peace that used to come naturally.
They turn another corner, and Shaak's awareness prickles.
A man stands at the end of the corridor, speaking with two other Mandalorians. He's tall—maybe six-four—with shoulders that strain against his armor. His helmet is off, revealing a face that might be handsome if not for the permanent scowl etched into it. Dark hair, darker eyes, and an expression like he's smelling something rotten.
The Force moves around him strangely. Not dark, exactly, but... turbulent. Like staring into churning water and trying to see the bottom. Shaak's instinct is to step back, to put distance between herself and whatever roils beneath that surface.
The man's eyes lock on her, and the scowl deepens. There's no curiosity in his gaze. Just flat, hostile assessment. Like she's an insect he's considering crushing.
Jaster notices her hesitation. "That's Montross," he says quietly. "My cousin."
As if hearing his name, Montross dismisses the other Mandalorians with a jerk of his head and strides toward them. His gait is aggressive, all sharp angles and controlled violence. Shaak has to actively resist the urge to slide behind Jaster.
"Montross," Jaster greets him with professional courtesy. "I didn't expect to see you until the afternoon briefing."
Montross barely glances at Jaster, his attention still fixed on Shaak. "Wanted to submit my report on the new recruits early. Training's going slower than projected. Bunch of soft-bellied farmers who can't hold a blaster steady."
"We'll discuss it later." Jaster's tone remains pleasant, but there's steel underneath. "Would you like to join us for lunch?"
"No." The word is flat, final. Montross's gaze finally shifts from Shaak to Jaster, and something cold passes between them. "I've got better things to do than play tour guide to strays."
He turns and walks away without waiting for dismissal, his armored footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Shaak watches him go, her heart still hammering. The Force is still unsettled, ripples spreading outward from where Montross passed like someone threw a stone into dark water.
"I apologize for him." Jaster's voice pulls her back. There's frustration in his tone, carefully controlled but definitely present. "He's been... difficult lately."
"Why?" The question comes out before Shaak can stop it. "What did I do?"
"Nothing." Jaster starts walking again, and Shaak hurries to keep pace. "It's not personal. Or rather, it is, but it's not about you specifically. Montross was my heir before I adopted Jango. Now the boy will inherit leadership of the True Mandalorians, and Montross..." He sighs. "He's taking it hard."
Shaak processes that. "So adopting Jango displaced him."
"Technically, yes. But Montross loves training our warriors. He's brilliant at it—one of the best tactical instructors I've ever seen. He wouldn't actually want to give that up to lead the clans full-time." Jaster's expression suggests he's trying to convince himself as much as her. "He'll come to terms with it eventually."
"Is he your second in command, then? If he's your cousin and was your heir?"
"No. That's Sila. She's my right hand in all things military. Montross commands the training divisions, but he reports to her." Jaster glances at Shaak. "Chain of command is important to us. Everyone knows their place, their role. It's what keeps us functional."
The words settle over Shaak with uncomfortable weight. Everyone knows their place. And now she's here, pretending to find hers, while actually planning to betray every bit of trust they offer her.
She releases the guilt into the Force—or tries to. It's harder than it should be, the emotion clinging like tar.
The mess hall is chaos contained.
Long tables fill the space, packed with Mandalorians in various states of armor removal. The noise is overwhelming: conversations in a dozen languages, laughter, the clatter of trays and utensils. The smell hits her next—spices she can't identify, roasting meat, something almost floral underneath it all.
Heads turn as they enter. Conversations don't stop exactly, but they quiet, and Shaak feels the weight of dozens of eyes tracking her progress.
"Find a seat," Jaster says, gesturing toward an empty section of table near the far wall. "I'll get food."
"I can—" Shaak starts, but he's already moving toward the serving line with the kind of confidence that says he knows she won't argue.
She makes her way to the indicated table, hyperaware of every step, every pair of eyes still watching. She sits with her back to the wall—old Jedi habit—and tries to look comfortable despite the prickling sensation between her shoulder blades.
"Shaak!"
The voice is bright, young, unmistakable. Jango appears from somewhere in the crowd, weaving between tables with the ease of someone who knows this space intimately. His collar is gone, she notes with relief. The bruises on his face have faded to yellow-green. He looks healthy. Happy.
He slides onto the bench beside her with enough enthusiasm to make it rock. "You're out! Healer Rynn finally let you go!"
"She did." Shaak can't help but smile at his energy. It's infectious. "How are you? I heard they removed your collar."
"Two days ago. Sila got it off in like five minutes once she had her tools." Jango bounces slightly, like sitting still is physically difficult. "I've been training with the other kids. We're learning hand-to-hand combat basics. I'm the best in my age group," he adds with complete confidence.
"I'm sure you are."
"Buir says I need to work on my defensive forms, but my offensive strikes are really good. Myles has been helping me with blaster aim and he said you might–" He cuts himself off, something shifting in his expression.
"Well, that is, I heard my buir asked you to stay with us."
The change in tone is jarring. One moment he's all excitement and energy, the next he's careful, almost hesitant. Like he's afraid of the answer.
Shaak's chest tightens. She knows what her staying means to him—someone who protected him, someone who stood between him and danger. He's attaching to her, forming a bond, and she's about to feed it with a lie.
"I agreed to stay," she says, and hates how gentle her own voice sounds. Hates that she has to release her guilt into the Force again, has to consciously relax the tension in her shoulders.
"Really?!" Jango's shout turns several heads. He immediately tries to reel himself in, lowering his voice and attempting to look more composed. But his eyes are bright, and his attempt at subdued dignity lasts about three seconds before a grin splits his face. "That's—that's really good. I'm glad you're staying."
Focus on the present moment. Focus on this boy's joy, his relief at having someone else who cares about him. Don't think about the fact that you'll leave. Don't think about how he'll feel when you do.
Shaak forces herself to smile, to match his energy. "I'm glad too."
The lie tastes like ash.
Jaster returns carrying a tray loaded with food: some kind of grain mixed with vegetables, strips of what might be nerf meat, a dark sauce that gleams ominously, and a cup of something that steams.
He sets it in front of her with a smile that's almost mischievous. "Traditional Mandalorian fare. Let me know what you think."
Jango leans in, watching her with barely contained glee.
The warning signs are there—Jaster's expression, Jango's anticipation, the way several nearby Mandalorians have suddenly gone quiet. But Shaak is too grateful to finally have real food to pay attention.
She takes a bite of the meat.
Fire explodes across her tongue.
Not metaphorical fire. Actual, searing, burning heat that makes her eyes water instantly. She gasps, which only makes it worse—air fans the flames. Her sinuses clear violently. Her throat closes.
She reaches blindly for water, finds the cup, and drains half of it in desperate gulps. The liquid helps. Slightly. But the burning continues, radiating from her mouth down her throat and somehow into her ears.
Jaster and Jango are laughing. Not mean-spirited, just genuinely amused. Around them, other Mandalorians grin or chuckle.
"Most outsiders can't handle it," Jango manages between giggles.
Shaak sets down the cup with shaking hands. "It tasted good," she wheezes. "I just don't think I can feel my tongue anymore."
That sets off another round of laughter. Jaster stands, still smiling. "I was curious to see how you'd handle our food. I'll get you something milder."
He returns a few minutes later with a new plate: the same grain, but with different meat that isn't glazed in what Shaak now recognizes as liquid fire. She takes a careful bite, and relief floods through her. Flavorful, but not actively trying to kill her.
"Better?" Jaster asks.
"Much. Thank you." She's embarrassed—can feel heat in her face that has nothing to do with spices—but Jaster doesn't make a big deal of it. Just settles back into his seat and starts on his own meal.
They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Jango shovels food into his mouth with the single-minded focus of a near-teenager, and Shaak finds herself relaxing despite everything. The mess hall's noise has returned to normal. The stares have mostly stopped. She's just another person eating lunch.
"Jango!"
A group of children appears at the edge of their table—five of them, ranging from maybe nine to twelve. They all wear training clothes, and several have wooden practice weapons strapped to their backs. One of them—a girl with her hair in dozens of tiny braids—gestures urgently.
"We're going to practice in bay three. You coming?"
Jango looks torn, glancing between his half-empty plate and his friends. The internal debate plays out clearly on his face.
The children notice Jaster sitting there and freeze. As one, they snap into sloppy salutes, elbows at wrong angles, backs not quite straight.
Jaster returns the salute with military precision, fighting a smile. "Eat a few more bites first, ad'ika."
Jango doesn't need to be told twice. He shovels an enormous mouthful of food into his cheeks like a lichi-squirrel hoarding nuts, gives a muffled "Thanks, buir!", and takes off at a run.
His friends scatter in different directions to avoid getting trampled, then reform and follow him out in a noisy cluster.
Jaster watches them go, his expression soft with affection. Then he sighs and shakes his head. "I'm raising a barbarian."
The fondness in his voice makes something in Shaak's chest ache. She smiles despite it. "He seems happy."
"He is. Now." Jaster's attention shifts back to his meal, but there's a weight to the words. "He wasn't, when I first found him."
Shaak has spent the past three days reading about Mandalorian adoption practices. She knows the basics: foundlings are children adopted into the culture, given the same status as biological children, raised as Mandalorians without distinction. It's considered one of the highest honors—both to be chosen and to choose.
But she doesn't know the specifics of Jango's story."How long have you had him?" she asks carefully.
Jaster's smile saddens. He sets down his utensil, and for a moment, he's somewhere else. Remembering.
"Three years. He was eight when I found him." He pauses, measuring his words. "Jango was born on Concord Dawn. Simple farming family. Good people. His parents loved him, provided for him, taught him to be brave
and honest."
Shaak's stomach sinks. The past tense. The careful way Jaster speaks.
"Death Watch attacked their homestead." The words come out flat, emotionless, but Shaak can feel the fury beneath them. In the Force, Jaster's presence flares hot for just a moment. "They slaughtered his parents right in front of him. Made it slow. Made sure he watched."
Horror crawls up Shaak's spine. She's seen terrible things in her years as a Jedi, but the casual cruelty of it makes her stomach turn.
"Jango survived by hiding. Under the floor, in a space barely big enough for a child. He stayed there for hours while Death Watch tore through his home, looking for anything valuable." Jaster's hands curl into fists on the table. "By the time I arrived with my men, his parents were dead. The Death Watch soldiers were gone. And Jango was alone in the ruins, refusing to run."
"He was waiting for someone to come back," Shaak says quietly. Not a question.
"He was defending his home. With a farming tool. Eight years old, surrounded by bodies, armed with a rusted vibroblade he could barely lift." Jaster's voice carries something that might be awe. "When my men approached, he threatened them. Told them to leave or he'd kill them."
Despite the horror of it, Shaak finds herself smiling slightly. That sounds like Jango. All defiant courage and stubborn refusal to back down.
"I recognized what Death Watch had done immediately. The execution style, the systematic destruction. It was their signature." Jaster meets her eyes, and his gaze is steel. "That's why I fight them. Why those who follow me do the same. Death Watch doesn't represent Mandalorian honor. They represent brutality, terrorism, the worst of what we can be."
He speaks with such conviction that Shaak feels it resonate in the Force. This isn't political rhetoric. This is bone-deep belief.
"They've been escalating," Jaster continues. "Recently developed weapons we can't counter effectively. Our casualty rates have tripled in the past six months. That's why we were in the Outer Rim—trying to intercept a weapons shipment before it reached Death Watch forces."
The piece of intelligence slots into place in Shaak's mind, and she files it away for her report to Master Plo. Death Watch has new weapons. The True Mandalorians are struggling to counter them. The conflict is intensifying.
She should feel satisfied—this is exactly the kind of information the Council needs. But instead, she just feels sick.
"What do you expect from me now?" she asks, partly because she needs to know, partly because she needs to change the subject before guilt swallows her whole. "Now that I've joined you?"
Jaster's expression lightens slightly. "We'll need to assess your abilities first. See where you fit best. Everyone has their strengths—some are better in direct combat, others in reconnaissance or strategy. We'll figure out where you shine."
He leans back, and his tone shifts to something more official. "We're headed back to Mandalore. I have meetings scheduled with several clan leaders—need to ensure their loyalty against Death Watch, coordinate our defensive strategies. It'll be political as much as military."
"Will I be involved in that?"
"If you want to be. You're part of my people now, which means you have a voice in our future." He pauses, studying her. "Unless you'd prefer to focus on combat training first? Get your bearings before diving into Mandalorian politics?"
Shaak considers. The smart choice for gathering intelligence would be to involve herself in the political meetings. But pushing too hard, too fast, would raise suspicion.
"I'd like to train first," she says. "Understand your people better before I presume to have opinions on your governance."
Jaster nods approvingly. "Wise. I'll have Sila set up your assessment schedule. We'll start with basics—hand-to-hand combat, weapons proficiency, tactical awareness. Then we'll see where your talents lie."
He stands, collecting their empty trays. "For now, let me finish showing you around. You should know where things are before we arrive on Mandalore."
Shaak rises to follow him, but her mind is already racing. Training assessments. Political meetings. Access to clan leaders and strategic discussions. She'll have everything Master Plo needs, and more.
The Force hums around her, muffled but present, and she wonders if it's satisfied with her choices. If this is truly where it meant to lead her.
Or if she's just telling herself that to make the deception easier to bear.
Chapter 6
Notes:
Ahhhh! Thank you so much for all of the wonderful kudos, comments, and bookmarks! Each and everyone means the world to me!
I'm back with another chapter that I hope you enjoy. We now have reached Mandalore and plans are in motion :)
Please continue to let me know what you think and any theories you've got!
Chapter Text
Mandalore rises from the bridge’s viewport like something out of ancient history.
Shaak presses closer to the transparisteel, watching the planet resolve from abstract sphere to detailed world. Continents sprawl beneath swirling cloud formations, and as they descend, she can make out mountain ranges, forests, the glint of rivers catching morning light. The ship banks, and suddenly she's looking at Keldabe.
The city sits atop a granite hill like a crown, the Kelita River curving around its base in a protective embrace. Woodlands stretch in all directions, broken by smaller hills that roll toward the horizon. But it's the city itself that steals her breath.
This isn't Coruscant. Isn't even Corellia or Naboo with their planned architecture and aesthetic harmony. Keldabe looks like it grew organically from the stone beneath it, districts radiating outward from a central fortress in layers that speak to centuries of expansion. She can see the different clan territories even from here—sections that don't quite match, stitched together by necessity and shared purpose rather than unified design.
Massive structures that must be armory-forges stand as prominent as any government building. The architecture has verticality but not the towering spires of Core worlds. Instead, buildings seem to climb the natural cliffs and hillsides, working with the terrain rather than dominating it.
And there, overlooking everything, built into the granite hill itself: the citadel.
Black stone and silver metal catch the morning sun. Blue banners hang from battlements, slightly sun-bleached and dusty, moving in the breeze. Even from a distance, the structure communicates permanence. Endurance. We were here before. We'll be here after.
The Force hums around the city, muffled through her collar but present. Thousands of life signatures, most of them dimmed by what she's come to recognize as beskar helmets. But underneath, she can feel the pulse of the place. Purpose. Community. Home.
The ship touches down on a landing platform built into the hillside below the citadel. The moment the ramp lowers, Shaak can smell it: smoke from the forges, something green and growing from the forests, the mineral scent of river water. The air is cool despite the sunshine, carrying a breeze that makes her montrals tingle with sensation.
Jaster is already moving down the ramp, and Shaak follows. The platform bustles with activity—ships being serviced, cargo being loaded, Mandalorians in various colors of armor moving with practiced efficiency.
A group waits at the platform's edge: five Mandalorians in formal armor, their postures rigid with importance. Council members, Shaak guesses. Or advisors. The kind of people who need to speak with their leader the moment he arrives home.
The lead one—a woman in copper and black armor—steps forward immediately. "Mand'alor. We need to speak with you. There's been activity."
Jaster's expression shifts, professionalism sliding into place. "Death Watch?"
"Comm chatter. Movement in the northern territories. Nothing confirmed yet, but—"
"I understand." He glances at Shaak, and something that might be regret flickers across his face. "I'd promised you a personal tour of the capital."
Shaak waves him off before he can apologize further. "Your people need you. I can wander on my own."
"I don't like that idea." Jaster's tone is gentle but firm. "Not if Death Watch is active in the area. Let me assign you guards—"
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can." He's already gesturing to two Mandalorians standing nearby. "But humor me anyway."
The guards approach, and Shaak recognizes the armor colors from the rescue mission. One has purple accents, the other green. Both remove their helmets as they near, and Shaak gets her first clear look at them.
The purple-armored one is human or near-human, with brownish-red hair pulled back in a practical braid. A scar cuts across her nose, but her smile is warm. Green eyes assess Shaak with friendly curiosity.
The green-armored one is Trandoshan. Her scales catch the morning light, deep emerald shot through with darker patterns. One of the small horns on top of her head is jagged, broken at some point and healed rough. When she grins, it shows sharp teeth, but there's no threat in the expression.
"Mira Vhett," the human says, pressing a fist to her chestplate in salute. "And this is Tssari Rook. We'll keep you company while the Mand'alor handles business."
Jaster is already being pulled away by the advisors, their voices urgent and low. He glances back once, catches Shaak's eye, and she nods. Go. I'll be fine.
Then he's gone, disappearing into the citadel with his council, and Shaak is left with two guards who are looking at her with entirely too much interest.
"Markets?" Tssari suggests, her Basic accented with a hissing undertone. "Best way to see Keldabe is through its trade district."
Shaak agrees because she doesn't have a better plan, and because the guards seem genuinely friendly rather than resentful of guard duty. They fall into step on either side of her, and the three of them head down the hillside toward the city proper.
The walk takes them through districts that feel distinct but connected. Residential areas with courtyards where children play, their laughter echoing off stone walls. Training grounds where warriors spar with brutal efficiency. They pass an armory-forge, and the heat from it washes over Shaak like a physical thing. Inside, she can see Mandalorians working metal with hammer and flame, the ring of beskar on beskar creating a rhythm that feels almost ceremonial.
The people they pass salute Mira and Tssari with casual familiarity. Some nod acknowledgment to Shaak, curiosity in their gazes but no hostility. A few seem to recognize the guards as belonging to Jaster's clan, and their attention sharpens, but no one stares openly.
It's strange. Comfortable and uncomfortable at once. Shaak is used to fading into the background, to being noticed only when she wants to be. Here, even without overt staring, she feels seen. Like the city itself is taking measure of her presence.
The Force moves through Keldabe in currents she can barely track. So many people wear helmets—beskar that muffles their signatures until they're just vague shapes in her awareness. But those without helmets shine clearly. Mira and Tssari both radiate warmth in the Force, their emotional landscapes open and genuine.
They're happy. Relieved to be home. The feeling flows from them like sunlight, and Shaak finds herself relaxing despite everything.
"This your first time on Mandalore?" Mira asks as they turn down a street lined with market stalls.
"It is."
"What do you think so far?"
Shaak considers. "It's different from what I expected."
"Different how?" Tssari's head tilts, that sharp-toothed grin returning. "Expecting more bloodshed and warrior posturing?"
"Maybe." Shaak smiles despite herself. "The stories make you sound... less welcoming."
"We're very welcoming," Mira says. "To people who respect our ways. And you've already proven you're willing to fight for one of our own. That goes a long way."
The market spreads before them, and Shaak's senses are immediately overwhelmed. Stalls packed with goods: weapons of every variety, armor pieces hanging like art, bolts of fabric in colors she didn't know existed, food that makes her mouth water and her eyes burn with spice fumes. The smells layer over each other—metal and fire and smoke and wood and something sweet she can't identify.
The sounds are just as dense. Haggling in a dozen languages, though Mando'a dominates. Children weaving through the crowd, their voices high with excitement. The constant clink and shift of armor as people move. Laughter. Music from somewhere, a stringed instrument playing something that sounds both mournful and hopeful.
Mira and Tssari guide her through it with easy confidence, stopping occasionally to examine goods or exchange greetings with vendors. Shaak watches them work, sees the way they're recognized and welcomed. These aren't just guards. They're part of the community's fabric.
"So," Tssari says after they've been walking for a while, her tone shifting to something more playful. "You and the Mand'alor."
Shaak nearly trips over her own feet. "What?"
"We've noticed." Mira's grin is knowing. "The way he watches you. The personal attention. We've never seen him get so involved with a new recruit."
Heat floods Shaak's face. "He's just being kind. I'm new, and I joined under unusual circumstances—"
"He trusts you around Jango." Tssari's voice has gone serious. "That's not just kindness. For a Mando like him, that's the highest sign of respect. Maybe even interest."
"Interest?" Shaak's voice comes out higher than intended.
"Romantic or otherwise." Mira shrugs. "Could be he sees you as potential clan. Could be something more. Either way, he's invested."
Shaak's mind races. She hasn't thought about Jaster that way. Hasn't let herself think about him beyond the mission, beyond the deception. And now these guards are implying—
No. She needs to change the subject. Immediately.
"Tell me about your families," she says, perhaps too quickly. "Are they here? In Keldabe?"
Mira and Tssari exchange a look—knowing, kind, letting her off the hook—before Mira speaks.
"I'm single. But I've got an older sister and parents who are blacksmiths. Work one of the smaller forges in the eastern district." Her expression softens. "They keep asking when I'll give them grandkids. Seems to think my biological clock is ticking or something."
"And will you?" Shaak asks, grateful for the safer ground.
"I don't know." Mira's tone is thoughtful. "I'm content with the family I have. My clan, my sisters-in-arms. Not sure I need to build that other kind of family to feel complete, you know?"
Shaak does know. The Jedi teach that attachment leads to suffering, but they also teach that connection is important. Finding the balance—loving without clinging—that's the challenge. Mira seems to have found her own version of it.
"I have a husband," Tssari offers. "And twins who cause all kinds of havoc. Four years old and absolutely feral." She says it with such obvious affection that Shaak can't help but smile. "They've already started basic combat training. My girl keeps biting the instructor."
"That seems... problematic."
"She's Trandoshan." Tssari's laugh is a hissing sound. "I would be more worried if she didn't show some aggression."
Shaak can’t keep the smile off her face and briefly wonders if her birth mother would have thought the same. Togrutas are also a predatory species after all.
They walk in comfortable silence for a while, weaving through the market crowds. Shaak lets herself relax into the moment—the warmth of the sun, the sounds of community, the genuine kindness flowing from her companions in the Force. It's easy to forget, here, that she's on a mission. That she's gathering intelligence. That every moment of peace is borrowed time before everything falls apart.
"It's good to be home," Mira says quietly, echoing Shaak's earlier sense of their emotions. "The fighting's been rough lately. Death Watch has new weapons, new tactics. Every deployment feels like it could be the last."
"But here?" Tssari gestures at the market around them. "Here we have peace. Tentative, maybe. But real."
Shaak wants to ask more—wants to dig into the Death Watch situation, gather the intelligence Master Plo needs—but something stops her. Not strategic thinking. Just... reluctance to ruin this moment with manipulation.
She's saved from her own conscience by a shift in the Force.
It's subtle at first. A familiar presence, muffled by distance and her collar but definitely there. Shaak's awareness sharpens, reaching out despite the restrictions, and—
Master Plo. Maybe four streets over. And beside him, another presence: bright, intense, almost overwhelming in its connection to the Force. Qui-Gon Jinn.
Her heart rate picks up. This is what she's been waiting for—a chance to meet with Master Plo, to coordinate, to share what she's learned. But she has guards. Guards who like her, who trust her, who would absolutely notice if she just disappeared.
She needs a distraction.
As if the Force heard her thought and decided to provide, shouting erupts from somewhere to the north. Multiple voices, urgent and afraid. Then screams.
The market crowd reacts instantly. People who were browsing moments ago now surge toward exits, parents grabbing children, vendors abandoning their stalls. The organized chaos of a community that's learned to respond to danger quickly.
"What's happening?" Shaak asks, but Mira and Tssari are already moving, hands on weapons, scanning for threats.
"Don't know," Mira says. "Could be Death Watch. Could be nothing. But we need to—"
The crowd surges again, and Shaak lets herself be carried with it. She keeps Mira and Tssari in her peripheral vision, staying close enough to seem compliant while scanning for opportunity. There—a side alley between two storefronts, shadowed by the angle of the sun. She adjusts her trajectory slightly, letting the crowd push her toward it.
Another surge, and she's at the alley's mouth. She glances back—Mira and Tssari are ten feet away, trying to push through the crowd toward her, their expressions concerned but not panicked.
Shaak makes a decision.
She ducks into the alley.
The shadows swallow her immediately. The alley is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and it smells like refuse and old stone. But it's blessedly empty, and she can feel Master Plo's presence more clearly now. Two streets over. One more turn and—
She emerges from the alley into another narrow space between buildings. And there they are.
Master Plo Koon and Qui-Gon Jinn stand facing each other in what can only be described as a standoff. Both are in civilian clothes—practical tunics and pants that blend with Mandalorian fashion without standing out. But their postures are anything but casual.
Plo's stance is rigid in a way Shaak has rarely seen. His hands are clenched at his sides, and even through his antiox mask, she can read tension in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. In the Force, he feels unsettled. Wrong. Like someone struck a tuning fork and left it vibrating at the wrong frequency.
Qui-Gon's posture is defensive and dismissive all at the same time. His arms are crossed, his expression set in lines that suggest he's made up his mind about something and refuses to be swayed. In the Force, he burns bright—almost aggressively connected, his presence impossible to ignore. There's stubbornness there. Immovability.
"Master Plo?" Shaak's voice breaks the silence, and both Jedi turn to her.
Relief floods through Plo's presence in the Force. "Shaak. Thank the Force you're safe."
She crosses to him quickly, noting the way Qui-Gon's gaze tracks her movement with cool assessment. Up close, she can see more of what's disturbing Plo. His hands aren't just clenched—they're trembling slightly. The vibration she sensed earlier is worse than she thought.
"What's wrong?" she asks quietly.
Plo's voice comes out carefully controlled. Too controlled. "Master Jinn has sent his Padawan to investigate Death Watch activity. Alone."
The words hit Shaak like cold water. She turns on Qui-Gon, and her voice comes out sharper than intended. "You sent a child to investigate terrorists? Alone?"
"Obi-Wan is perfectly capable." Qui-Gon's tone is maddeningly calm. "I have complete faith in my Padawan's abilities."
The emphasis on my is deliberate. A clear message: this isn't your business. Don't interfere with how I train my apprentice.
Shaak reaches out through the Force, analyzing Qui-Gon's presence more carefully. The stubbornness is there, yes. But underneath, genuine faith in Obi-Wan. He truly believes the boy can handle this. Believes it so completely that doubt doesn't even enter the equation.
She wants to bare her fangs at him. Wants to demand what kind of teacher sends a barely teenager into danger alone just to prove a point. But that won't help Obi-Wan, and it won't help Master Plo.
"Where is he now?" she asks instead.
"Northern district. Following up on comm chatter about Death Watch supply movements." Qui-Gon's expression doesn't change. "He'll report back when he has information."
If he reports back, Shaak thinks but doesn't say. But surely Qui-gon wouldn’t give Obi-wan a task he couldn’t handle. She forces herself to focus on why she is here.
"What do you need from me?" She directs the question at Plo.
Plo's relief is palpable. "Information. About Jaster Mereel and his intentions. We've heard... concerning rumors since arriving on Mandalore."
"What kind of rumors?"
"That he plans to wipe out Death Watch completely. Including children." Plo's voice drops. "That he's a tyrant attempting to control information and suppress free speech. That he has no legitimate claim to leadership—Clan Vizsla, who leads Death Watch, claims lineage rights that Jaster lacks."
The words sit heavy in the alley's shadows. Shaak's mind races, trying to reconcile these accusations with the man she's come to know. The one who rescued Jango. Who offered her kindness and respect. Who seems
to genuinely care for his people.
But she's only seen him in positive contexts. Saving his son. Interacting with those closest to him. She hasn't seen him in battle, hasn't seen him make the hard decisions that leadership requires.
And with the collar limiting her connection to the Force, can she trust what she's sensed from him?
Doubt creeps in, cold and insidious.
"I don't know if any of that is true," she admits. "A senseless killer doesn't sound like Jaster. But I haven't had full access to the Force since I met him. It's possible he's been able to deceive me."
"You should have been more careful." Qui-Gon's voice is sharp with disapproval. "A Knight should know better than to compromise her connection to the Force in enemy territory. You should be able to follow the Force's guidance properly by now."
The criticism stings, but when Shaak looks at him in the Force, she sees concern underneath the harsh words. He's not being cruel intentionally. He genuinely believes this is how teaching works. How students improve—through criticism and high expectations.
Her heart aches for Obi-Wan. If this is how Qui-Gon teaches, no wonder the boy is out investigating Death Watch alone. Probably desperate to prove himself worthy of his Master's approval.
"I need to get back to my guards soon," Shaak says, pushing the thought aside. "They'll be looking for me. But I'll dig for information. Try to determine if the Jedi or Republic need to officially intervene."
"You'll need to work quickly." Plo's posture hasn't relaxed. "The Chancellor has been pushing for Jedi involvement. Pushing hard. He wants us to side with Death Watch, help them reclaim what he calls their 'rightful leadership.'"
Shaak's stomach drops. "Why would the Chancellor want that?"
"He claims it's about strengthening ties with Mandalore. Says supporting the rightful rulers will create an alliance." Plo's tone suggests skepticism. "But I suspect he wants leverage. Jaster has no interest in Republic involvement, which means the Chancellor has no control over Mandalore. If he helps Death Watch take power, their leader will owe him a debt."
Political maneuvering. Power plays disguised as diplomacy. Shaak has never had patience for it, and she likes it even less when it involves using the Jedi as pawns.
"The Council is willing to wait for more information," Plo continues. "But not indefinitely. We have maybe two weeks before they send orders for official intervention as peacekeepers."
Two weeks. Fourteen days to determine if Jaster Mereel is a legitimate leader or a tyrant who needs to be stopped.
Shaak briefly thinks about asking to be taken off of this mission. She isn’t sure she could be trusted to be objective at this point. But it’s too late for anyone else to be embedded and get the information the Jedi need. She has to stay. If only to find the proof of Jaster’s innocence.
Qui-Gon pulls something from his pocket—a small, flat piece of metal no bigger than a credit chip. He tosses it to Shaak, and she catches it reflexively.
"Emergency comm," he explains. "Alert only. Use it when you have information, and we'll meet back here. We'll send our own alert if we discover anything critical while investigating Death Watch in the city."
Shaak slips the device into her pocket, feeling its weight like an accusation. Another layer of deception. Another secret to keep.
"I need to go," she says. "Before my guards get too worried."
"Be careful, young one." Plo's voice is soft. "These are dangerous people. And the situation is more complex than any of us realized."
Shaak nods and turns to leave. But she pauses at the alley's mouth, looking back. "Master Plo? May the Force be with you."
"And with you, Shaak Ti."
Then she's moving, ducking back through alleys and emerging into the crowd. The panic has died down—whatever caused the screaming has been resolved or contained. People are returning to their business, conversations resuming, the market slowly regaining its earlier energy.
She spots Mira and Tssari thirty feet away, searching the crowd with visible concern. Shaak adjusts her trajectory and lets herself stumble slightly, catching their attention.
"Shaak!" Mira reaches her first, hands on her shoulders, eyes scanning for injury. "Where were you? We lost you in the crowd—"
"I'm sorry." Shaak lets breathlessness color her voice. "I heard the screaming and wanted to help. I thought you were right behind me, but when I looked back..." She gestures helplessly. "I didn't know where you were. By the time I realized, I couldn't find you again."
It's close enough to the truth that it doesn't taste like a complete lie. And Mira and Tssari both relax immediately, relief flooding through them in the Force.
"It's all right," Tssari says. "You're safe. That's what matters."
"What happened? What was the screaming about?"
"Forge accident," Mira explains as they start walking back toward the citadel. "Something caught fire in one of the smaller workshops. No one hurt, but it spooked people."
They walk in silence for a while, and Shaak can feel the guards' lingering concern. They were genuinely worried about her. Would have faced consequences if she'd been injured on their watch. The responsibility they feel, the care—it's real.
And she repaid it by lying to them.
The guilt sits heavy in her chest, but she releases it into the Force. Or tries to. The collar makes everything harder, and the emotion clings like oil on water.
"I think I've had quite enough excitement for the day," Shaak says finally.
"Agreed." Mira's smile returns. "Let's get you back to the palace. You can rest, get your bearings. We'll do a proper tour tomorrow when things are calmer."
They climb back up the hillside, and Shaak watches Keldabe spread out below her. The city looks peaceful from here. Almost idyllic. Hard to believe it's the center of a civil war that might drag the Republic into conflict.
Hard to believe she's here to potentially betray the people who've welcomed her.
The citadel looms ahead, black stone and silver metal catching the afternoon sun. The blue banners still wave in the breeze, and Shaak can see figures moving along the battlements. Guards. Warriors. People prepared to defend their home.
They enter through massive doors—dark wood reinforced with metal, carved with symbols Shaak doesn't recognize. The interior is exactly what she expected after seeing the exterior: lots of dark wood and carved stone, metal accents that gleam in warm lighting. The furnishings are minimal but functional. No extravagance, but everywhere she looks, there are weapon displays, armor stands, murals depicting historic battles.
And in every chamber, every hall, she sees the same recurring imagery: warriors protecting children. Foundlings being carried to safety. Adults standing between danger and the young.
The reverence for children is built into the architecture itself. Into the very foundation of this place.
Mira and Tssari guide her through corridors until they reach the wing where Shaak's quarters are apparently located. They're about to say their goodbyes when voices echo from around the corner.
Jaster appears, followed by his advisors. His expression is troubled—brow furrowed, mouth set in a tight line. When he sees Shaak, some of the tension eases from his shoulders, but the concern remains.
"How was the market?" he asks.
"Eventful. There was a forge accident that caused some panic, but we're all fine."
Jaster nods, but his attention is already elsewhere. Shaak can feel his preoccupation in the Force, the way worry radiates from him.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
He glances at the advisors, then back to her. Making a decision. "More concerning news. Death Watch movement isn't the only issue." He pauses. "There's been an official report. A Jedi ship landed on Mandalore a few days ago."
The world drops away.
Shaak's heart slams against her ribs, and she has to consciously keep her expression from fracturing. Shock. She needs to show shock. Not panic. Not guilt. Just the surprise of someone hearing unexpected news.
"Jedi?" Her voice comes out steady. Curious. "I didn't think they were real. I always assumed they were just... stories. Propaganda from the Republic."
Jaster's expression shifts to something almost pitying. "They're very real. Few in number, but powerful. Dangerous." His jaw tightens. "And now they're on my planet, in my city, without permission or invitation."
"What will you do?"
The words that come from Jaster's mouth feel like ice water down her spine.
"I'm having them hunted down. When we find them, they'll be brought to me alive." His grey eyes are hard, uncompromising. "Then I'll decide if Mandalore needs to decrease their numbers by a few more."
The threat hangs in the air between them. Casual. Matter-of-fact. A leader making tactical decisions about eliminating threats to his people.
Shaak forces herself to nod. Forces herself to look appropriately concerned. Forces herself not to think about Master Plo being hunted through the city streets.
"That sounds wise," she manages.
Jaster studies her for a moment, and Shaak feels the weight of his attention like a physical thing. Then his expression softens, and he reaches out to briefly touch her shoulder—a gesture of comfort, of connection.
"I know this must all seem overwhelming," he says, his voice gentler now. "A new city, new people, and now hearing about threats you thought were just stories. But you're safe here. I give you my word."
The sincerity in his voice makes something in her chest crack. He believes he's protecting her. Believes he's offering her sanctuary while hunting down the very person she cares for the most.
"Thank you," she whispers, and hates herself just a little for how genuine the gratitude sounds.
"You've had a long day." Jaster's hand drops, but the warmth in his presence remains. "Get some rest. Tomorrow morning, Sila will collect you for your first training assessment. Nothing too intense—we'll start with basics, see where your strengths lie." He pauses, and a small smile tugs at his mouth. "I have a feeling you're going to surprise us."
"I'll do my best."
"I know you will. You've already proven you have the heart of a warrior." His grey eyes hold hers, and in the Force, she feels his confidence in her. His belief. "I'm glad you chose to stay with us, Shaak Ti. I think you're going to fit in well here."
The words should make her feel like a fraud. Should make the guilt unbearable. But instead, traitorous warmth spreads through her chest. He sees something in her. Values something in her. And part of her—a part she doesn't want to acknowledge—desperately wants to live up to that belief.
"I'll see you at dinner," Jaster continues. "Jango's been asking about you. I think he wants to show you the training yard where he's been working with his age group." His expression softens further. "He's attached to you. It's good for him to have someone else he trusts."
The mention of Jango makes the guilt surge back, sharp and immediate. That boy, who's already lost so much, who's started to see her as someone safe—
"I'd like that," Shaak says, pushing down the emotion. "Seeing him train."
"Good. Then I'll send someone for you before the evening meal." Jaster steps back, professional distance reasserting itself. "Until then, rest. You've earned it."
He turns to leave with his advisors, but pauses and looks back. "And Shaak? Welcome home."
Then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving her standing there with Mira and Tssari smiling knowingly at her.
"Told you," Mira says quietly. "Invested."
Tssari just grins and nudges Shaak's shoulder. "Get some rest."
They leave her at her door with promises to see her soon, and then Shaak is alone.
Welcome home, Jaster said.
But this isn't her home. Can't be her home. She has a home—the Temple on Coruscant, the meditation gardens, Master Plo's quarters where they've shared countless cups of tea and quiet conversations.
She has a home. And it's not here.
The corridor spins slightly. Shaak puts her hand against the wall, feeling the cool stone beneath her palm, and tries to center herself in the Force. But the collar restricts her, and panic is already clawing up her throat, and she doesn't know how much longer she can do this.
Two weeks. Master Plo said she has two weeks to gather information.
Fourteen days to determine if Jaster is a tyrant or a legitimate leader.
Fourteen days before everything falls apart because she isn’t sure if she would join Death Watch on the order of the Jedi council or the Chancellor. And that sort of disobedience gets you brought before the council in a way she has always avoided through pure, unquestioning obedience.
Shaak opens her door and steps into her quarters. Closes it behind her. Leans against it and lets herself feel, just for a moment, the full weight of what she might do.
But as Shaak slides down the door until she's sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, she can't deny the way those words settled into her bones. The way Jaster's confidence in her felt like something she's been searching for without realizing it.
The emergency comm in her pocket feels like it's burning through the fabric.
Outside, somewhere in Keldabe, Master Plo and Qui-Gon are being hunted by warriors who have every reason to want them dead.
And Shaak is here, trusted by those same warriors, welcomed into their home, valued for skills she's only beginning to reveal.
She's betraying someone. The only question is who.
The Force offers no answers. Just that same persistent pull that brought her here in the first place.
Trust me, it seems to say.
But trusting the Force has led her into the center of a war where both sides think she's on their team.
And she's not sure anymore which side she actually belongs to.
luciddreamarium (asmyami) on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Dec 2025 11:06PM UTC
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ClouDSkeye on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Dec 2025 12:28AM UTC
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luciddreamarium (asmyami) on Chapter 2 Mon 08 Dec 2025 01:02AM UTC
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Scarease on Chapter 2 Wed 10 Dec 2025 05:26AM UTC
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luciddreamarium (asmyami) on Chapter 4 Wed 10 Dec 2025 06:44AM UTC
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