Jedi shuttle Sentinel, reentry above the Edalith Belt
The stars streamed by in silent streaks—light warped by speed, bent by purpose. The Sentinel, a sleek Republic diplomatic-class shuttle, coasted through hyperspace with neither escort nor broadcast signature. A ghost through known space.
Inside the cockpit chamber, stillness reigned.
Mace Windu sat in meditative posture, arms resting on his knees, brow smooth, every breath a perfect cycle of discipline. Yet tension lingered in the air—not from him, but from the man seated across.
Kaelen sat forward, hands folded, forearms resting on armored thighs. His back was straight, but not rigid. His shoulders relaxed, but not casually. The calm before eruption—not of chaos, but of choice. He wasn't meditating. He was calculating.
Neither had spoken since departure.
Then, a sudden stutter—a tremor through the walls of the ship. The stars outside twisted, glitched, and folded inward.
Hyperspace trajectory disrupted. External field detected.
Proximity alert. Emergency deceleration initiating.
The shuttle groaned violently, as if yanked by a tether. Outside, the swirling void of hyperspace collapsed into a sudden, star-splattered stillness. Edalith Belt loomed below—a jagged band of broken moons and shipwrecks, its scattered debris orbiting a dead planet with gravitational malice.
Instruments sparked. Interior lighting dipped red.
Unidentified vessels approaching.
Quantum dampener detected.
Shields are at 42% and falling.
Kaelen's head turned sharply toward the viewport. Three pirate ships emerged like vultures from behind the nearest asteroid shelf—bristling with mismatched hulls, modified ion weapons, and solar-burnished armor patched together from half a dozen forgotten wars.
"Looks like the Edalith Belt still remembers how to bite," Kaelen muttered.
Windu's eyes opened. The calm in his voice contrasted with the warning tones echoing around them.
"Their gravity snare is old —jury-rigged, but effective."
Kaelen stood smoothly. He didn't flinch as another pulse rocked the ship.
"Let them board?" he asked.
Windu rose, adjusting his cloak, his voice like iron wrapped in cloth.
"If they're pirates, they'll try intimidation. If they're smart, they'll try to leverage. Either way…"
He turned slightly, eyes now fully alert.
"…they won't understand what they've walked into."
Kaelen checked the seal on his chestplate and adjusted the wrist lock on his vambrace. His fingers brushed the saber at his hip, but he didn't draw it. Not yet.
"No Jedi insignia. No Republic clearance," Kaelen noted. "We're ghosts today."
Windu nodded once.
"Then we haunt them."
The shuttle lights flickered again as hull contact was registered. External clamps engaged with a sharp clang—metal grinding on metal.
External breach detected. Boarding in progress.
Inside the dim cabin, Kaelen exhaled through his nose. One breath. Then another. He looked toward the door, not afraid. Not eager. Just ready.
He clipped his helmet onto his belt. His eyes didn't leave the ramp door.
"Let them board."
Interior corridors of the Jedi shuttle — lights flickering, smoke hissing, atmosphere thick with rising danger
The shriek of metal filled the ship.
A circular breach was forced open at the docking bay—plasma cutters carving their way into the hull with mechanical patience. Sparks fell like burning hail. The final lock gave out with a concussive thud, and the blast doors blew inward.
They didn't wait for permission.
Flashbombs burst. Sonic grenades shrieked. Smoke rolled like thunder.
Out of that chaos surged a wave of armored pirates—lean, fast, ragged uniforms stitched from salvaged gear. Their boots struck the floor like drums. The first raider barked a command in Huttese. The second opened fire.
And then came the violet blade.
Windu was already in the corridor, waiting. He moved not with aggression, but purpose. His lightsaber did not slash—it redirected, disarmed, and disabled.
He twisted a blaster from one attacker's grip with a pivot of his wrist, spun low to disarm another with a slice at the shoulder. Not fatal. Not even cruel. Just final.
Behind them, Kaelen dropped.
A soundless descent through a maintenance grate overhead. He hit the ground crouched, already moving. His saber remained clipped—he used his body, not light.
The first pirate didn't even turn before Kaelen's elbow found the back of his skull.
The second stumbled as Kaelen wrapped a stun chord around his ankles and yanked him forward, into Windu's path. The Master slid sideways, guiding the man's momentum into a wall.
No words.
No orders.
Just movement.
The smoke thickened. Vent gas mixed with pirate flash dispersers until the corridor was choked in gray. Blaster bolts lit the mist like lightning. The pirates yelled, shouted, and cursed.
Kaelen said nothing.
He emerged from the haze like a ghost, grabbing wrists mid-shot, striking pressure points with gloved fists, ducking under wild swings. He cracked one raider's knee, caught his collar, spun him around, and threw him down the hall.
Windu adapted.
When Kaelen staggered two enemies, Windu's blade struck their weapons, not theirs.n Windu disarmed three attackers, Kaelen intercepted the fourth's attempt to flank, kneeing him in the gut and slamming him into the bulkhead.
For the first time, their styles didn't clash. They rotated like twin mo, ns—gravitational pull keeping the chaos orbiting around them.
Kaelen fought with violence made silent. Windu with silence made violent.
One pirate fired blindly. Kaelen stepped inside the bolt's path—close enough that the shot missed entirely—and used the muzzle's momentum to dislocate the man's shoulder.
Another reached for a detonation switch on his chest.
ZHRMMM — Windu's saber removed the trigger housing with millimeter precision.
Kaelen dove into a roll, slid behind cover, and reappeared behind the last two enemies with a low sweep that dropped one, and a vibroblade pressed to the throat of the other.
Windu raised his hand. The final standing pirate dropped his blaster.
The smoke began to thin.
All that remained were groans, unconscious bodies, and discarded weapons.
Kaelen stood, breathing heavily. Blood trailed from his lip, already darkening his collar. He didn't wipe it. Windu stepped beside him, chest rising, blade still active.
Still—no words.
But they looked at one another.
And nodded.
Final beat of the scene:
As Windu deactivates his saber with a soft snap-hiss, Kaelen finally draws his—not to use it, but to check it. A ritual. A habit.
In that brief moment of stillness, the unspoken truth settles:
This wasn't just a defense.
This was the beginning of how they'd fight—when no one was watching.
Auxiliary Control Deck – buried near the ship's reactor spine, low visibility, steam venting from overhead conduits, and flickering red hazard lighting.
Kaelen broke formation without a word.
The clash of blades and blasters echoed behind him as he veered sharply down a side passage, his boots slamming against durasteel. The corridor narrowed—tight walls, no lighting, a service shaft ignored in the original schematics.
Perfect.
He skidded to a halt before a small maintenance hatch and jammed his palm against the emergency release. Hydraulic locks hissed open. A whoosh of cold, recycled air gusted from the vertical shaft beyond.
The gravitational spine. The ship's artificial gravity node ran through here—raw, exposed, and largely forgotten. A vulnerable nerve in a hardened body.
Kaelen stepped through and paused on the ledge.
It was a vertical drop. Fifty meters straight down.
Or up. Gravity meant nothing here, except what he would make of it.
He inhaled once—slow, centered—and released a reverse Force-pulse from his core.
His body shot upward, boots tucked, limbs tight. He barely made a sound—just the soft hiss of wind friction as he sailed through zero-gravity, controlling his path with short, precise bursts from the thruster nodes in his armor. One gauntlet reached out and latched onto a magnetic track; the other flicked open a holoscreen on his vambrace, scanning for the override interface.
Midway up the shaft, he found it.
A recessed gravitic control module, its protective casing sealed with three redundant security layers. Imperial-grade. No time.
He planted his feet on either wall of the shaft, used his left hand to anchor, and thrust out his right—a flash of the Force crackled from his palm. The panel buckled, then peeled back, melted at the seams like wax under flame.
The display flickered to life.
ADMIN OVERRIDE: LOCKED.
Emergency Protocol Enabled.
Manual Input Required.
Kaelen's fingers flew across the console. His HUD auto-linked, sending a spoofed chaincode packet through a blind bypass.
System breach: success. Time limit: 3 seconds.
He gritted his teeth.
"Three seconds. That's all I need."
He flipped the switch.
The entire ship groaned.
Gravity reversed.
In an instant, everybody in the central corridor lifted from the deck and was hurled skyward, which, to them, was now sideways. Pirates screamed as they slammed into bulkheads, tangled in loose wiring and floating weapons. Blasters clattered. Knives spun end over end. One was caught mid-sprint and smashed face-first into a wall.
Through the chaos, Kaelen moved like a blade.
He sprinted along the ceiling, arms fluid, cloak fluttering weightless behind him. He hit four junctions in twelve seconds—planting stun anchors and magnetized bindfield charges where escape routes converged. No wasted movement. Every step is calculated with two seconds left.
He glanced down the shaft—now inverted—and leapt backward, flipping mid-air.
He struck the override again with the Force just as he reached the lip.
Gravity slammed back.
Ten pirates dropped like stones. Some crumpled unconscious. Others twitched as bindfields snapped to life, locking arms and legs in glowing magnetic coils. A few screamed—but only briefly. The rest were down before their brains could process what had happened.
Kaelen stood at the mouth of the shaft, one knee down, forearm braced against the wall as the rumbling subsided. The air was thick with the silence that follows sudden violence.
No alarms. No backup. Just him.
He rose slowly, glancing across the bodies. A breath passed.
The quiet was earned.
He muttered—low, clipped, just loud enough for the Force to hear:
"The Force favors preparation."
Then he was moving again—vanishing down the corridor, already planning his next angle of attack. Behind him, ten pirates lay still, trapped by a single man who knew when to vanish, and when to strike like gravity itself.
Main Cargo Hold – wide as a hangar, reeking of fuel, rust, and blood. Dim overheads flicker, casting long shadows over stacked durasteel crates, fuel cells, and rigged explosives. Chains sway from the ceiling. Smoke curls from burst piping.
Windu moved with purpose.
He stepped through firelight and darkness, cloak scorched, eyes calm. The hum of his violet saber throbbed in time with his pulse, measured, sharp. Before him stood the pirate captain: a Devaronian, monstrous even by his species' standards, covered in reinforced plating and scars like battle honors. Horns curved wide. His red skin glistened with sweat and fury.
The captain slammed the head of his vibro-axe against the floor, sending sparks up like a signal flare.
"You're not walking out of here, Jedi."
Windu didn't reply. He simply raised his blade—two hands, shoulder-high—and let the Force coil through him.
The Devaronian lunged.
The axe screamed through the air, a blur of vibro-edged teeth. Windu sidestepped, but not cleanly—the disruptor shield on the captain's arm flashed as it clipped Windu's shoulder. His body spun from the force, and he rolled across the deck, caught himself, and slid back to a crouch.
A gash opened across his upper arm. His left sleeve burned away. He didn't look at it.
Vaapad surged.
He launched forward. Their blades met—metal versus plasma. Sparks cascaded. The captain roared and pressed in, driving Windu backward, blow after blow. For every strike Windu blocked, two more came crashing. But Windu absorbed them—not with brute strength, but through motion. Through will. He didn't resist the darkness—he redirected it, turned it inward.
Draw it in. Let it flow. Let it die through you.
A roar. The axe swept again, vertical now. Windu ducked beneath and swept his saber upward—a clean arc that split the edge of the captain's pauldron and exposed raw skin. The Devaronian howled but didn't fall. He backfisted Windu with his disruptor gauntlet.
Windu stumbled. His vision doubled. He shook his head, spat blood.
The Devaronian grinned, reaching for his belt—
A remote detonator.
The lights flickered red.
Click.
And then—
Kaelen fell from above.
He dropped like a hammer from the rafters—no warning, no sound—his body spinning mid-air. His right elbow extended, vambrace blade snapping forward just as he slammed into the captain's face.
Crunch.
The Devaronian's head whipped back with a sickening snap. The detonator flew from his fingers, bouncing harmlessly away. Kaelen landed in a crouch over the crumpled body—calm, surgical, silent.
He rose without a word, eyes scanning for threats. Windu steadied himself, blinking the haze from his vision. For a moment, neither moved.
The only sound was the distant groan of the ship's hull and the soft crackle of burning cables.
Kaelen looked to Windu. His armor was scraped, the edge of his jaw bloodied from earlier skirmishes. But his breathing was steady. Controlled.
Windu nodded once—acknowledgment, not gratitude. Kaelen nodded back.
No celebration. No pride. Only breathe.
The Devaronian groaned beneath them, half-conscious, spitting blood and broken teeth.
He turned his head slightly, eyes glassy, voice barely a whisper:
"What… are you two?"
Windu stepped closer. His saber hummed low at his side, but his voice was colder than the blade.
"Necessary."
Silence followed. Not victory. Not relief. Only truth.
The surviving pirates—those who could still walk—peeked from behind cargo towers, saw the devastation, and dropped their weapons one by one. Some slumped to the floor. Others raised their hands.
Kaelen turned, already moving. He didn't watch them surrender. His job was done.
Windu lingered a moment longer. The captain groaned beneath him again. But Windu didn't raise his saber.
No need.
He extinguished the blade and followed Kaelen into the smoke.
Two shadows fading into the ftermath.
Republic shuttle, mid-flight — medbay compartment. Interior lighting is dim, cast in soft amber. The hum of stabilized engines forms a low, constant presence in the background. It is momentarily at bay.
The medbay was quiet.
The kind of quiet that only comes after something brutal.
Mace Windu sat with his back straight on the edge of the exam bench, upper robes peeled off and tossed over the side rail. His torso was marked with minor burns and the darkened edge of a deep vibro-gash streaking across his shoulder—clean, but angry. A shallow pool of crimson welled at the base of the cut.
He didn't flinch.
With one hand, he applied antiseptic foam, the gel hissing against his skin as it cleaned the wound. With the other, he adjusted the scanner over his collarbone, running quick diagnostics with minimal attention. The way he worked—silent, methodical—felt like ritual. A soldier is cleaning his sword.
Across from him, Kaelen sat on a crate near the far wall, stripped of most of his upper armor. His undersuit clung to sweat-drenched skin, scored with impact bruises and minor cuts. One of his gauntlets lay open beside him, its circuits sparking faintly where the wrist blade had retracted too violently.
His chest plate—black, burn-scored, and edged in Mandalorian silver—sat in his lap. Kaelen turned it over slowly in his hands, thumb running along the dent where a pirate blaster had struck.
The ship thrummed beneath them, soft and constant.
The chaos was over.
The adrenaline is gone.
Now—only silence.
They didn't speak for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say. But because everything that could be said would cost something.
Kaelen finally slid the armor plate against his chest, aligning the clasps. He took his time, not from hesitation, but deliberation. Every movement he made was slow, mechanical. As if trying to reassemble more than just gear.
Windu watched him out of the corner of his eye.
Kaelen locked the final magnetic clasp into place with a quiet click. He exhaled, finally. Low. Measured.
That's when Windu spoke—voice even, but not cold.
"You fought like I did.
But not how I would have."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely. He stared at the floor for a beat, then said without looking up:
"You'd have made it cleaner."
Windu let out a soft exhale. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh.
"Maybe.
But not smarter."
That made Kaelen look up.
Their eyes met—not sharp, not defensive—just open. Searching. The first real exchange in the aftermath of the fire.
Windu set the scanner aside and reached for a fresh wrap of synth-bandage. As he wrapped his shoulder, he added:
"The pivot you pulled, right before the gravity flipped back in. That was precision. Brutal, but calculated."
Kaelen shrugged slightly.
"He gave himself away. You gave me time. I used it."
Windu paused, considering him n, w—not as a wayward Padawan, but something else. Something harder to name.
"You didn't hesitate."
Kaelen nodded.
"Neither did you."
The bandage was sealed. Windu stood, his silhouette tall against the soft lighting, and rolled his shoulder to test the joint. His body winced—but his face didn't.
"You have instincts that remind me of someone I used to know," Windu said quietly. "But you act like someone I never understood."
Kaelen tilted his head slightly.
"And what does that make me?"
Windu held his gaze. Voice quiet, but firm:
"Unfinished.
But dangerous for the right reasons."
Kaelen stood now, too, adjusting the strap across his chest. His helmet sat on the shelf nearby, visor d, wn—reflecting both of them in fragmented curves.
"Better team," he said. Voice flat, but with just enough meaning beneath it to be honest.
Windu didn't smile—but his tone softened just enough to reveal the faintest ember of something else.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Kaelen turned, lifting the helmet, letting it rest under one arm. He paused at the doorway.
"Still. Not bad… for a Jedi."
Windu looked back at him. Eyes steady. Voice low.
"Likewise."
Kaelen left.
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Windu alone in the medbay, the only sound now the steady hum of the engines and the soft click of the ship adjusting course.
He looked down at the fresh bandage. Then, at the smear of blood still left on the floor.
He didn't clean it.
Instead, he sat again. Quiet.
And for the first time in a long time, Mace Windu felt the weight of command shift slightly—just enough to notice. Notlosts. Not weakness. But something harder to name.
Something… shared.
Rear chamber of the shuttle – hyperspace in full glide. The room is dim, almost sacred. No panels flashing, no alerts chiming. Just stars stretched into streaks. A meditation space disguised as transit.
The stars didn't blink in hyperspace.
They screamed.
Endless lines of white and blue streaked past the shuttle's curved transparisteel viewport—too fast to comprehend, too distant to touch. They made the galaxy seem small, like a memory of something once bright.
Windu stood alone before the glass, hands behind his back, posture calm but no longer rigid. His breath came slowly. His eyes, usually sharp and unrelenting, were distant—like they were still somewhere in that cargo hold. Or maybe further back.
The violet glow of hyperspace ran down the side of his face, painting him in shifting ghostlight.
His reflection in the glass didn't look like a Jedi Master.
It looked like a man who'd just seen something he hadn't wanted to. Something that shook the lines he drew so carefully in his mind.
The door hissed open behind him.
Kaelen entered. Wordless. Measured steps. His armor bore fresh weld marks and faint blaster scoring, but he walked like it was part of him now, like the fight never left his body, only shifted its rhythm.
He didn't ask for permission.
He didn't speak.
He simply stepped forward and stood beside Windu, arms folding across his chest with a slight clink of armor-on-armor. He, too, watched the stars.
For a while, they didn't move. Didn't speak. They just existed, shoulder to shoulder, in a quiet neither of them trusted, but both accepted.
The hum of the ship filled the room like a heartbeat.
Kaelen shifted slightly, just enough to exhale.
Windu spoke. Quiet. Real.
"I see it now."
Kaelen's gaze remained forward, jaw still.
"Your way isn't the opposite of mine."
A pause. Almost reverent.
"It's the other side of it."
Kaelen blinked slowly. His head tilted just enough to glance at Windu—but not questioningly.
Just acknowledgment.
No pride. No triumph. Just a truth neither had the words for until now.
He nodded. Once.
Windu continued watching the stars, but something in his posture had changed. Not relaxed but open. Slightly.
Not all walls fall with a crash. Some just… shift.
"You channel the storm. I try to hold it back. Maybe we've both been wrong."
Kaelen didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The Force moved around them—not with grandeur, but with weight. That subtle density that came when two paths finally intersected… not to merge, but to run parallel for the first time.
"What happens now?" Windu asked softly, not looking at him.
Kaelen finally spoke. Low. Even.
"We keep moving."
Another silence.
The stars outside twisted again—deeper now. Space turned liquid, bending across unseen gravity wells.
Their reflections blurred.
A long-forgotten thought, or perhaps a lesson without a teacher:
Some forms are taught.
Others are found in fire.