A/N: I am being busy these days as its time for quizzes for this semester, and I have studied shit-all for anything. Next chapter is book 1 finale.
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I don't know why, but ever since that day—ever since I finally sat down and told Vasha the truth, or at least the version of the truth that made sense to tell her, everything just... stopped.
The nightmares. The premonitions. The cold sense of existential dread that used to stalk me through every shadow on Lothal.
Gone.
They didn't taper off gradually like symptoms easing up. One night they were there, gnawing at my chest like clockwork, relentless and thick in the air. The next night?
Silence.
A strange, blank kind of silence. That had me blinking awake in the middle of the night anyway—body expecting the hammer-drop that never came, heart ramped up for fear that didn't arrive.
It wasn't just a one-day fluke either.
Night two, the same. No visionless dreams, no stabbing rush of doom. Just quiet breathing, the ticking of the vent fan, Vasha's soft warmth a few inches beside me on the bed.
Day three. Again.
No vague visions. No creeping nausea whispering that she was in danger. No phantom alarms screaming from the back of my skull.
Like a switch had been flipped. Like the final scene had played out and nobody told me the show had ended.
Which... only made it weirder.
What did that even mean? That the danger had passed? That whatever fork in the future I'd been sensing had been swerved, dodged, sidestepped thanks to the absolute overkill of defense measures I'd slammed into place?.
Had all my paranoid prep and tactical-level mom-shielding changed something? Is that really how fragile the future was? That me installing a couple vent-gas dispersers and hiding ankle-kick grenades behind the coolant tanks had single-handedly frightened off some metaphysical doom?
If that was true, then... it was kind of hilarious.
Anakin Skywalker—Jedi golden boy, Force prodigy, literal Chosen One—got visions of Padmé dying and collapsed into chaotic murder-suicide-meltdown because he couldn't change it.
Me?
I built a magnetic railgun out of forklift coils and told my illegally hot space mom the boogeyman might be real—and boom. Premonition gone.
I won. With elbow grease and excessive caution.
If only Jedi knew all he had to do was let Anakin vent with a cup of caf and a screwdriver set. Could've saved the galaxy so much trouble.
Still, I didn't dare relax just because the shadows stopped screaming.
Future or not, Force echoes or not—I refused to believe things were that flexible. Reality had weight. Paths had inertia. Something might've shifted, sure, but that didn't mean the road ahead was clear. It just meant I bought time.
And buying time meant planning more. Layering on defense over defense. Like adding armor plates to a ship even after vacuum-sealing the hull already worked just fine.
This was still Lothal. Still a planet that reeked of imperial boots and backroom deals. Still a sector pulling tighter and tenser every week, as the Empire kept passing new regulations that would have made Hitler back on earth seem like a civilized fellow.
So I started sketching out new protocols. More red lines on the whiteboard. More backup protocols and emergency fire escapes. Nothing wild yet—just notes and Ideas.
Like maybe building a few small reconnaissance bots to trail suspicious clients back to where they came from. Something quiet. Self-stealthing. Disposable.
Just in case.
The gauss gun still sat near my arm reach always, and so did controls for dozen other security protocols
Not that I was using them. Hopefully never get to use them.
Still refrained from toughing Hyper-Perception or Psychometry, like it was dipped in Sith-poison-cum. Using it normally might not be dangerous, but I couldn't mess things on the possibility of 'might'. Just as the possibility of getting pregnant despite using a condom.
Slippery bastards always find a way.
The pole-arm (A/N: Finalized the name of the darn thing) was still sealed behind a wall panel in the inner depot, locked away inside a compartment nobody would ever open by accident.
That door wasn't opening again. Not unless it absolutely had to.
Probably 2 years ago, I would have gone 'fuck it, we ball' but now I had things to protect, and world be damned if I was letting myself fuck that part up.
I wasn't risking it.
And honestly? Vasha was helping a lot.
She'd slowed the business to a crawl. Just enough work to keep things looking normal, to push away the lookie-loos and clipboard bureaucrats. She didn't say it was because of me, but I knew. I saw the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention—half worried, half calculating, like she was scanning for danger herself now.
We'd shifted into this quiet little rhythm. Protective paranoia wrapped in greasy tech work, punctuated every few hours with absurd, unrelenting affection on her part.
Because if I thought the cuddling after "The Talk" was a one-time fluke, I was deeply mistaken.
Vasha went all in on pampering. Like, full ten-course degustation menu of motherly affection. Morning cuddles. Midday snack ambushes. Hand-fed portions of too-thick stews and too-rich pastries she made as an excuse to lecture me about eating habits.
It was a little ridiculous, honestly. Made me wonder if this was middle-age overflowing of maternal emotions that found their target on me or something.
Like seriously, it was a level of affection that even my real mother might not have shown.
Last week, she spoon-fed me an entire bowl of porridge while blowing on them to cool it down, while wearing a smug grin like she was conquering a galaxy each bite I swallowed.
And don't even get me started on The Blanket Regime. Every time the room temperature dipped so much as a few degrees, I'd get swarmed with enough loth-cat-patterned fleece to survive a snowstorm. And Maker help me if I twitched during holos—she'd use it as an excuse to trap me for two full episodes of whatever show we were watching.
Not that I was ever resisting very hard.
Look, you'd have to be soulless to not enjoy it.
Being pampered like that? Touch-starved inner me from back on Earth was practically purring. That stuff hit something deep—some thread of human need we all pretend we outgrow.
People don't usually get that after the age of, what, eight? Maybe nine? Not unless they're sick, dying, or very, very lucky.
So no, of course I didn't protest when she massaged the tension out of my shoulders after a long day. Or when she ruffled my hair and called it "mossy but charming." Or when she pulled me into her lap like some overgrown pillow and wouldn't let me move until she was done tracing patterns into my back with her fingers.
I definitely didn't protest when it was my turn to give massages. Head, shoulder, foot—every bit earned from habit, not obligation.
Was it completely selfless of me?
Absolutely.
Totally altruistic.
Had nothing to do with admiring the sculpted, extremely distracting muscle definition of her blue calves while kneading her legs with "medically necessary" focus.
That would've been unprofessional.
So, y'know.
100% wholesome intentions.
Anyway, that was the flavor of life for a while. Strange domesticity. Peace guarded by paranoia. Me paranoid, her relaxed, and both of us sort of orbiting somewhere between calm and hypersensitive standby.
Time passed oddly, during that stretch. Whole days where nothing happened. No shade of darkness over the house. No signs that danger was coiled like a spring just out of reach.
Just warmth, caf, improvised soup, and fabric softener making wars with machine grease.
It was... unnerving.
Because in Star Wars, nothing is ever just normal for long.
But still, a month went by. And the quiet, somehow, held.
Maybe things really had shifted.
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"Ah, yes, hello," the man said, his voice carrying that particular blend of authority and anxiety that came with having too much money and a problem it couldn't immediately solve. "I was referred to you by Jorik Thane. He said you specialize in... difficult cases."
I looked up from the datapad I'd been pretending to read, curious despite myself. The figure that she was talking to...well, let's just say he looked like he'd never missed a meal in his life. Round face, expensive-looking robes, the kind of soft hands that screamed "I pay other people to do things for me."
Vasha's expression shifted slightly at the name—Jorik was one of our more reliable contacts, the kind of guy who only sent us legitimate work. "That's correct. What seems to be the problem?"
"It's my butler droid," the man said, and something in his tone suggested this wasn't just any droid. "A VX-series protocol unit. It's been in my family for... well, nearly seven hundred years. Passed down through generations. And now it's..." He paused, looking genuinely distressed. "It's malfunctioning."
I perked up despite myself. VX-series. I knew those models—ancient, built like fortress walls, designed to last centuries with proper maintenance. They were also notorious for exactly three components that always failed first: the primary motivator coupling, the vocal processing matrix, and the memory core stabilizer. Always those three, in roughly that order, usually around the six-to-seven-hundred-year mark.
"What kind of malfunction?" Vasha asked, settling into her diagnostic mode.
"It keeps... forgetting things. Mid-conversation, it'll stop and stare at nothing for minutes at a time. Sometimes it speaks in languages I don't recognize. Yesterday it tried to serve dinner to my grandfather—who's been dead for thirty years." The man's voice cracked slightly. "I've contacted every droid specialist on Lothal, but none of them can guarantee they won't damage it further. This droid... it's not just a machine. It's family history. Irreplaceable."
Vasha nodded sympathetically. "I understand. The VX-series is delicate work, especially at that age. However, I'd need to examine the unit in person to give you an accurate assessment. If you could bring it to our workshop—"
"Absolutely not," the man interrupted, shaking his head vigorously. "I'm sorry, but I can't risk transporting it. The droid hasn't left the estate in over a century. The journey alone could cause further damage. If you want the job, you'll have to come here."
I watched Vasha's shoulders tense slightly. She glanced in my direction—a quick, almost unconscious check—before turning back to the hologram.
"I appreciate your concerns," she said carefully, "but we typically work out of our facility. We have all our tools here, controlled environment, proper diagnostic equipment—"
"I'll pay triple your usual rate," the man said quickly. "Plus travel expenses, accommodation if needed, and a substantial bonus if you can restore it to full functionality. Money is no object here."
Vasha hesitated, and I could practically see the internal debate playing out across her face. The money was tempting—more than tempting, really. Triple rate for what I knew would be a relatively straightforward repair job. But it meant leaving the safety of our workshop, going to an unfamiliar location, being away from all our carefully prepared defenses.
"The thing is," she said slowly, "house calls present certain... complications. Logistics, insurance, that sort of thing—"
"I understand your hesitation," the man said, leaning forward slightly. "But please, understand mine. This droid contains seven centuries of family memories. Conversations with my ancestors, historical records, personal moments that exist nowhere else. I simply cannot risk losing that."
I could see Vasha wavering. The emotional appeal was hitting home—she understood the value of irreplaceable things, of connections to the past. But she was also thinking about me, about the promises she'd made to keep us both safe.
The repair itself would be simple. An hour's work, maybe two if we took our time and were extra careful. VX-series droids were built with modular components specifically to make maintenance easier. Pop out the faulty parts, slot in the replacements, run a quick diagnostic to make sure everything was talking to each other properly. Done.
And honestly? We couldn't stay locked up in here forever.
I'd been thinking about it more and more lately. This self-imposed isolation, this fortress mentality we'd developed. It was sustainable for a while, but not indefinitely. Eventually, we'd need to engage with the world again. Take risks. Live something resembling a normal life.
Maybe this was a good test case. A controlled risk. High-paying client, legitimate referral, straightforward technical work. If we were going to start venturing out again, this was probably as safe as it got.
I caught Vasha's eye and gestured for her attention.
"Excuse me for just one moment," she said to the client, then muted the call and turned to me.
"What do you think?" she asked quietly.
"It's a VX-series," I said. "I know exactly what's wrong with it without even seeing it. Memory core stabilizer, probably the vocal matrix too. Maybe the primary motivator coupling if it's really been acting up. Standard age-related failures for that model."
She nodded. "So it's doable?"
"More than doable. It's easy. Hour's work, maybe two if we're being extra careful." I paused, meeting her eyes. "And Vasha... we can't stay locked up in here forever. Eventually we have to start living again."
"Are you sure?" she asked, and I could hear the concern in her voice. "After everything you've been worried about—"
"I'm sure," I said, and surprised myself by meaning it. "The nightmares stopped. Whatever was coming, maybe we dodged it. Maybe it was never as bad as I thought. Either way, we can't let fear run our lives forever."
She studied my face for a long moment, searching for any sign of doubt or hidden anxiety. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her, because her expression gradually shifted from concern to something that looked almost like relief.
"Okay," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
She unmuted the call and turned back to the hologram. "I apologize for the delay. After discussing it with my partner, we'd be happy to take the job."
The man's face lit up with obvious relief. "Wonderful! Truly wonderful. When can you start?"
"We'll need a day to gather the appropriate tools and replacement parts," Vasha said. "Would the day after tomorrow work for you?"
"Perfect. My office will contact you later today to work out the details—transportation, timing, payment arrangements. And I want to emphasize again, if you can restore my butler to full functionality, there will be a very generous bonus on top of the agreed fee."
"We'll do our best," Vasha assured him.
"I'm sure you will. Jorik spoke very highly of your work. Until then."
The hologram flickered out, leaving us alone in the sudden quiet of the workshop.
Vasha turned to me, that small smile still playing around her lips. "You know, it's good to see you worrying less about non-existent problems."
I felt a flush of warmth at her words, at the obvious pride and relief in her voice. Maybe she was right. Maybe I had been letting paranoia get the better of me. Maybe it was time to start trusting that we could handle whatever came our way.
"Yeah," I said. "Maybe it is."
The estate job went exactly as predicted.
We arrived at the sprawling compound in the morning, were shown to a well-lit service room with proper ventilation and power outlets, and I watched Vasha work her magic on a droid that was, indeed, suffering from exactly the three component failures I'd expected. Memory core stabilizer shot, vocal matrix corrupted, primary motivator coupling worn down to barely functional.
I kept one hand near my bag—the gauss gun disassembled but ready—and let just the tiniest thread of emotional sensing drift toward our client when he wasn't looking. Nothing. Genuine concern for his family heirloom, relief at finding competent help, mild anxiety about the cost. No malice, no hidden agendas, no dark intentions lurking beneath the surface.
Just a wealthy man who loved his ancient butler droid.
Vasha barely needed me to do more than hand her tools and hold components steady while she worked. The repair took an hour and forty-three minutes, start to finish. The droid powered up, ran through its diagnostic cycles, and began speaking in the crisp, formal tones it had probably used for centuries.
"Good morning, Master Aldric. Shall I prepare your usual breakfast?"
The client nearly cried.
We left with 10 times our usual fee, plus the promised bonus, plus enough credits to cover 2 months month of expenses. More importantly, I left feeling... lighter. Like some invisible weight I'd been carrying had finally lifted from my shoulders.
Maybe the danger really had passed. Maybe my paranoia had been just that—paranoia.
...
Over the next few weeks, Vasha started taking meetings again. Not many, and never at clients' private offices or homes. If someone wanted to hire us, they could meet us at the cantina in the merchant district, or the public workshop spaces near the spaceport, or any of a dozen other neutral, populated locations.
"If these noble bastards can't be bothered to meet us halfway," she said after turning down yet another request for a private consultation, "they can kriff themselves and find someone else."
I accompanied her to most of these meetings. Partly for security, partly because I was still working through my own lingering anxiety, and partly because I'd gotten good at reading people and situations in ways that complemented her technical expertise.
Client after client proved to be exactly what they appeared: merchants with broken hyperdrives, farmers with malfunctioning irrigation systems, small-time smugglers who needed their ships' transponders "adjusted" without asking too many questions. Normal people with normal problems, willing to pay good money for discreet, quality work.
No hidden agendas. No mysterious benefactors. No Imperial entanglements or Sith conspiracies.
Just business.
After the fifth or sixth meeting went off without incident, I started to relax. Really relax, for the first time in months. Whatever cosmic threat my subconscious had been screaming about, it seemed to have passed us by entirely.
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