Want to make God laugh?
Tell Him about your plans.
(folk saying).
The shuttle, flanked by four gunboats, settled onto one of the landing pads in front of the Jedi Temple. During the flight, I had remained quiet, keeping my presence low-key—just in case. In fact, no one had paid me any attention. Yoda and Windu were silent. Amidala whispered with Anakin. Obi-Wan dozed—or perhaps meditated. The other Jedi were absorbed in their own thoughts, trying not to betray any anxiety.
What can I say? They sure know how to build here. The area before the Temple could easily hold six Acclamators, and the Temple itself covered roughly ten square kilometers. Its four-kilometer spires were awe-inspiring. Whoever designed this had clearly not been limited by resources.
The Masters moved on to their business, joined by Temple mentors and teachers—likely those permitted to take part in Jedi politics. Skywalker and Obi-Wan hurried toward the medical wing for prosthetics. Amidala would, naturally, head to the Senate after touching up her appearance. As I recalled, she and Anakin would soon travel to Naboo for a secret wedding. Conspirators, the lot of them.
I was left alone on the landing pad. The escort clones and transport ships departed for deployment zones, the summer sun beat down, and the silence was almost absurd—peaceful, as if nothing had happened. I snorted. They had no idea what had just transpired.
As I walked through the Temple, memories from this body's past flickered through my mind like a kaleidoscope: entering the Temple for the first time, listening to instructors with other younglings, holding a lightsaber for the first time, my first training duel, debating which type of saber to assemble. No wonder so many Jedi considered this place home.
First, I headed to the Technical and Administrative Department—the warehouse. I needed a few essentials before the Order got involved and supplies ran out. And, yes, it was time to update my wardrobe. My memory guided me reliably.
Walking slowly down the corridor (let the wounds heal properly; running would be foolish), I bowed to passing Jedi. They nodded, noticing my bandaged form, some even pausing to look after me.
"Hey! Wait, dagger! I'm talking to you!" a sharp female voice rang out behind me.
I turned. Zio Kad'ishi, a Devaronian and former classmate, approached briskly. Her dark horn "bumps," lynx-like hair tufts, and sharp features reminded me immediately who she was. A natural leader, assertive, authoritative—typical for a matriarchal species.
A few steps behind her came Slit Cavendish, a melancholic Rodian acquaintance. Green skin, faceted eyes, and tube-shaped ears—it had become natural to me. My memories eased the transition; this body had grown among these neighbors.
Zio stopped when she saw my bandages, then dragged me into a dead-end niche. I didn't resist—it was easier than arguing.
"Tell me!" she demanded, hands on her hips, pressing me against the wall. "The Temple is half empty! You're gone, no one knows anything, and rumors are spreading! You were there—so spill it! Where did you go? Why did so few return? And who are these strange soldiers?"
Sighing, I recounted the essentials—careful to avoid dangerous revelations, focusing on what my predecessor had experienced. The arrival of Windu, the rallying of the Jedi, the battle at Geonosis—I summarized it all.
"What will happen now?" she pressed.
I shrugged. "War."
"This is outrageous! The Jedi are guardians of peace, not soldiers. We must maintain balance, not escalate conflicts. I won't let this go!"
"And what do you propose?" I asked, inwardly stressed.
"If the Order keeps pandering to the Senate, we'll leave in protest! The wisest and only correct choice," she insisted.
The Rodian nodded in agreement. "The Council is reckless. Their policy undermines the Order. We must leave."
Damn… I remembered that after Geonosis, some Jedi had indeed left the Order, unwilling to fight. Thousands, maybe more. Were these my friends among the exiles? And did they expect me to join them?
"We?" I asked, uneasy.
"You're not coming with us?"
I shook my head. "No. The war can't be stopped. I have no choice but to act…"
"You brainless, blind fool!" Zio jabbed a finger at my chest. "Following the Council? Your wounds aren't enough? Do you want to die defending this rotten Republic?" She turned abruptly and strode away, shooting one last glare.
"Think, Dagon. Your path is your own," Slit sighed, then followed her.
"Damn…" I muttered. Their confrontation left me shaken. But I knew my path was mine alone.
---
Finally, I reached the warehouse. It was enormous—thousands of square meters, hundreds of shelves, dozens of different containers.
Jedi may not own property, but they could freely access the warehouse for items necessary for life or mission. A constructive justification sufficed. Frigates were off-limits; clothes, rations, and tools were fair game.
"What brings you here, Knight?" the Toydarian warehouse manager asked, nasal accent clear. Hired specialists ran the warehouse, and this one was meticulous.
I listed my needs. As a member of the Balance Corps, I had almost nothing for life outside the Temple, let alone military operations. The storekeeper clicked his tongue in surprise, tinged with respect. Once finished, he whistled.
"Interesting list. Let's see what I can do."
Droids scuttled through the warehouse, returning with a bundle of items: clothes, a cloak, twelve YR-2P12 training droids, two training swords, a medium-power comlink with holoprojector, a dozen empty holodiscs, standard lightsaber batteries, rare metals and components, a spacious backpack, and a small survival kit—dry food, a water desalination device, breathing apparatus, rope. I even managed to create a functional body for the Enhanced Tactical Humanoid 3rd Revision (E3N, a.k.a. Ethan). The storekeeper didn't question it, but seemed impressed.
"But about armor—what do you want?" he asked.
"Not too bulky. Protects from blaster shots. Options?"
"Oh yes. Not popular with Jedi. You're the first in twenty years to request it. I have seven thousand sets in stock," he said proudly.
"I'll leave the choice to you," I replied.
The storekeeper grunted, rubbing his chin. "I have something interesting for you." He projected an image: armor. Not power armor, not Mandalorian beskar'gam, but ancient, durable, functional, and humanoid-friendly. Chest plates and gauntlets durasteel with cortosis coating; lining fabric-based, dissipating several blaster hits and a couple of lightsaber strikes. Medium-range comlink and arm-mounted deck built in. Compact shield generator—limited to thirty seconds, three hundred years old.
I pursed my lips, evaluating. Not bad.
"Newer options exist, but they're impractical for Jedi," the Toydarian warned. "Joints too tight, mobility restricted. By the time you adapt, you'll sweat bullets. This is the best you'll get in a thousand years."
"Fine. I'll take it. Refusing protection would be stupid."
"I hope it helps you, Knight…"