Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ground of Korriban trembled beneath Vega’s boots—not only from Zakuul’s orbital bombardment, but from something deeper, more primal. Fear had entered the air like a poison gas: thick, invisible, and inescapable.

The crimson sky, once the eternal badge of Sith dominion, had become a canvas of fire and falling debris. Spires of the Sith Academy cracked like bones. Statues of long-dead Lords collapsed in silence. Screams rang through the broken corridors—some Sith, some not. None of them sounded powerful.

For Vega, this was not war. It was unmaking.

The tenuous identity she had built under her master Nashaba’s heel disintegrated in an instant. Without the rigid structure of Sith hierarchy—without the cruel rhythms of command and punishment—she had no bearings. What remained was only fear: unshaped, unfiltered, overwhelming. Nashaba’s voice had once filled her every doubt. Now that voice was gone.

The late Darth Vorlag’s lessons—the flickers of strength she’d once flaunted, the fleeting moments when she’d believed herself ascending—had vanished like smoke. Zakuul’s might reduced all of it to farce.

She did not draw her sabers. She did not rally. She ran.

The teachings of dominance and ambition shattered with the Sith Academy’s stone walls. Her lightsabers hung like dead weight at her hips. Every Sith was scattering, masters and apprentices alike, scrambling for ships that no longer answered hails. Lords screamed for order, but their followers fled in packs or died where they stood. No one was listening anymore.

Her eyes caught the silhouette of a departing shuttle—Nashaba’s. Vega watched it vanish into the smoke-streaked sky. There were no final orders. No rescue. Just silence.

Abandoned by her master.

Alone.

She stood in the open for a moment too long. Not in defiance—but disbelief. The loss hit in layers: first her master, then her power, and finally the illusion that the Sith had ever meant safety. Even Nashaba, in her cruelty, had offered structure. Without it, Vega was only a shell, built around someone else’s design.

And yet—something inside her still moved.

The survival instinct which Nashaba had beaten into submission rose like a wounded animal. Vega’s hand closed around one of her hilts—not to strike, but to anchor herself. Move. Run. Live.

She turned toward the collapsing exterior of the nearest starport. No plan. No allies. Just a broken survivor throwing herself into the wreckage.

But it was enough.

The old Vega—the one who obeyed—had died in the fire inside the academy. The one who fled might yet learn how to live.

Chapter Text

The escape shuttle landed hard. Bent landing gear, no food storage, half a nav system. Vega didn’t care. She didn’t even know what planet this was.

The sky was red, and the air smelled like rust. She walked until she found a ridge, then collapsed beneath a slab of stone. Half a cave. Half a hole in the world.

Night came fast.

She kept expecting to hear bootsteps. Command barked into her earpiece. The thrum of another ship above, hunting survivors. But the stars stayed still, and no voices called her name.

She opened the shuttle's emergency pack. Ration bar, thermal blanket, flare. No comm. No signal.

Her gloves were still slick with coolant. Her cheeks burned from wind and shame.

She ate half the ration and told herself it was strategy, not nerves. Then she wiped her face with a sleeve and pressed the blanket over her shoulders. Like armor, she told herself. Like armor.

When her eyes finally closed, she wasn’t thinking about Nashaba. Or the war. Or even the Sith.

She was thinking about her boots. How she hadn’t taken them off in six days.

Tomorrow, she would try to clean them.

Chapter Text

A barren, rocky horizon stretched beneath a pale sky lit by twin suns. Vega sat curled into the shade of a jagged outcrop, her cloak drawn tight against the wind. Her face was leaner now, harder—etched with the weather of months spent in silence. Her dark clothing blended into the stone and dust, just another shadow among many.

She had lived on this nameless world since last autumn.

No name. No flag. No allegiance. Just scattered settlements clinging to the edge of survival, too small to matter, too poor to be conquered. She did odd jobs when necessary—repairs mostly, scavenging when needed—but never stayed long in one place. Always at the edge of things. Always watching. Her lightsabers lay buried beneath layers of worn fabric, untouched but never far.

The wind moaned low through the canyons, stirring a fine veil of alien grit. A native bird cried out somewhere in the distance, its call sharp and solitary. Vega didn't flinch. She stared across the horizon with eyes unfocused, as if searching for something she didn't expect to find.

A calloused hand drifted to the scar on her arm—just below the elbow, jagged and long-healed. Nashaba had given her that. Training, she'd called it. A lesson in obedience. A reminder of worthlessness. The pain was long gone, but the memory coiled in her stomach like poison.

Nashaba’s voice still lingered sometimes, cruel and cold as the stars. Vorlag’s promises echoed, too—hollow now, sweet then. She’d traded one illusion of power for another. And when both masters fell, she’d been left with nothing but herself. And that… had not been much.

But here—here she was no one.

No past. No legacy. No rumors. Just another face under a hood. The Eternal Empire didn't reach this far, and the Sith would never bother to look for her among these forgotten hills. That anonymity wasn't freedom, exactly. But it was something like peace.

At first, she kept to herself entirely. Let the settlers suffered their broken machines, their petty squabbles. But lately, she found herself watching: a farmer struggling to repair a water pump; a child shielding a smaller one from the local bullies. They were helpless in the way she once was. That part was hard to ignore.

Something stirred inside her—a flicker, not of rage, but recognition. Empathy. She didn't welcome it.

Her hands clenched, fingers twitching toward the sabers she didn't dare reveal. She could help. Just a little. Quietly. But she knew the risks. Use the Force, and eyes might find her. Sith eyes. Zakuulan eyes. Or worse—eyes that remember who she used to be.

Still… the thought persisted.

Remain invisible. Be safe. Be nothing.

Or move. Be seen. And risk becoming someone again.

The question gnawed at her in the quiet, day after day.

And one day soon, she knew—she wouldn't be able to ignore it.

Chapter Text

Skegra – a dusty rim world with a half-dead economy and a long tram line that connects nothing to nowhere. It was the kind of place you passed through, not to. The tram had left five minutes ago. The next wouldn’t come for three hours. The terminal bench was warped metal, sun-bleached and uncomfortable.

Vega sat alone, her jacket hood up, chin buried, breathing uneven. Her boots were cracked. Her fingers twitched. She was muttering something under her breath—maybe the name of a drug dealer she hadn’t called yet. Maybe the name of a lie she was trying to believe.

The wind howled through the station like it was trying to whistle her away.

And then—

“You always picked the worst stops.”

She stiffened.

Turned.

There he was. Standing. Shadowed. Arms folded.

No Jedi robes. No saber on his belt.

Just Jabbar. A little older. A little heavier in the shoulders. Still sharp-eyed. He wore travel leathers, sun-creased and patched. The kind worn by desert scouts or mercenaries who didn’t expect thanks. He didn’t smile. But he wasn’t frowning either. Just watching her, like he wasn’t sure if she’d speak or bolt. The last time she'd heard of him, the Republic had lost him along with other Jedi. The last time she'd seen him, they'd literally tried to kill each other; she could almost remember the sense of desperation as she held her red lightsabers at his neck - the heat as he held his purple lightsaber to hers. That was years ago.

She blinked twice. Her voice cracked: “I thought you were dead.”

“I was, a few times. Didn’t stick.”

He moved closer and sat—slow, not assuming. They were silent for half a minute. Then Vega laughed. A brittle sound.

“I missed my tram.”

“I figured," he replied, staring at the scuffed, gum-stained floor.

“I was gonna catch it. I had a job lined up on Ando Prime. Not much. Cargo run. Cold as hell out there.” She rubbed her arms. Didn’t look at him. “I had a plan, I really did. Just... missed it. Couldn’t move fast enough. Couldn’t think fast enough. You know?”

“Yeah.”

A silent moment passed. He wasn't awkward; she was a little.

“You—uh—you working out here?” she asked.

“Sort of. Dropped off a kid. She wanted to leave the Syndicate. I gave her a ride.”

“Huh.” Another pause. “You’re… doing alright?” she asked, too quickly.

“Better. Enough.”

She nodded. Swallowed hard. Looked down at her boots. “I almost got high again.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t judge. Didn't ask how long she'd been using. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” she answered. “Just wanted to. A lot.”

They sat in the low amber light. The wind kicked dust along the platform. Then Jabbar reached into his coat. Pulled out a half-wrapped ration bar. Plain. Dry. But edible. He held it out.

Vega stared. Then took it and bit off a chunk. “That all you’ve got?” she asked.

“It’s the good half,” he said.

She laughed again. Warmer this time. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Vega didn’t feel like a broken weapon. Just… tired.

Jabbar leaned back, arms behind his head. “Tram won’t be here for a while.”

“Guess not.”

“Then we’ve got time.”

Chapter Text

They walked side by side.

Jabbar had found a caf stand.

Vega was carrying a metal cup between both hands like it might disappear if she blinked.

“You take it plain?” she asked.

“Don’t trust sweet things,” he muttered. “They go bad fast.”

“That's dark,” she said, blowing on hers. “Even for you.”

He shrugged.

“You still wake up ready to fight?” she asked after a beat.

“Sometimes. But I don’t always throw the first punch anymore.”

“Progress,” she said dryly.

They rounded a corner near a vendor stall. The wind was warm. The ground dusty. People moved around them, uncaring. No one recognized them. No one cared who they used to be.

Vega suddenly paused near a cracked stone planter. The local flora looked like angry weeds.

“You remember Balmorra?” she asked, out of nowhere.

“Yeah.”

“I beat you.”

“I noticed,” was all he said. His voice was entirely devoid of resentment or embarrassment, yet it wasn't Jedi detachment. Little about him evoked the Jedi ethos anymore. He'd just...moved on. As if he were over it, no grudges, no complications.

She tilted her head.

“You looked like you were rucking back then. Armor like a tank.”

“You were faster," he said, his tone lighter.

“I still am.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Want to test that?”

“No,” she said quickly. “You’d win now.”

“Maybe.”

She gave him a sidelong look.

“That day, I was going to hand you over. Like a gift. You know that?”

“I figured.”

“But you got out. Again. Like a bug in the cracks. No matter how tight the net was.”

He didn’t smile.

“You tried to kill me, once," he said, again, without resentment or judgment. Just recounting history.

“You tried to kill me back.”

“Yeah.”

They stood quietly, first to stretch, then to walk again. The market sounds faded behind them.

“We’re all that’s left, aren’t we?” she said at last.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not good,” she added, with a faint smirk.

“No,” Jabbar agreed, voice dry. “But it’s honest.”

She finished her caf. Tossed the cup into a bin. Then—hesitated.

“I was going to head to the south rim later. There’s an outpost where they don’t ask questions. You… want to come?”

He didn’t answer right away. Anxiety settled in; she thought she'd gotten used to the feeling on Korriban, during training. This was different than physical threat, though. This was simple uncertainty about his answer, and her own question. Finally, he did answer:

“Yeah. I’ll walk with you. A while.”

They didn’t call it anything.

They didn’t need to.

They just kept walking.

Two ghosts sharing the same wind.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the outpost, Vega had received messages of a delay in her cargo run job - she hacked into a derelict terminal to check her DMs. Whether the Force or dumb luck, she had a second chance to catch the next tram from that station and earn some money again. Jabbar waited for her until the tram arrived.

The walk to the outpost had been long; once again, they were both underslept. But for the first time in a long time, she'd has a normal conversation with someone. Or at least, as normal as an ex-assassin who'd been inducted into the Sith Order as a child could have.

They compared scars. It wasn't about pride—it was about memory. About survival. Vega didn't believe she deserved any of hers. Jabbar disagreed. But she disagreed with him - a man she'd once fought in a war - without getting angry. Neither had many good memories at all. But they remembered each other. And that was enough to keep the darkness from swallowing her, at least for one day.

Eventually, though, her tram did arrive.

She struggled to part ways from someone who was neither an enemy nor a rival. She had to turn away from him for a moment when the doors swung open, her mouth opening and then closing a few times as she fumbled with the right words.

"Well…this is me," she said, immediately feeling silly for the cliché line.

He didn't react poorly, though. "Thanks for the company," he said - brief, terse, but not unkind. "Choose better caf next time."

"Next time," she snorted, this time for real. "We'll see which one of us survives longer out here.

Then, he shifted. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she balled up a fist - old habits of defensiveness against betrayal. The way his eyes flitted away from her, however, was unlike him - before, when he was a Jedi, and now, when he was another castaway like her. Yesterday, he'd been the anchor of confidence for her social awkwardness, but suddenly, his certainty drained away.

"Listen," he said, running ah and over his short hair. "I have an OmoJack…it's this encrypted comm app. Secure codes for messaging, but never traceable - it's intentionally low tech. If you download it, we could…reach each other, as long as we're both here in the Outer Rim. No risk of detection."

She tilted her head to the side, missing his point at first. "Good…I guess?" she said - asked. She wasn't sure. Then she realized what he meant.

The Jedi Knight she'd once beaten up and captured, the same one who'd tossed her off of an orbital space station a year later, was trying to stay in touch. The notion was absurd; the Eternal Empire would detect even the slightest use of the Force by either of them, swoop in with overwhelming numbers, and eliminate them. Staying apart from each other made the most sense. But she also realized: he might be the only person who never lied to her—never used her, never sweet-talked her, never gaslit her with promises of greatness. As ridiculous as the notion felt in an existence which had shown Vega nothing but exploitation and misery, despite all her own better senses screaming at her to shove him off the platform and hop in the tram, a small part of her believed him. If he said he just wants to stay in touch, then maybe he just wanted to stay in touch. To talk again like they had last night. A therapy session in boots.

The tram's intercom beeped, and it shook as it began moving toward the spaceport. Without thinking, Vega stole a marker from a conductor on the platform - in broad daylight. A few people stopped to stare.

"Quick, your com number?" she asked, pulling up her sleeve.

After quickly glancing at the conductor, who'd run off to call for help, Jabbar scribbled a code on Vega's arm. "1-2D-34.T5.7," he said out loud while writing it on her arm.

Before they could share another word, the tram lurched, and she leapt from the platform into the door. There was barely enough time for her to regain her footing before the doors closed, and the last glimpse she caught before the vessel sped off was him fleeing from a security droid.

The code eventually smeared, but she'd already memorized it better than she'd memorized her own password. Duty called, and she needed to earn enough money to feed herself without relying on chance encounters, but this was enough. Even if it were just quick messages and emojis exchanged in an outdated encryption app, it was enough to know that there was still life out there in the galaxy.

Chapter Text

The hotel clerk was a human - or at least, she appeared to be human. The old cyborg's remaining skin was so ruddy and scarred that it wasn't clear.

Vega took the scratched keycard without a word and walked past peeling wallpaper to her room upstairs. The hotel room smelled like mold and tobacco, and the toilet in the refresher wouldn't stop making a draining sound, but she could finally put her duffel bag down.

Through the window, she could faintly see the outline of a Star Fortress in the night sky - a reminder that the Eternal Empire was still holding every planet hostage. She shut the curtains and tried not to think about it.

Slowly, she laid out all her money on the room's rickety table: credit sticks, vintage mint coins, digital currencies from multiple systems, two bank accounts using different fake names. She was finally able to hide her identity better.

What she wasn't able to do was survive with a minimum dignified lifestyle.

"Kriffing cheapskates," she murmured while counting her total pay from the last cargo run she'd handled. "I can barely buy groceries with this."

Just shy of a month working on Ando Prime, and Vega had enough money for food, hygiene, and new socks...or her hotel room. Not both. And she couldn't cover the deposit for apartments on that planet.

She counted her money. Then she counted it again. Then she counted it while scribbling each individual credit as she counted it, just to be sure she hadn't undercounted.

Then her pen ran out of ink mid-count.

Her forehead hit the table. It felt greasy and rough, but she felt too exhausted to lift her head. She'd stood for seven hours straight on her last ship security job. On the previous one, she'd needed a kolto patch for her hand after she'd beaten one of the ship's own crew members who'd tried to steal the cargo. She was working too hard for too little.

Her datapad beeped; finally, she lifted her head and tapped the cracked screen to check the message. It was the bum of a career counselor she'd been working with.

Another security job for you. On-board protection for a light freighter headed to Rishi. No ride back for you, but the pay is 8% higher than you last job. Please confirm within the hour. Be at the starport in four hours if you're in.

Eight percent higher. Eight percent closer to having both a roof over her head and a new pair of socks. For another week, at least.

With a heavy sigh, Vega confirmed she'd be there and set an alarm to wake her up in three hours. Freedom, as she'd discovered over the past year, was more expensive than she'd realized.

Chapter Text

The alley was dark. Not shadowed—dark. Choked with rot, discharge from the vents above, and the smell of fear. Vega crouched behind a waste chute, heartbeat fluttering like a bird’s wings against her ribs.

“You’re early,” came the voice in her earpiece.

“I know,” she whispered.

“You’re nervous.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

A pause. Then her handler’s voice returned, low and cruel.

“You volunteered.”

She closed her eyes.

Yes. She had. After all the maulings, the sparring matches that were really executions, the nights she’d slept with one eye open in a compound of orphans turned weapons…she had volunteered. Because surviving wasn't enough anymore. You had to prove you were worth the oxygen.

And proving meant killing.

Her target stumbled out of the bar just ahead—just a man. Human. Drunk, slurring at the escort droid who'd just denied his credit chip. Her briefing had said he was a deserter from Sith intelligence, leaking information to his Jedi cousin. Weak. Damaged. Easy.

She followed.

He made it as far as the alley mouth before she stepped into his path, knife drawn, breath held.

He blinked at her—confused, tired, and still half-laughing. “Oh hey, little green thing. You lost?”

He never even noticed the blade until it was inside him. The sound he made wasn’t a scream. It was a confusion. Like someone realizing, in his final moment, that the galaxy had turned the wrong way.

Vega stared at him as he collapsed, then knelt and wiped her blade clean on his jacket. Her hands shook only once, after she stood.

“Confirmed,” she murmured into the comm.

“Confirmed what?”

“…That I can do it.”

Silence. Then, “Get back to your post.”

She turned toward the streetlight, her face a mask.

Chapter Text

The air in the Rishi cantina was thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap synth-ale and the cacophony of a dozen different alien languages. Vega sat hunched over a sticky table, nursing a lukewarm drink that tasted suspiciously like recycled engine coolant. Her datapad lay beside her, its screen stubbornly displaying a negative credit balance. Rent was due in six hours, and the "luxury" motel she'd been squatting in wasn't known for its leniency. Her stomach growled, a stark reminder of the last ration bar she'd eaten yesterday.

Just as she was contemplating the moral implications of "acquiring" a meal (again), her datapad chimed. A new message. Her eyes narrowed as she read it: a job offer. Security for a cargo run. The pilots were apparently less than trustworthy, and the owner wanted an additional, independent pair of eyes. The pay was decent. The catch? They needed a second person. And the ship departed in twelve hours.

Vega sighed, a long, weary exhalation. She knew exactly one other person in this sector capable of handling themselves in a security detail without asking too many questions or drawing unwanted attention. She hadn't found an excuse to message Jabbar for the past few weeks, but she hadn't expected to do so for a work-related reason. She'd enjoyed their encounter in-person, she had…but this was different. This was serious - especially when she needed money.

She opened the secure comm channel tagged 1-2D-34.T5.7, one she'd acquired weeks ago when they'd met on Skegra. Her fingers, usually so precise, hovered over the keyboard. Why? Grunting irritably, she forced herself to just type - direct, formal.

SnackAttack5000: I have received an offer for a cargo security detail. It requires two competent individuals. The pay is adequate. Departure in twelve hours. Are you available for immediate engagement on Rishi? Respond promptly if interested.

She hit send, then glared at the screen, willing a fast reply. A minute passed. Two. Five. Her foot began to tap an impatient rhythm on the cantina floor.

Finally, a chime. She snatched the datapad.

J38fd8s: available

Vega's eyelid twitched. Available? That was it? No "hello"? No "what's the job"? And why did his screen name look like a password? She shook her head and answered as quickly as she could; she didn't even know where he was at the moment, and she'd need to prompt him to move quickly if this job was going to work out.

SnackAttack5000: Please confirm your interest. The nature of the cargo is sensitive, and the pilots are known to be unreliable. Your presence would be critical.

Another agonizing minute. The synth-ale tasted even worse now.

J38fd8s: interested

She squeezed her eyes shut, counting to three. Interested?

"Is he doing this on purpose?" Vega wondered out loud.

Time was of the essence, though, and she answered quickly, trying to motivate him with the details.

SnackAttack5000: Very well. The details are as follows: rendezvous point is Hangar Bay 7, Docking Port Gamma. Ship is the 'Wanton Wanderer.' Be prepared for potential hostile engagement. Payout is 15,000 credits per individual upon successful completion. Are you committed to this contract?

She waited, her jaw clenched. The thought of losing this job because of his slow typing made her want to scream. She could practically feel his deliberate caution through the comms.

A chime. She practically ripped the datapad from the table.

J38fd8s: committed

She stared at the screen, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Committed? That was the confirmation? No "roger that" or "see you there"?

SnackAttack5000: Excellent. Do not be late. I will inform the client of your participation. See you at the hangar.

She hit send with a little too much force, then slammed the datapad down on the table. She had the job. They both had the job. But the sheer, infuriating terseness of Jabbar's manner of typing was enough to make her want to Force-choke him through the comms. She took a long, desperate swig of her lukewarm drink.

Chapter Text

The power went out an hour ago.

Cold air crept into the transport bay like it had been waiting, coils of it slithering across the metal floor and up their spines. Vega sat on a crate, coat wrapped tight, muttering curses at every tenth shiver. Jabbar leaned against a crate opposite her, arms crossed, the glow of his datapad flickering against his face.

It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight haul. They weren’t supposed to be stuck on this derelict freighter while the droid pilot recalibrated half a dozen thrusters with all the speed and competence of a blind bantha.

Jabbar flicked off his datapad. "That's it. No signal boost, no nav updates. We're grounded until morning."

"Great," Vega said, voice muffled in her coat. “I’ll just let my bones freeze into the wall."

A silence passed. Not the angry kind. Just worn-out, used-up quiet.

Then he reached into a cargo compartment and pulled out a battered emergency blanket. Standard issue. Single-use. Thin. Frayed. Barely a blanket at all.

He stared at it. So did she.

"...Seriously?" Vega asked.

He grunted. “You want it?”

Her eyes narrowed like she was about to argue. Then she just snatched it from his hand and flopped down on the floor beside the crate.

Jabbar crouched. Sat. Adjusted his posture a few times, then gave up. She shifted to the side, pulling the blanket across herself — and then, reluctantly, tugged one edge toward him. Not a full offer. Just enough that he wouldn’t have to ask.

He took it. Their shoulders touched, barely. Neither spoke.

Minutes passed like that. The hum of the backup generator buzzed low in the walls. Somewhere outside, the wind scraped against the hull like a whisper.

“I’ll kill that droid,” Vega muttered eventually. “When I’m warm enough to move.”

Jabbar gave a low chuckle.

Then — softer — Vega added, “I’ve had worse.”

He nodded.

The blanket rustled as they shifted slightly closer, not for comfort, but because neither one wanted to shiver again.

That was all.

But it was something.

----------

Vega woke first, which annoyed her.

There was a weight against her shoulder, and her first instinct was to elbow it off. But she stopped halfway through the motion. It was Jabbar — not dead, just sleeping deeply, arms folded, head tilted just enough to rest on her shoulder. He looked exhausted. Not vulnerable, not peaceful. Just done.

The emergency blanket had slipped halfway off them in the night. Her fingers were half-numb from the cold. She glanced down at him. For once, she didn't have a sharp remark. Instead, she shifted slightly and pulled the blanket back up over them both.

“Wake up before I feel something,” she muttered.

His brow twitched, just a little. But he didn’t stir.

Chapter Text

The transport shuddered to a halt, the groan of its ancient engines echoing through the cargo hold. The door hissed open, revealing the dim, chaotic light of a lawless excuse for a city – the skeletal remains of factories silhouetted against a smog-choked sky, makeshift settlements clinging to the ruins like parasites. The air was thick with the smell of decay, fuel, and desperation.

Vega rose first, stretching her stiff limbs, the thin blanket now a crumpled mess in her hands. She glanced at Jabbar, who was already on his feet, his movements fluid and alert, his gaze assessing their surroundings with a practiced wariness.

"Well, this is it," she said as they exited the transport. "Home sweet...junkyard."

Jabbar responded with a grunt and a nod. "Guess our paths diverge once again. For now."

Vega adjusted the worn fabric of her robes. "Indeed. Though I doubt this is the last grim corner of the galaxy our 'circles' will intersect. We seem to have a knack for finding the same kind of clientele. The desperate, the dangerous… and the surprisingly well-funded."

He turned to look at her; he never seemed to do so without purpose. His gaze caught her off guard, and she braced herself. For what, she didn't know; half of her expected criticism, and the other half expected dismissiveness. Both halves were wrong.

"Thank you for reaching out," he said quietly. "Money's been tight lately. I could use the work."

"Me too," she replied without even thinking. She gritted her teeth in regret immediately after speaking and tried to play it off. "I have a...a contact, I guess. Can I count on you for more jobs like this when they come up?"

He crooked his head back. Although she couldn't reach into the Force lest they reveal themselves to any Zakuul agents in the sector, she could tell that he was surprised by her question.

"Yeah," he replied - curt, but sincere.

"Alright!" she said, suppressing the urge to smile. "Alright. Good. I could use the help, and this works. We both know each other's 'talents' - and how much of those talents to hide from others. Maybe this sounds weird, but...I'd rather work with you than anybody else."

He nodded. "It's weird." He paused for a beat, just long enough for her to wrinkle her nose at him. "That's why it works. We almost killed each other - before, in another life, before the galaxy changed. In a way, we know each other better than anybody else."

A faint smirk played on her lips; she didn't hide it this time. "That makes sense. Good." Another moment passed; he lingered, but stiffly, as if busy. "Well, until next time, Jabbar. Try to stay alive. I think we're both reasonably good at that.

"You too, Vega."

They turned and walked in opposite directions, disappearing into the chaotic sprawl of the dilapidated city. She didn't know if he even lived in that city; she didn't feel right asking. Not yet, at least. She couldn't quite call him a friend, either. But "the guy who I could've killed, and another time he threw me off a platform" didn't have a nice ring to it. Maybe, at the very least, she could say that she finally knew somebody.

Chapter Text

The air in the restaurant clung to her skin—grease, scorched spice, cheap ale, and sweat, all stewing into something that coated the back of her throat. Vega stood in the narrow kitchen doorway, the din of the dining room muffled by swinging doors: a dozen species laughing, shouting, arguing over plates of sizzling meat.

The boss spotted her instantly. A Zabrak woman, older, ridges softened by age, sneer sharp enough to cut. She closed the distance fast, apron bunched in one hand like she might throw it.

"You're the new one? Vera? You're late." Her eyes flicked to the corner where a mountain of plates leaned dangerously. "I’ve got enough dirty dishes to feed a rancor. You get paid for what you wash, not what you stand there gawking at."

Vega’s jaw twitched. She wasn’t late. But the argument stayed behind her teeth. People like this—you didn’t win with words.

The Zabrak shoved a crumpled apron and a single rubber glove into her hands. "Last one kept tearing ‘em. Budget cuts. You only get one."

The glove sagged in her grip, slick with someone else’s grease. She slid it on, skin crawling, and tied the apron over her jacket. The pile of dishes in the basin was a glistening tower of plates, mugs, and utensils, streaked with congealed fat and half-chewed food. The smell hit like a shove.

"All done before closing," the Zabrak said, already turning away. "Maybe you get a warm meal. Get to it."

Vega stood there, staring at the leaning tower of someone else’s filth. Her hands itched for the familiar weight of a lightsaber or the electric snap of the Force in her veins. She had slit the throats of senators. She had crushed bones without touching them. Now she would spend the evening scraping at cold gristle with one gloved hand.

The resentment lodged low and tight in her gut. Survival had always been sharp, fast, decisive. This… this was slow. Smothering. A quiet erasure she could already feel taking root.

Chapter Text

The usual tang of sea salt was gone. The air stank of ozone and scorched blaster fuel, the acrid bite curling in Vega’s nose as she moved with the crowd. Her arms ached from a day of scrubbing plates; her mind was already halfway to the thin cot in her rented room.

She was less than a hundred meters from it when she stopped dead.

At the end of the street, local enforcers in piecemeal armor were herding people away from a cordon. And in the center of it—polished plates of white-and-gold, unmarred by salt or rust—a Knight of Zakuul. Even from here, their presence pressed against her ribs, heavy in the Force.

Vega’s body locked, then bent into movement again—small, slow, head down. She eased backward, turned into a trash-strewn alley, and kept walking until the shouts faded. Her pulse thudded high in her throat. She crushed it down, breath slow, shoulders loose, the way her old instructors had taught her. The Force hummed at the edges of her awareness, tempting, dangerous. She pulled it shut like a door, sealed and barred.

Time dragged. The alley was cold, its walls damp with salt and filth. She watched from shadow when she dared—saw the building’s owner hauled out in cuffs, his expression hollow. Construction droids moved in next, welding durasteel over the doors with clinical precision.

Her things were in there: the threadbare robes, the handful of credits, the one lightsaber she had kept hidden since Korriban. A thin life, stripped to nothing in minutes.

Vega slid down the wall until she was sitting in the grit. She had fought her way through the ranks of the Sith, survived exile, outlived enemies who wanted her bones ground to dust—and here she was. No roof. No bed. No weapons but her hands.

She stared at the fresh wall of steel until her eyes burned, and the city blurred into shadow. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under, and she slept curled on the cold, filthy ground.

Chapter Text

The water was leaking. Steady, rhythmic, maddening.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The pipe jutted crooked from the back of a half-collapsed alley wall, moss curling around its base like something alive. Each drop slid down the rust-flaked metal and hit the broken bowl beneath it with a wet slap that echoed too loud in the silence.

Tap.

Vega crouched beside it, elbows on her knees, palms open and raw. Her hands were coated in grease, and dirt, and whatever filth clung to the underbelly of cargo crates left abandoned in the shipyard beyond the rusted chain-link fences and leaning, cracked brick walls. She hadn’t eaten today. Not properly. Her stomach had given up protesting two hours ago.

Her reflection stared back at her from the grimy bowl.

She didn’t like the look of the woman in the water. But she reached forward anyway and let the cold water run over her fingers. It stung.

She rubbed harder. The grease came away in black streaks. Underneath, her skin was cracked, nails chipped. The soap she’d found last week was gone now—just a faded memory of something lemon-scented, long since traded for food.

Tap. Tap.

She cupped her hands and brought the water to her face.

Cold. Too cold. She gasped, breath hitching as it struck her eyes, her cheeks. The sting grounded her for half a second—and then the sound did it.

Tap.

Her fingers curled. Her eyes shut tight.

—You're weak. Say it.

“I'm weak.”

Good. Again. Louder.

“I'm weak.”

You're nothing.

"I'm nothing."

That's the truth of power, little flame. The truth of worth. Even now, you wait for permission to live.

She gasped and dropped the water. It splashed against the stones, soaked her knee. The bowl rattled slightly with the impact. Her breath was sharp now, forced in and out like she had to remember how to breathe.

Nashaba’s voice was gone, but not forgotten.

And worse—not untrue.

The memory of the cruel Sith crone settled like a stone in her throat. She reached for the pipe again, but her hand trembled. She clenched it. Forced it steady. Her former master wasn't here. Not here. And still, Vega heard her. Still, she felt her. In the way she flinched from silence. In the way she second-guessed every move. In the way she'd whispered permission under her breath just to sit down in this alley.

She pressed her forehead to her knee and squeezed her eyes shut. So what now? Freedom. A beautiful word. A lie. She had clawed her way off that forsaken rock. She had killed to stay gone. She had not cried.

But she had not won.

She wasn’t Vega then. She didn’t have a name that felt like hers. Just a shell and a vague notion of what pain was supposed to feel like when there was no one left to tell her how to use it.

She pulled herself back upright. Shaky, but upright. One hand on the wall. The other curled at her chest, as if to protect something still beating inside.

You wait for permission to live.

She spat into the bowl.

Then—slowly—she wiped her face again. This time with no trembling.

Let it sting.

Let it hurt.

The memory would stay. She knew that now. No fire could burn it out. No distance could break its hold completely. But she could move.

And maybe that was enough, for today.

She stood fully. The water still dripped behind her.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Let it echo.

She walked away from it, soaked by rain, with her shoulders square and her face streaked in wet defiance.

Chapter Text

The lower levels were a maze of shadow and refuse. Vega’s single shoe scuffed along greasy pavement, her stomach hollow and loud. The days blurred together. Hunger was constant. So was the choice: cheap glitterstim to dull it, or the slow grind of finding something better. She chose the grind.

She climbed. Over rusted speeders. Up fire escapes that swayed in the wind. The city’s eyes never looked up, so no one saw her find it—a shack on the roof of a half-empty office block, wedged behind the bulkhead for a dead elevator shaft. Walls, floor, most of a roof. Still sealed. Still standing.

It was hers the moment she saw it.

She started with the roof. Holes patched clumsily with sealant, too thick in one spot, too thin in another. The gaps still showed. Next came the door. The defunct service room below had one: heavy, metal, solid. She pried at it with a scavenged rod. It came free with a shriek and tore part of the roof away with it.

The wind cut through. She cursed, jammed debris into place, worked too hard, too fast. More supports gave way. Rain hit her shoulder.

Then more.

It poured through the holes, soaking the floor, dripping into her collar. The shack was worse now than when she’d found it. She pressed her back to the bulkhead, muscles shaking.

She had been a weapon once. Precise. Lethal. Now she couldn’t hold a roof together.

Shame burned, then dulled into something heavier. She stood without thinking, hands closing on a jagged sheet of metal. Bent it. Wedged it. Worked without pause. The rain stung her skin but didn’t touch her focus. Time blurred.

When she stopped, the roof was a patchwork of rust and sharp edges. But it held. She dragged the door back up, hammered it into the frame, and stepped inside. Dry.

She wiped the last puddle of water from the floor with her soaked apron and sank down. The ground was cold. She didn’t feel it. The last sound before sleep was the quiet, steady patter of rain on the roof she’d made.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was a fog of steam and clattering metal, heat pressing down like a second skin. No matter how often she washed, Vega felt coated in a permanent layer of grease, her brown robes marked with the same stubborn stains that never came out.

Her coworkers came and went in a blur of tired faces. None stayed long enough for names. A few days of scalding water and grease burns, then gone—leaving her alone in the endless heat, wrist-deep in someone else’s mess. She wondered how long she would last.

A wet smack broke her focus. A rag, dripping and foul, hit the back of her head, sending suds and grime sliding into her braids. The Zabrak woman who ran the kitchen barely looked over.

"You miss a spot, I fire you! And I don’t pay you to daydream."

Rage flared—bright, clean, dangerous. It gripped her spine, flooded her hands with the urge to twist, break, kill. Once, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Once, she’d been a weapon. A Sith assassin.

But that was another life.

Now she had food bills to pay. And a shack she’d only just clawed her way into after weeks of sleeping in a cardboard box. She needed this job.

Her jaw locked until it ached. She took a slow breath, forced her pulse to steady, and kept her eyes on the dishes. One after another, stacked, rinsed, scrubbed—each one a reminder of just how far she’d fallen, and how much she had left to lose.

Chapter Text

The wind clawed through the broken skeletons of nearby buildings, carrying the stench of the polluted river below. Vega stood on the edge of her rooftop shack, the corrugated metal groaning with each gust. Her heater wheezed faintly against the damp chill. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket, she watched the flickering lights of the warehouse district — a nightly theater of smuggling and desperation.

The rattle of the access ladder broke the rhythm of the storm. Vega’s hand slid beneath the blanket to her vibroknife.

A figure hauled himself over the rooftop. Broad-shouldered. Blue-skinned. Familiar. Rain clung to him, hair plastered across his face. His breathing was ragged, his left arm smeared with shimmering gel that crackled faintly.

"Jabbar?" Her voice was low, cautious. "What in the blazes are you doing on my roof? How did you even find me?"

He shivered, teeth chattering, eyes fixed on the burning gel. "Got tangled with some security droids. This stuff—it burns."

He tried to wipe it off, only smearing it further.

"Electric gel," Vega muttered. "Stings like a nest of hornets. You’re lucky they didn’t crank the voltage."

He didn’t answer. For once, the mask of sardonic control was gone. He looked raw. Beaten down. Just a man standing in the rain, ashamed to need help.

"I don’t know how to get it off," he admitted. "It’s…not like a lightsaber wound."

Vega studied him, the pride swallowed with every word. He didn’t ask for shelter, but the plea was there all the same, carried in his shiver.

She exhaled through her nose, a small sound lost in the wind. "Get in before you freeze. Heater’s barely worth a damn, but it’s better than standing out here. And I might have something for the gel."

The shack was barely warmer than the storm outside, the rain hammering the corrugated roof until it rang. Vega jerked her chin at the stool by the sputtering heater.

“Don’t drip on my floor. It’s the only dry patch left.”

Jabbar sat, shivering, his arm a mess of crackling gel. She dug out a vial and multi-tool, then crouched beside him. The fluid hissed as it touched his skin. He sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t move.

“Hold still,” she muttered. “It eats through the stuff. Stings on the way.”

They worked in silence—her hands steady, his jaw tight. When the gel had dissolved, she wiped his arm clean with a scrap of cloth. The skin beneath was red and raw.

“It’ll stay tender,” she said. “Try not to use it.”

A slow drip interrupted her words, then another. Water pattered into the floor at her feet.

“Kriffing leaks.”

Jabbar scanned the shack, eyes catching on a crate of scavenged junk. Without asking, he rose, pulled out sealant tubes and rags, and climbed onto the stool. Vega watched as he patched the holes with practiced movements, pressing the makeshift plugs firm against the metal.

When he stepped down again, rain stayed outside. For the first time that night, the shack held quiet.

Vega studied him, arms folded, suspicion softened by something she refused to name. “Not bad for a half-drowned Jedi.” He only shrugged, water dripping from his hair. She jerked her chin toward the corner. “Bathrobe I picked up. Won’t win you any style points, but it’s dry.”

He hesitated, pride catching at him, then stripped off his soaked layers and shrugged into the heavy robe. The warmth softened his shoulders almost at once. "Thank you," he finally said.

The patched roof held. The storm thudded against it but stayed outside. Jabbar wrung water from his sleeve; Vega rummaged at her table and dropped a dented pouch beside him.

“Ration powder,” she said. “Imperial depot. Never figured out how to make the stuff edible.”

Jabbar turned the pouch in his hands, frowning at the faded instructions. “Needs water, heat. Exact ratio, or it curdles.”

Vega snorted. “Figures. Even their food comes with regulations.”

He reached for the canteen. “I can manage it.”

She leaned against the bulkhead, blanket pulled close, watching him measure with quiet care. For the first time in months, the shack smelled faintly of broth instead of rust.

Vega’s mouth tugged into something close to a smile. “Well. Maybe you’re worth the floor space after all.”

Chapter Text

The shack smelled faintly of metal and soup. Rain hammered the roof like a distant fist. Vega forced her eyes to stay open whike Jabbar fiddled with something on the couch, his fingers moving over a small encrypted device until a weak signal bled through the static. Blue light from the screen washed their faces in the dim.

Vega watched him from the cot across from him, blanket bunched around her knees. “What’s that? A toy?” she asked. “Didn’t peg you as sentimental, former Jedi.”

“Not a toy,” he said without looking up. “Work. Maybe. If the signal holds.” He scrolled, eyes narrowing as fragments of a message assembled. Words: sky barge. Hutt brothers. Discreet. Enforcers needed.

“Hutts,” Vega said. “Messy jobs. Underpaid for the carnage involved. Why bother?”

“Credits,” he said. The word was simple, urgent. “Enough to pay off debts. Or at least part of them. The signal’s fading. He needs a reply now.”

Jabbar hesitated, thumb stalling over the pad. “I know one. Capable. Discreet. Works cheap.”

Vega’s head tilted. The sentence landed like a stone. “You mean me.”

He met her then, eyes quick with something like embarrassment. “You’re the only one I know out here. With the…necessary skills. And my last fake ID cost me half my stash.”

A dry smile pulled at Vega’s mouth. “So the noble Jedi is reduced to subcontracting a former Sith acolyte. I’ll try not to be offended.” She thumbed the blanket tighter. “What’s the cut?”

“Three spots,” he said. “Credits split three ways. Enough to pay back what I owe—maybe for you to do the same.”

She studied him. The rain, the patched roof, the small domestic competence he’d just shown—it all pressed at the edges of her suspicion. “You taking a finder’s fee?”

“I made the contact,” he replied. His voice had an edge. “I have the frequency.”

She snorted. “Fair. Call it a finder’s fee. My cut has to be worth the risk of getting involved in Hutt squabbles.”

He scrolled faster, the signal flickering. “Gorgo’s brother has one of those—Force-sensitive muscle. That’s why they want numbers. Discretion. No parades, no bright lights.”

Vega let the silence widen until it pressed on him. She thought of the roof, the leaks, the cold nights on a rooftop, the smell of ration powder. She thought of her hands and what they could do.

“Three against one,” she said finally. “Better odds than most fights I pick.”

She stood, boots scuffing the floor. “This is business. Nothing more. We do the job, split the pay, you don’t try to recruit me into a Jedi parade. Agreed?”

Jabbar’s mouth lifted into a brief, tired smile. “Agreed.”

Rain drummed on the roof. The shack, patched and brittle, held. They both listened to the sound for a moment, then turned back to the small blue glow and the plan that might buy them a different tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The cargo hold was vast, echoing with the hollow clatter of old shipments. Cold seeped bone-deep through the corrugated metal walls, sharper than any draft. A single emergency lamp flickered, stretching shadows into long, jagged shapes across dented crates. Jabbar sat hunched against the stack, blanket drawn tight around his shoulders. When the door hissed shut, sealing them in, the quiet turned absolute.

Vega emerged from the gloom a moment later. She lowered herself to the floor opposite him, robes wrapped close, braids half-hidden beneath a makeshift hood. The smugness she’d worn when they first crossed paths was gone; what remained was blunt pragmatism.

“Well,” Jabbar muttered, breath misting in the frigid air. “Cozy. Didn’t realize Gorgo was this cheap.”

“Cozy?” Her voice was brittle with cold. “Generous assessment. Seven standard hours left, isn’t it?”

“That’s the estimate.” He tugged the blanket tighter. “Assuming the pilot doesn’t detour through an asteroid field. With our luck…”

Silence stretched. The hum of the engines was steady, broken only by their shivering breaths.

“Three ration bars. One canteen.” Vega’s eyes flicked to the small pile between them. “Impressive preparation. Did you win the lottery for the blanket?”

“Found it. Better than hypothermia. You? Just Sith stubbornness?”

A twitch ghosted at her mouth, almost a smile. “Stubbornness has carried me through worse.” Her eyes lingered on his blanket. “Though I won’t deny the appeal of scavenged luxury.”

They let the quiet settle again, but this time it pressed heavier, full of memory. Both of them had once held power—armies, temples, the Force itself. Now they crouched in a frozen box, rationing nutrient paste.

“Funny,” Jabbar murmured, gaze tilted toward the ceiling. “How it turns. Once, we were… weapons. Now…”

“Now we pay the price of ambition.” Her voice was low, even. “Or the cost of choosing the wrong masters.”

Hours crawled past. Conversation came in fits, fading into silence, then starting again just to blunt the waiting. The lamp flickered erratically, washing their faces in shifting light. When Jabbar stirred, pulling the blanket tighter, his eyes went to the provisions again.

“Three bars. One canteen,” he said. “Seven hours. Unless the pilot is sightseeing.” He picked up one of the bars, rough and tasteless even in its wrapper. “One each now. Fight over the last later.”

“Pragmatic.” She leaned forward, took one. “Though I like my odds in that fight.”

They chewed in silence. The paste was dense and bland, loud in the quiet.

“You never talked about Korriban,” Jabbar said at last. “After the fall.”

“Worse than the reports,” Vega answered, distant. “Every Sith for themselves. Alliances shattering faster than spires. I learned quickly that I could rely on no one. A lesson Nashaba always preached—though her methods were less apocalyptic.”

Jabbar’s jaw tightened. She remembered (only then) that he'd had his own dealings with her former master. “The Jedi weren’t much better," he replied. "Ideals crumbled when Zakuul came. All the sermons on the Living Force didn’t stop people from dying.”

The silence that followed was heavier, rooted in the ghosts of what they’d lost.

“Did you ever think about going back?” she asked. “After Tython?”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Back to what? More confinement, more debates over methods? That Order is gone. And I don’t fit anymore. The dark side leaves a mark.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “It does. It blurs lines. Changes what you’ll do.”

He sipped water, then offered her the canteen. She took it without hesitation.

“So,” he said. “What’s left for you? Just drifting?”

“For now. Purpose is expensive. Survival pays. And who knows? Maybe another empire will rise. Maybe someone will need people like us.”

He nodded slowly. “Or maybe we’ll just keep ending up in cargo holds. Sharing rations. Sharing ghosts.”

The water passed back to him. Between them, in the flickering light, the fronts they usually wore thinned. Not gone—but softened, just enough to recognize the shape of something fragile forming in the cold.