Chapter Text
Don’t Be Shy, Don’t Be Kind
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The mild chirping and whistling of Tanalorr’s ambience was always background noise to Dagan Gera. But, today it bothers him, grates on his ears. So much so, that he’s completely missed whatever Santari is saying.
They’re both waiting outside the temple—like padawans awaiting their masters, he thinks. They both wait—her sitting primly and him pacing back and forth. They wait for the council to do what it truly does best—talk. She’s going on about how the jedi council is wise and steadfast, strong and immovable like mountains. But he never misses the witty subtle criticisms threaded in her statements. She knows he admires the way she’s so much subtler than himself. But today, he can’t quite appreciate it—something isn’t right.
She catches his hand and he turns to her like she’s the sun. They’re not exactly in a safe place to be displaying attachment—especially so literally. But her self-assured smile distracts him from that fact just enough, “you usually join in on the teasing, have you really run out of things to say about Master Rancisis?”
She does that little head tilt up at him, her smile is warm, but it does nothing to lift whatever oppressive weight he’s under. He opens his mouth to respond, he’ll at least humor her, just so she doesn’t have to feel bad. But just then, the Force around him sounds a warning, the air around them is charged with it and he’s almost afraid to turn to the source.
He almost regrets it when he does.
Above them, storm clouds roll in with supernatural speed, and on the crest of that gale are lights. Ship engine lights dot the sky, sudden and furious, in the hundreds at least. The Nihil.
It looks like an invading force, on their doorstep in a heartbeat. Something had to go wrong today, he just didn’t realize it would go this wrong.
Even with the Force screaming alarms, he can sense a thread of Santari’s fear behind him. He’d reassure her, but there’s no time. They need to scramble. He sends her away, to inform the council. He wishes it didn’t take something as severe as an attack from the Nihil for the council to react to something. To defend.
The strange storm—its lightning crackles within like it’s an angry animal that can’t wait to jump out and strike, just like the Nihil. This. This is exactly why the council should’ve listened to him about the outer rim. Now the Nihil think they deserve Tanalorr?
They’re not swarming yet. But he knows them, they know they surprised the jedi, they’ll wait just so they can pick apart any defenses they scramble to uphold.
Half their forces are back on Coruscant, half are here. They need to—
And then he notices it. Like he finally keyed into an annoying buzzing noise in the background, he spots a man to his right in his peripheral.
He looks over, expecting a fellow knight—or maybe one of the Nihil. Instead, he sees a man with shocking red hair and the scruffy air of a mercenary, thumbs hooked into his belt and everything. But the man startles when they make eye contact. How long had he been standing there? Why hadn’t Dagan noticed him before?
But then something about his presence… flickers. As if he were some hologram projection, half here and half not. But the more he focuses on him, the more it expands outward instead. Everything. All of it isn’t right, it’s like a dream he’s become aware of. “You’re not… really here,” but even as he says it, he can feel a Force presence from the stranger bloom into his awareness the longer he looks at him. A clear and steady beacon in the uncertainty around him, like light filtering through closed eyelids.
It hits him, something must have happened. He needs to wake up.
The stranger gawks at him, like Dagan is the one out of place here. He doesn’t have time for that, he needs to wake up.
The stranger’s Force presence is like a hook pulling him out of the waters of sleep, whoever this is, they need to help him. He doesn’t like it, being at the mercy of whoever this man gaping at him is, but he needs to escape this sleep, now.
He reaches a hand out to the source of wakefulness, he can feel the surface of his mind skimming awareness. The further he reaches out, the more he starts to hear a faint beeping echo unnaturally all around, like a klaxon. The stranger mirrors his movement unthinkingly—his hand reaching for Dagan’s, like he’s similarly a moth drawn to a flame.
Just the barest touch of fingertips and Tanalorr disintegrates around him, leaving only the stranger connected to him through a handprint in the nothingness. Wherever he is, he’s trapped, this person needs to understand, “release me.” Normally, begging would shame him, but his desire to be free is greater, “please.”
The stranger’s slack face holds no promise of freedom, but his green eyes hold something Dagan hopes is understanding. Then, the stranger pulls away his hand, his form disappearing with it. Darkness suffocates him, he almost panics, but the presence of the stranger still shines like a beacon, nearby. Unseen but felt, like Dagan is near the only fire left on the planet. Something in his left arm stings, and consciousness kicks him into wakefulness with the subtly of a hammer, his eyes fly open to a nebula of blue.
He breathes a harsh breath out, but instead of a gust of air, little bubbles climb up the sides of his face. A bacta tank. Why is he in a bacta tank? It doesn’t matter, though. Because, through the murk, he can make out a figure working the controls.
The bacta begins to drain and he gets a better look at his surroundings. He instantly recognizes the softly sloping sterile walls of the rehabilitation wing. Without the liquid to suspend him, on shaky legs he falls forward, barely catches himself with his arms. In his peripheral, he can see the boots of the stranger circling nearby, maybe in concern, maybe in apathetic curiosity.
That doesn’t matter. The mask is stifling, and still attached to him, he tears at it with his hand.
It doesn’t come off. That’s the moment his right shoulder sets ablaze, and—against his will—a small sound of despair is strangled in his throat when he sees the mess that is his right shoulder.
Santari. Her saber cleaved his right arm from his body, swift and deadly. He could barely make a sound, the hellish neural feedback choked him with a storm of fire consuming his right shoulder, climbing his neck. His right arm, rendered a piece of meat on the floor, made him want to scream. Darkness climbed in from the edges of his vision before he could.
Why? Just why?
The memory, a hideous thing unbidden, swells in his chest like some sick thing taking root.
Why did she—
Sudden nausea makes his neck prickle with sweat. The mask needs to come off now.
Why was it so easy for her?
He snatches at it with his left hand this time, it flies away from his face and he finally takes in gratifying lungfuls of air.
How dare she—
He breathes hard, the anger swelling in chest and leaving through his mouth in a powerful huff like he could breathe destruction if he wanted. Instead, he’s huddled on the floor, his right shoulder burning fiercely while the stranger hovers uncertainly nearby, forgotten momentarily.
He feels wild, fraying at his edges, with a shaky hand hovering protectively over his shoulder while he keeps track of the stranger’s boots in his peripheral. His howling anger, as powerful as it is, will have to wait. He feels the first prickles of uncertainty towards whoever this strange jedi or maybe-not-a-jedi is. There was no need to waste time, “who are you?” He can’t quite keep the wonder out of his voice, “I saw you.” He’d never been able to communicate with another force sensitive like that, how had he made himself so comfortable in Dagan’s mind?
The voice that answers is younger than he expects, “I’m Cal. Cal Kestis.”
It compels him to look up.
Without the bacta in the way, he can get a good look at his rescuer. He sees that the man must be in his early twenties, the light scruff—and a scar crossing from his nose all the way down to his neck—had made him look older than he really is. A spidery little droid hangs off one of his shoulders like a pet, its too-large eyes scan Dagan. And the shocking red hair is still there—more vibrant now that Dagan is seeing him properly, long in some places and short in others in a way that looks haphazard at best. Green eyes return Dagan’s stare with something strangely close to wonder. He becomes acutely aware of the way his hair is stuck about his face, the way he huddles on the floor, smaller than he really is. He decides to lean back on his heels, straightening up. It hurts his burning shoulder, but he doesn’t care.
He’s not surprised when the stranger asks, “you’re Dagan Gera?”
What is surprising is the source of the question.
“Yes. You’re… a jedi?” He asks the question in the most neutral tone he can manage, he’s clearly not a part of the Order, Dagan needs to ascertain the stranger’s motives, first and foremost.
“Yes.” The quiet answer holds much pride. Well, that answers his question. He may not be dressed as a jedi, and the droid is an oddity, but he sounds just like a dog of the Order. He looks the stranger up and down, maybe an overzealous padawan, he must be on the edge of knighthood. Although, his state of dress suggests an unusual degree of individuality, which only raises more questions.
This stranger, Cal Kestis, presumes to approach him. He kneels down in front of Dagan, it makes Dagan want to stand. Then the stranger tilts his head curiously—looks at Dagan closely, almost too closely for Dagan’s liking—dark circles under his eyes at odds with the almost childish curiosity in his face, “you’re a jedi from the old Republic?”
The old Republic?
At Dagan’s blank stare, the stranger catches himself. He smiles apologetically, “sorry, I think you were in there for a while. A lot has changed since then…”
A lot did change. The stranger is saying something, something about an empire of some kind, but Dagan only watches his lips move, doesn’t really hear him.
The council, he remembers now, the battle for Tanalorr comes back to him in violent waves, just like the onslaught of the Nihil did. He remembers. He remembers how the council was unforgivably wrong, how they dug their heels into their stuffy ways like children. They were so sorely dedicated to being ineffectual—for their careful politicking—that they would let the frontier burn because they couldn’t find the perfect plan to protect it. A salvation that would never come.
“…somehow a sith infiltrated the Order, corrupting it,” a little tinge of pain ripples through the Force from the stranger, Dagan’s eyes lift back to green ones to witness a special kind of flatness he knows can only be associated with pain, an equally flat voice says, “they destroyed the Order.”
It takes a second, but the words ring in his ears like a thermal detonator just exploded a little too close to him.
Someone destroyed the Order?
For a fleeting second, a yawning hollowness opens in his chest. An eerie silence in the Force he didn’t notice before becomes deafening, like a door just closed loudly.
But he didn’t allow it to last long, like a sudden beacon in the night, he remembers Tanalorr and the temple they built there. How long had it been? Were the compasses still out there?
It appears the man who rescued him was still speaking, he finally tunes into whatever the man was saying when his lightsaber is being held out to him, “we could fight them, together.”
He’s ashamed he didn’t notice sooner, that his saber was in the hands of another person. Dagan’s eyes follow from the stranger’s imploring green eyes down to the saber being held out like a promise in his hand.
Together? With this stranger who looked suspiciously like a vibroblade mercenary. With a little scrappy droid hanging off his shoulder like a pet?
But his lightsaber was currently in the hands of a complete stranger, so he plays along a little for time. He doesn’t know how well this stranger will take rejection, better to arm himself first.
He moves to stand, he’s surprised when his vision doesn’t nearly black out as he does so, he supposes being submerged in bacta so long completely healed the damaged tissue. But the loss of his right arm is an immediately noticeable absence. His center of balance is unwieldy now, the way it wants to list slightly to his left. He wobbles some, but—with great effort—he straightens out fast enough for his liking.
The stranger is still kneeling before him, the saber held out. When Dagan looks down at him, he sees a look in those green eyes that’s dangerously close to reverence. What a strange padawan, this stranger is. Right now, this Kestis looks much like the knights and masters that did everything short of explicitly pledging their loyalty to Dagan—to his more forward thinking ideas for the Order.
A very confused padawan, maybe? He’ll go easy on him. Strange that this man is all that’s left of the Order. Dagan could snuff out that last little bit of light left, if he felt like it. If the stranger is being honest—and Dagan hasn’t detected a hint of deception so far—then this man kneeling before him really is the last of the Order. The resounding silence from the Force confirms as much.
But it’s sad. That the last of the Order that he held dear at one point, is being held up by someone so… lacking.
It’s time he set out, to find the other compasses, at least one. From there he’d take stock of what’s left and plan accordingly. If anything, the Order getting razed to the ground could be a good thing. With such fertile soil, he could grow something better. He looks at the stranger’s open expression—his poorly suppressed wonder—he won’t repeat the past, the way this man wants him to.
He takes the proffered saber, his fingers brush the stranger’s as he does so and the Force around him livens just a little more—his saber is in his hand once more, where it belongs. An unbidden smile grows on his face with the familiar weight in his hand, he holds it aloft and activates it. The low-lighting of the room is drowned in a yellow glow, the heat bathes his face and he stares at the magnificent blade of light.
He couldn’t tell his fellow jedi this, for they were never quite on the same page in the first place, but—he’d never felt more himself than when his saber was a powerful weight in his hand, thrumming with potential. “Yes,” he says moreso to himself, “I am back,” the words escape him with quiet satisfaction, they echo in the small room, the stranger watches him silently.
Despite the familiar power in his hand—his autonomy, he left things… on a very bad note, all those years ago. He needs to fix it. He needs to salvage that idea of Tanalorr, build up that garden before someone else—like the upstart staring at him—tramples all over it. The stranger is quiet in the background. That’s okay, Dagan is done needing him anyway.
His mind is already hitting the ground running, he needs information and he needs it now. Where were the compasses? More frighteningly, were there any left?
How long has it been?
Is Santari…?
That thought needs to stop, it houses an abyss he can’t look into yet.
It’s time he get up and running. On second thought, he’s not quite done with the stranger, just a little more information.
He only stumbles a little as he moves towards the console that released him nearby. He sets the saber down and begins lazily deconstructing it, the process easy and mindless. So much so, that he can focus on questioning the stranger nearby. He shoots a sidelong glance at the wannabe jedi, he’s waiting patiently for Dagan to gather his bearings. Dagan doesn’t need the Force to detect how badly this stranger wants Dagan to answer his query. The way he watches Dagan, like he’s trying to be casual about the proposal, but he fidgets like a child—waiting for his answer. Desperation. He reeks of it.
“How long has it been?” Dagan asks, he ignores the proposal for now. He knows the upstart will come back around to it. But he also knows that the stranger will tolerate a lot from him right now, especially the way he waits—so much like a padawan waiting for their master to speak.
The younger’s voice readily answers, “about 200 years.”
The movement of his hand freezes. Floating saber parts freezing in unison.
The average human life span… is not 200 years. So… somewhere, Santari is…
His hand and face are as still as stone, but the floating parts of his saber tremble, the Force around him wavers in sympathy. For a scant moment, the saber parts are nothing but bits of metal. His crystal—a stalwart sentinel’s yellow, is just a rock.
But then, the stranger’s Force presence blooms outward—curious—and the moment passes. That sharp feeling, that threatens to take his breath and more away, he locks it inside himself. Away from the stranger’s curiosity. He resumes the maintenance, casting a sidelong glance at the jedi. It was… deemed inappropriate for another jedi’s Force presence to be so… forward like that.
Not exactly a poster boy for the Order, Dagan thinks. Funny that someone so ill-suited would be the only one left to keep the flame of the Order alive.
“What happened on Tanalorr? How did you get here?” The mention of Tanalorr startles him into looking up at the stranger. He never mentioned—oh, that’s right. His awareness sharpens towards the stranger—Kestis, he invaded Dagan’s dream somehow. They’ve never even met, how could his Force presence be so attuned to understanding Dagan’s so quickly?
The question puts him on edge—that’s too much information for a complete stranger to have. Even worse with how Kestis proclaims to align himself with the Order. But it’s better if he doesn’t overreact, better to let the conversation play out for him to gauge Kestis’s own interests. It’s possible Kestis is oblivious to what Tanalorr is, but Dagan can’t be certain. He considers the jedi silently for a moment. His fatigued green eyes are openly curious as he watches Dagan, his hands rest on his belt like they’re having a nice conversation. The little droid on his shoulder tilts its large head at him, almost in unison with its owner. What an odd pair.
He’s so unlike the Order he reveres. And doesn’t even know it. Dagan can be subtle, Santari probably would disagree—he dashes the thought of her as soon as it occurs—it might be fun to shed some light for the would-be jedi, maybe it’ll coax a little information out of him.
“We were invaded…” he recounts the story of Tanalorr’s invasion, one of the weakest moments the Order has ever known—whether the useless bureaucrats of the Order realized it or not. The more he speaks the harder it gets to control his traitor of a voice. His voice trembles slightly as he retells the Order’s betrayal—not with sadness, but with some unfathomably deep well of anger. Like a ball rolling down a hill, it almost gets away from him but then—
“They just abandoned it?” something is precious about the way the jedi says it. When Dagan looks up, his expression holds a casual sympathy that no disciplined jedi should be capable of. But is it innocence? Or self-interest?
Either way, Kestis is just a wrinkle in the plan as of yet, Dagan had no intentions of including him in any machinations for Tanalorr—especially if he’s taken it upon himself to carry the banner of the Order. But what a perfect opportunity to reveal the Order’s true nature, to the last of the Order. “Yes. The council was always terrified of being strong,” disdain threads into his voice unbidden and he stares hard at his saber, “in the end, they were no defenders at all.”
For the first time, the jedi frowns, brows furrowed in suspicion, “what? No. They must’ve wanted to regroup, they must’ve had a reason.”
Ah, there’s the other shoe Dagan knew was there. Sad, that’s he’s choosing to be a zealot for an Order that crumbled under its own weight. Dagan chuckles without any mirth and the jedi stills in his peripheral, “regroup, retreat, conserving resources,” his saber’s parts snap together quickly with a resounding click that rings in his ears.
The beautiful metal floats into his hand and he admires it, “you can call it whatever you want.” He faces the jedi more fully now, stretches out his muscles a little more and flexes his left wrist, he looks up to that youthful face—staring back at him a little more uncertainly now, “I know what it was,” the anger in him comingles with the joy he gets—shattering the image of the Order—the two emotions twist around each other in him until he can’t tell them apart.
He rolls his left shoulder some, it needs to be good for him now—seeing as how it has to be the dominant sword arm from now on. He side eyes the jedi staring dubiously at him now, he quietly informs him—drips a little more truth into his mind, “it was failure,” the jedi—standing uncertainly in front of him—has done nothing but prove him right, “and it was a premonition, it seems.”
For the first time, the stranger’s face twists, in childish disbelief, judging by his next words, “retreating isn’t failure, it’s—”
“They weren’t retreating,” his words freeze the jedi, “it was an act of sabotage, childish self-destruction.” He paces back and forth, the stillness bothers him and he needs to shake off the rust—the jedi’s green eyes are turning more keen by the second, “they were spiting me. They saw the perfect opportunity to abandon Tanalorr, and took it.”
Kestis’s mouth hangs open, a little dumbly, before he responds, “that can’t be why. Look, you’ve been through a lot, maybe—"
“What is your rank in the Order, anyway?” Dagan’s voice drips with contempt, he doesn’t bother correcting it. Pity is the last thing he needs to hear.
For the first time, the jedi hesitates, “I’m… a knight.” Dagan can see it in his peripheral, maybe this jedi doesn’t realize he’s doing it—but his hand migrates a little closer to his saber’s hilt.
A little slow on the uptake, Dagan thinks, but at least he got the point eventually.
He looks the stranger over with an openly shrewd gaze now. This is what’s left of the Order? Who is this wannabe jedi, calling himself a knight and carrying the flame alone?
Dagan needs to ensure the safety of Tanalorr’s potential, he doesn’t need a sycophant of the Order repeating the Code like a droid.
It’s unnecessary, he knows this hilt like the back of his hand, but he plays with the weight a little, like he needs the warm-up. His left hand was never his dominant hand though, that is… a very unfortunate setback. He’s sure it’ll sting more later, but he’s determined to minimize the weakness there as much as possible. He stretches his left wrist a little, twirls the hilt around in his left hand. He frowns thoughtfully, mentally shrugging off the void that is his right arm, it’s a good thing he always put such an emphasis on having a strong offhand, he’s really going to need it now.
Dagan rolls his shoulders, that first little bit of adrenaline courses through his veins. The Force around comes alive, its whirlwind of potential slowly gathers around as he paces. He holds his newly reassembled saber more securely in his left hand, thumb close to the switch.
The stranger’s expression isn’t so hopeful anymore, it’s something closer to a flat look Dagan recognizes as apprehension. The jedi goes still, only his eyes move to track Dagan’s impatient movements.
The jedi holds his hands out slightly in surrender, his voice is condescending, “you must be angry—confused, it’s been a long time. But whatever happened in the past is over now.”
Dagan halts his movements, “is it?” He tilts his head at the stranger, “your Order betrayed me. Imprisoned me here and now you—“ he points his hilt at Kestis accusingly, the jedi startles backwards with a gasp, “you’re scavenging around for Tanalorr, after my brethren and I defended it to the last.”
Wide green eyes return Dagan’s accusing stare with coy innocence. His hands are out in a gesture of peace but his feet are squared, Kestis finally raises his voice, “I’m not here to steal anything from you. I’m just following a lead, we found you by accident!”
There it is. Something in Dagan purrs with satisfaction, now Dagan just needs to know who or what led this jedi to him. His voice is controlled when he asks, “what lead? Who led you here?”
The jedi’s face goes impressively pale as he stills completely. His eyes become wild with the realization of his blunder.
Subtlety went out the window a long time ago, Dagan squares his shoulders and tightens his grip on the saber. He takes a step towards the jedi, the jedi mirrors a step backwards.
All pretenses are gone between them, the jedi’s hand is blatantly hovering near his saber now. His other hand held out placatingly, like Dagan is an animal about to maul him.
He begins to circle around the jedi threateningly, just to watch him tense. His fellow jedi would attest—Dagan knows better than most how to put the opponent on their back foot. And something more dangerous enters the jedi’s eyes as he does so. Green eyes turn flat and hard—his faux-innocence extinguished.
Dagan’s voice is gentle, “who told you?”
The steel-faced jedi moves his hand to his hilt as a response.
Dagan circles a little closer, and the Force is positively alive around them, “you can tell me,” he says faux-casually, “or I can just find out.”
The first little flickers of fear squirm in the Force, but the jedi’s face gives nothing away.
His jaw is tight as he holds Dagan’s stare, but his brows furrow up a little helplessly, “we don’t have to do this—"
It’s not an answer, so Dagan doesn’t let him finish. He goes for speed, not power, with an easy to deflect swing at the jedi’s sword arm. Predictably, the jedi just barely ignites an indigo blade in time, in an awkward reverse grip to block the swing.
Kestis is quick to retreat, Dagan lets him. The jedi quickly corrects his grip to a typical single blade stance in a smooth motion. He settles into Shii-Cho and Dagan quirks an eyebrow at him, he would have expected something more advanced from a self-proclaimed knight.
But it doesn’t really matter, he’s quick to close the distance with a low strike—just to test Kestis’s defenses. The blow is met easily and Dagan takes the opportunity to batter the jedi’s defense some more. It’s better if he keeps himself on the offensive, having only one hand for blocking is a highly visible weakness.
And the Force is practically on his side, it wells up within him readily despite his weakened condition. The rhythm of duelling returns to him like it never left, his saber twirls in his hand between strikes—changing the angle so fast he can see Kestis’s blocks becoming sloppy. It only makes his strikes become wilder, testing every area of Kestis’s defense to see where his reactions are slowest.
He’s rewarded when a vicious upwards swing jars Kestis enough to make him stumble backwards with a surprised grunt. Without thinking, he thrusts his right arm forward to push the jedi hard into the nearest window—it burns his stump of a shoulder and he’s surprised when the Force answers his call as well as it does. Kestis is sent flying, he hits the window hard, a little harder than Dagan intended and cracks spider outwards from the impact. Somehow the little droid survives—strange, that it’s still not obvious what its role is yet.
Dagan could slow this duel down—be more careful about the missing arm. But Kestis’s weakened defense puts blood in the water, and Dagan isn’t one to miss an opportunity. The more he weakens him, the easier and less dangerous it’ll be to subdue him and interrogate him. He doesn’t intend to kill him—although, to the red-haired jedi, it probably doesn’t feel that way right now.
He’s never felt remorse, pushing the advantage, he won’t bother now. He flies forward before Kestis can get himself standing where he’s slumped against the window, leaping through the air with a downward swing towards the jedi’s prone form. He can hear the jedi curse in shock—wide eyes foggy with disorientation—as he brings up his indigo blade desperately with two hands to block the strike. The mysterious droid cowers under the jedi—its purpose still unknown, Dagan quickly makes a mental note to deal with it next.
Like this, even with only one hand, Dagan can bear his weight down easily on the jedi’s defense. He starts to shift the blade down, to disarm, and Kestis scrambles his feet to get up in response. But Dagan doesn’t let him, he brings the Force down on his hilt—as if his right hand were there. It takes effort, but he grunts out, “you should consider telling me what I want to know.”
Kestis is pushed down the wall, towards the ground, a little further and Dagan sees the first little sparks of panic in the jedi’s eyes. In only a scant second, he acutely senses Kestis siphoning energy from the Force—he knows what’s coming but he can’t brace fast enough—before Kestis risks throwing out a quick hand to push Dagan back with an angry yell. The push hits him with surprising force for one sent out so fast, and he twists through the air as he’s sent backwards. He lands badly and it jars his ankles, but he lands on his feet.
In that time, Kestis has scrambled up desperately by the time Dagan recovers. His eyes are wild—his expression a little shell-shocked as he watches Dagan warily. His limbs are closer to him, less relaxed now with a defensive line to his body in his cautious steps towards Dagan’s more relaxed posture. Maybe he thought Dagan would be easy, with the lack of his right arm. Dagan feels a mean smirk pull at his mouth, at the thought. He’s always happy to prove people wrong.
Kestis makes no attempts at platitudes or surrender now. But there’s a hesitation in him now, a refusal to attack first now that his back has hit the ground.
Mentally, he’s right where Dagan wants him. And Dagan could press forward, continue an onslaught of vicious strikes. But duelling is about more than strength and speed, and Dagan has always favored an element of randomness. He advances towards Kestis plainly, but instead of attacking directly, he pulls Kestis towards him with a weak tug of the Force.
The jedi stumbles forward with a surprised yelp, Dagan’s blade is ready to greet him with a strike aimed at his left side—to draw his attention away from where the droid is—and Kestis meets the blow clumsily but he recovers fast enough. Finally, Dagan gets some resistance from Kestis, and there’s a strength in the animalistic edge that’s entered his eyes, it makes him faster—there’s a mean edge in how he meets every strike Dagan lands on his blade. But it also makes him careless and self-concerned—afraid.
Kestis tries to go on the offensive, endearingly, he tries to parry one of Dagan’s strikes. He catches Dagan’s yellow blade with own indigo and tries to twist open Dagan’s angle of attack. It’s a good attempt, but Dagan only has to twist his blade around some to regain control. He forces the jedi’s blade down—then he twirls with the momentum and delivers a spinning kick to the jedi’s open side.
The jedi stumbles away with it and Dagan feels a tightly restrained burst of anger wash over him. It was a shy thing, but Dagan felt it. He tilts his head at the jedi bemusedly, his new sword arm relaxed while he circles him lazily and the jedi looks up at him with an angry slant to his brows—fumbling to gather his wits in the sparse moments of pause. The droid on his back cowering from its place on his right shoulder. Right, Dagan needs to take care of that.
Now that Kestis is on the back foot properly, it was time to let him expend himself. Dagan holds his sword arm out wide in invitation, tauntingly with an annoying smile to match.
Disappointingly, Kestis takes in an angry little breath to exhale something more calm. The little streaks of anger in the Force dissipate with it.
That’s a shame. He almost had Kestis hook, line, and sinker.
Then the jedi opens his mouth to say something and Dagan is disciplined enough to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Right, it was time to up the ante anyway.
Kestis is in the middle of saying something—to his credit, he does sound sincere about it—but Dagan isn’t paying attention. He only has eyes for the little spidery scrap metal on Kestis’s shoulder. Its purpose is unknown, which is exactly why it needs to go.
While Kestis is distracted by his own sickly sweet sympathy, Dagan sneaks an easy grasp of the Force—not too powerful otherwise it would attract attention—past Kestis’s presence. He’s not so cruel as to crush it, instead he scoops up the flailing thing easily. Before Kestis even realizes what’s happening, he’s flinging it out the cracked window—the glass shatters finally—and the scrap metal’s beeps rapidly grow further away.
He's surprised when Kestis whips around to reach for the silly thing with a shocked yell, “Beedee!”
His guard completely lowered by own childish shock.
If Dagan were a sith, the fight would’ve ended right here, with Kestis’s heart getting skewered.
When Kestis looks back over to him, it’s with a dangerously flat look. If he had hackles, they’d be raised with how tight his shoulders look. Dagan doesn’t bother hiding the mean smile that crosses his face. Dagan definitely doesn’t need the Force to know what’s going to happen next.
He only gets one warning but it’s loud and clear, the jedi’s lip curls and Dagan is already tensing for the furious slash that comes his way. He almost regrets deciding to block instead of dodge though, when Kestis strikes at him with a surprisingly powerful spin of his blade. The shock of the blow jars his wrist on its way up his arm. It takes more effort than he likes to swiftly block the follow-up attacks—Kestis chains one attack to the next with wicked efficiency, their sabers an indistinguishable blur of indigo and yellow.
This was always the dangerous part of the gambit, cornering the opponent. Now Dagan just needs Kestis to exhaust his energy.
But Kestis isn’t giving him time to breathe in his whirlwind. The ferocity reaches a fever pitch—a mean upwards slash almost breaks his guard and Dagan grunts with the effort to push the blade to the side. And Kestis pulls his sword arm back for another swing without pause, a knowing hunger in his eyes.
Dagan won’t allow him the satisfaction—he pushes Kestis back with the Force just before Kestis can swing. But the jedi takes it better than Dagan expects, rolling backwards smoothly into a crouch—far too close.
The hairs on Dagan’s neck raise. Something isn’t right—the air becomes suffused with so much danger he’s drowning in it—
And not even a breath goes by, and from his crouched position, the jedi is already leaping at him with a snarl.
That’s when Kestis splits his saber in two mid leap, and it takes everything Dagan has to catch both blades with his one. The shock travels up his arm like hell and makes him wince. And the jedi isn’t even fazed by the block, he’s already moving his blades to disarm Dagan. His face is dangerously calm, just a furrowed brow and tight jaw to give away his effort.
That explains why the hilt is so long for a single blade. He notes with some irritation that he really should’ve noticed that sooner. A battle of attrition might be more dangerous than he thought. His own energy isn’t endless.
He grunts with the effort, but he redirects the jedi’s blades away. He doesn’t give Kestis time to breathe either, he strikes at him with easy strikes to give him a false sense of security. Dagan has danced this dance with another dual-wielder many times. Funnily enough, his offhand being his only weapon was a double-edged sword in this case. It wasn’t just awkward for him, it was awkward for Kestis too—seeing as how most of his opponents were probably right-handed and it shows in his reaction time.
They trade blows and Kestis meets him easily enough, his movements confident. Dagan grits his teeth, despite the confidence Dagan is willing to bet it’s more fragile than it looks. It was time to break it.
He strikes at Kestis with an easy low swing. Kestis meets it but then Dagan breaks away fast—faster than Kestis has seen him so far—his wide eyes tracking Dagan in surprise. He feints high with a sudden vicious downward swing like he’s aiming to kill this time—it scares Kestis into lifting his guard to meet it—then Dagan sends his own blade flying away to circle nearby. Kestis stumbles with the force of his own defense as their blades miss each other. Dagan wastes no time sending a healthy force-powered kick right into Kestis’s midsection. He almost feels pity for the way Kestis makes a choking sound—his body bowing with the force of the kick—before he’s sent skidding across the floor.
Dagan doesn’t give him time to think—wouldn’t be a good duellist if he did. He curls the Force around Kestis’s sword hand and slams it hard into the floor, Kestis lets go reflexively with a choked yell and Dagan’s already sending the blade skittering away with a push of the Force. Kestis reaches for it, but not before Dagan kneeled down to plant a knee on his chest, fisting a hand in the jedi’s hair and commanding, “look at me!”
Shocked green eyes snap to him, reflexively. And, with ease, Dagan calls upon the subtler side of the Force—and he throws open a door into the jedi’s mind with it.
He barely makes any progress and Kestis’s face screws up—he secures one hand on Dagan’s wrist before taking an errant swing at him with the other. Dagan could read the intention in Kestis’s mind far before his hand even curled into a fist, he practically announced his plan beforehand with Dagan inside his mind like this. The punch barely makes it through the air before Dagan makes the jedi go limp with an easy suggestion to his nervous system.
But Dagan has no desire to hurt the knight underneath him, especially considering some of the more horrifying consequences of improper mental manipulation. And his mental abilities were always precise, so it’s not hard for him to avoid causing damage. He tilts his head at the bewildered jedi, “now, let’s see…”
He delves into the jedi’s mind, skimming carefully for recent memories. And it’s easy. Shockingly easy to do so. He takes a second to wonder how this jedi lacked one of the most basic defensive techniques every jedi knight knows.
The jedi’s stillness is at complete odds with how his Force presence trembles with anger—anger layered over a budding fear. He bats aside the jedi’s defenses easily enough. And he starts catching snippets of conversation, faces blurring by, but none of these moments have any significant emotional anchor—nothing to suggest something important was happening.
He touches upon a moment, clearer than the rest. And he sees through Kestis’s eyes, and he’s falling—arms outstretched for the silly droid falling with him. The memory blurs forward and he’s kneeling down to skim his hands over black sand swirled in strange patterns.
A meditation chamber.
That’s when Dagan hears the knight’s breathing become frantic. His defenses springing up for one last push at Dagan’s presence.
It’s a shining beacon telling Dagan he’s on the right track.
He’s not unkind as he pushes Kestis’s defenses to the side—Kestis is liable to hurt himself at this rate, it is so apparent no one taught him how to defend himself against this kind of attack that Dagan almost feels some remorse for taking him down so completely.
He continues to carefully skim until he sees more flashes. He’s Kestis again, and he’s standing in some kind of grandiose chamber, he looks down into an unfathomably deep drop—a cautious foot taps the bridge of dust he’s to cross. Kestis disintegrates the memory around him and Dagan knows he’s close to the answer. He needs to be fast, he can’t restrain the jedi and safely search his mind much longer. He just needs a little more information. Memories race by incomprehensibly, until he catches… the glare of a metal chassis. It’s a blur, but he sees it. A droid. Specifically, one of Santari’s he notes with a frown.
The image is snatched away clumsily, but Dagan has his lead so he retreats from the jedi’s mind.
He notes with mild concern that one of Kestis’s fingers twitches on the hand by his head. “Don’t… hurt her,” Kestis’s voice is foggy, but there’s an unmistakable anger fighting to get to the top.
Dagan almost scoffs, “stop overreacting,” Kestis’s eyes widen comically in disbelief but Dagan doesn’t care, “no one’s going to get hurt,” probably he doesn’t add, “I just needed somewhere to start.”
Kestis’s voice is strained, like the words are painful, “we’re on the same side.”
Dagan considers him for a moment, Kestis’s eyes dart back and forth—trying to read his. They don’t hold an ounce of deception or malice—as far as Dagan can tell. Dagan feels a little sorry for him—confused zealot that he is. He could try—to convince Kestis that the Order is gone, but Dagan doesn’t truly know him or his interests. And he’s been out for 200 years now, he needed to hit the ground running.
He doesn’t need to spill anymore jedi blood, seeing as how most of it is gone. So, he needs to make something abundantly clear. “Listen to me,” his voice carried a quiet authority that even this wannabe jedi can feel, “I thank you for releasing me.” The jedi manages to squirm a little in his hold, but not much given his state, there's a raw desperation in his eyes that irritates Dagan to look at. “But you’re just a dog for a dead Order,” incidentally, his hand tightens in the jedi’s hair, causing him to wince.
He's not ungrateful, so he eases his hold, just a little, “you don't know the first thing about the Order."
The confused knitted eyebrows on Kestis’s face are starting to look permanent, he opens his mouth to say something. It probably would have been some impassioned plea, but Dagan doesn’t hear it—he’s already throwing a blanket of sleep over the jedi’s mind. The jedi’s words trail off and his eyes flutter closed.
Dagan was doing him a favor, more than anything. He should move on from the Order, Dagan already has. Dagan lets him go, moving to stand. His saber—which had been floating on a current around him—returns to his outstretched hand.
He spares one last look of pity for the unconscious jedi, and takes his leave.
The forest array looks different than he remembers, but he’s certain he’ll find his way.
_____
It’s not peaceful, the way he wakes up. His arm is jostled, over and over until his head swings to the side. It makes the room spin unforgivingly, rudely dragging him towards wakefulness. Pain everywhere—especially in his back—blossoms with his growing awareness, he groans a little miserably.
He hears a beeping sound and it’s like something kickstarts in his brain. The duel, he duelled—
He bolts awake completely and Beedee tumbles off his shoulder. He can hardly see straight—everything a little out of focus—but he turns to reach for the droid, “Beedee? Beedee, are you okay?”
He leans over the small droid, checking for any serious injuries, enormous eyes stare up at him as he does so. Beedee trills shrilly and Cal finally pauses to pay attention to him.
“Oh, okay. Good,” he sighs deeply, “good, just making sure. You went flying without wings, buddy.”
Beedee balances on one foot, activates the thrusters a little as a demonstration for Cal.
“Yeah, yeah. I see that,” he grumbles, then he pulls Beedee to his chest despite the droid’s protests. But Beedee stays still, while Cal holds him close. Centers himself with a deep breath.
When the knot between his shoulder blades finally loosens some he sets the droid down on his lap, Beedee’s scanners watch him closely. “So that was… something.”
Beedee beeps flatly in agreement.
He works his shoulder a little broodily, “could barely get off the defensive…” But it was magnificent to see it—the bladework. It almost made the inquisitors seem clumsy by comparison. But everything went by too fast—he was barely thinking, just reacting. He moves to stand—the pain everywhere pings vindictively—and Beedee hops off his lap, hale and healthy.
He barely got to know him, a fully-fledged jedi from their time of strength and prosperity. And now he was out there, oblivious to the Empire’s enormous shadow.
He rolls his shoulders, works out the kinks in his joints before calling his saber to his hand. It smacks against his palm, safe and sound once more—he was never going to let his guard slip around his sword hand again.
He looks down at Beedee, “we need to find him.” He fully expects it when Beedee shrills in disagreement, but his mind is made up. A little bit of that edge he’s obtained in the last few years enters his voice, “we need to find him before he finds Zee. And before the Empire finds him.”
At that Beedee goes quiet, his scanners shifting contemplatively.
Dagan Gera either getting killed or turned by the Inquisitorius is the last thing they need.
He kneels down, holds his arm out to Beedee—just to make the jump a little easier in case Beedee is somehow hurt.
Beedee makes a little disapproving sound but hops on his shoulder readily anyway. Cal straightens up, turns his head a little to regard Beedee, “Beedee?”
The droid trills curiously.
“Next time we see him,” Beedee beeps lowly in disapproval but he lets Cal continue, “I might have to keep you safe, okay?” He lets the silence—the implication—speak for him. When Beedee doesn’t say anything, Cal adds, “just trust me, okay?”
And Cal hears the poutiest—probably the brattiest—beep of begrudging agreement he’s ever heard from Beedee, he digs his little claws into Cal’s shoulder in warning. A little smile fights its way onto Cal’s face and Beedee digs in a little harder just to make him wince.
He starts making his way out of the facility—to head back to Pyloon’s Saloon and regroup when Beedee beeps at him inquisitively, intending to interrogate him the whole way it seems.
Cal shrugs a little, “how hard can it be to find a half-naked one-armed guy on this rock?”
Beedee disrespectfully disagrees with a series of beeps.
“It’s not that weird here.”
A short trill follows that.
“Turgle doesn’t count.”
He gets outside and his pace quickens, he has so much to tell Greez when he gets back.