My second day on Concord Dawn was coming to an end, and so far this trip had given me nothing but unforgettable impressions. The only thing worse would've been poisonous swamps — Miyazaki save me from that. At this point I supported Anakin's hatred of sand even more (considering I originally appeared in this universe on Tatooine), and if anyone ever mocks him for that speech in my presence, I'll personally smack the smart‑mouth.
And all because we crashed basically in the middle of a desert. From orbit it looked small, but on foot you'd walk yourself to death.
"Well, at least there aren't any giant worms reacting to ground vibrations, or I'd definitely die here," I reassured myself, remembering that mission from Jedi Academy where the protagonist had to parkour across ship wreckage.
Kem trudged behind me in silence, no longer even grumbling — saving his strength. Speaking of the Force: since I draw on emotions, if that Jedi had shown up in his ship and tried to shoot me, I'm pretty sure I'd have had enough fire in me to slam him into the nearest cliff at full speed…
Or maybe the sun had cooked my brain.
But in theory, yes. It's not a Star Destroyer. The main thing is that he doesn't get a couple of shots off before I twist his ship around. And what else could I do? There's no cover out here — if it comes to it, I'll have to take the risk.
Right at that moment, while I was lost in such practical thoughts, a low hum sounded behind us. Familiar. It took me a moment to realize someone was approaching on a speeder. I turned and squinted through the shimmering heat haze — a cloud of dust was slowly closing in.
I prepared for a fight, but judging by the feeling, it wasn't anyone dangerous. More like a regular local — definitely not a Jedi — but I stayed alert. Palpatine hid under the Council's nose for years, after all.
Soon the glider became clearer, and I saw an ordinary-looking middle‑aged man with short black hair and sun‑darkened skin. A blaster hung at his belt, but he didn't seem aggressive.
If I hadn't nudged his mind with a bit of the Force, he probably would've driven around us in a wide arc. Instead, he stopped, frowned, and peered at my helmet.
"You the owners of that crashed ship?" he asked. Judging by the parts in his trailer — droid components and other useful junk — he'd already flown over there and scavenged whatever we didn't need.
"Yes. I'm not asking for compensation — if you found something useful, keep it. But as a small favor, could you give us a ride to a more populated area?"
I added a touch of the Force to my voice. He blinked twice, nodded, and waved toward the half‑empty trailer.
We didn't need to be asked twice. Soon I was blissfully stretching my legs, letting the suit's life‑support system finally run at full power — I'd be able to recharge it soon anyway, so no point conserving energy.
The speeder shot forward, kicking up spirals of dust behind us. Our rescuer tapped nervously on the handlebars, as if already doubting his decision to pick us up.
"Tark. You can call me Tark," he muttered at last, glancing at the silent Kem. With his massive arms crossed, Kem looked like a statue of some ancient war god.
"Is he even alive?" Tark asked with a strange chuckle, not bothering to ask our names.
"More alive than most," I said, patting Kem's armored shoulder. He growled something about torn limbs.
"Don't mind him. He's a misanthrope. Prefers people in kebab format. You can call me Brut, by the way."
Tark snorted, unexpectedly relaxing. The speeder surged ahead, engines sparking under the strain. I leaned back against the warm metal of the trailer, watching the crimson sun sink into the shimmering horizon.
"So you're mercenaries, then? Must've run into someone tougher…" Tark said, swerving around a crack in the ground — more like a small canyon whose bottom wasn't visible.
"Mercenaries?" I smirked but didn't correct him, giving my helmet a smack as it started glitching again.
Whether it was the Force helping or just luck, the old grandfather method worked — one good slap, and the suit started cooling the oven‑hot air inside the helmet again.
"I prefer the term 'adventurers,'" I said, tilting my head back.
"So you rob the ones who robbed others," Tark chuckled, pulling a flask from his cloak.
"Drink. Won't poison you. I owe you anyway — the stuff I took from your wreck is worth a lot. I'm a simple man, don't need trouble, but I know what gratitude is. Since you're giving it up, at least let me feed you dinner. You won't refuse?"
Listening to his chatter, I unsealed my helmet and took a sip. A second later my throat burned like I'd swallowed acid, reminding me of Windu's lightsaber wound.
Kem snorted at my expression, pointing a clawed finger toward the horizon where the silhouettes of drenchstone drills — massive mining rigs from the Mandalorian Wars — loomed.
"There's your 'backwater,'" I said, returning the flask and pointing at the farm domes appearing in the distance.
"Pretty, sure, but where's the entertainment? Gladiator fights? Black‑market tech bazaars?" The moonshine hit hard, lifting my mood enough to tease our unexpected helper.
"Entertainment?" Tark laughed hoarsely, then added in a deadly serious tone:
"My wife has been learning the Sekrel saga on her flute for three years. Welcome to hell."
"…," I had no comeback for that.
Soon we reached a small homestead. The desert had ended, but the heat remained, feeding the lush crops we'd been passing for the last half hour. The house reminded me of Tatooine's sand dwellings, but with a different style and far more tech.
A woman with bright, hyperspace‑blue eyes greeted us at the door. Behind her waddled a nanny‑droid with oil stains on its chassis, carrying a swaddled infant.
"Leini," she introduced herself, studying Kem like some exotic beast.
"And this is our Torbi. He came out to meet his father."
I suddenly felt awkward. Aside from nudging Tark's mind earlier, were these people really so carefree that they welcomed random armored mercenaries into their home?
Still, as promised, Tark invited us in for dinner. Kem refused, chewing on some ration bar in the corner, clearly lost in his own thoughts.
On the table steamed a stew made from some local tuber — tasted like… I don't even know. Something like a regular soup, but with a pleasant tang.
As we ate, Tark talked about life on Concord Dawn, until the conversation finally touched on what I'd come here for.
"Death Watch?" I pushed the bowl aside, noticing Leini's hands tremble.
"I heard they're not the friendliest bunch, but they should be more loyal to you — descendants of Mandalorians."
Tark nodded grimly and pulled out a holoprojector. A map flickered above the table, marked near the Rotten Mines.
"A week ago they burned down a smuggler settlement. Rumor is they had a contract with someone from the Republic. Good folks, shame about them — they sold everything the locals needed for decent prices," he said reluctantly.
"And you've dealt with Death Watch personally?" I pressed on.
Leini suddenly stood up and carried the sleeping Torbi away. Tark stared at his shaking hands for a long time before speaking:
"They killed my brother. For hiding a wounded Twi'lek. His helmet… his helmet hangs at the entrance to the canyon near their hideout. You understand… I'm no mercenary, never was. But he…"
"I'm sorry… I didn't know."
I used the Force to calm him as best I could, then asked if we could stay the night.
Tark, slightly steadier now, nodded and showed me and Kem the guest room — surprisingly, they even had one.
Lying by the window, I stared at the distant stars when the night breeze carried the scent of unfamiliar flowers and the sound of an accordion. Leini was playing something old and beautiful in the garden, as if trying to charm away the darkness around the house. A good lullaby…
I smirked, imagining how tomorrow I'd haggle for the old starfighter in Tark's hangar — I'd spotted it earlier.
And also… I really needed to find a teacher.
Or become one.
Those thoughts drifted through my mind as I finally fell asleep.
XXXXXX
I woke to the smell of burning even before the fire alarm — the kind every farm is required to install — began to howl. The Force clenched my temples with icy fingers, dragging me out of sleep like a long‑forgotten but no less hated shout of "up and out, soldiers!"
Outside the window, where last night a nebula shimmered, crimson reflections now flickered.
"Kem!" I kicked the door open, already feeling someone else's rage through the walls — sharp and rancid, like burnt oil. "Get the family into the cellar. Now."
The dashiade, who'd been sleeping sitting upright near the exit, made a sound like an ion cannon charging. From downstairs came a shrill note from Leini's flute — or whatever that thing was — cut off mid‑melody.
The farmyard looked like a scene from a bandit movie — the kind where raiders finally get their hands on someone else's property. Three mercenaries in battered Mandalorian helmets with Death Watch tridents on their pauldrons were dragging Leini toward a truck. Tark lay nearby, unconscious, blood running from a split brow.
"Hey! You there!" I shouted, jumping off the porch. My fingers were already itching for a discharge. The Force roared inside me, slamming into my skull like boiling tar.
"This is private property. You boys should leave while you still can," I said with deliberate provocation, while Kem stepped out behind me, muttering something unfriendly.
The leader turned, snorted:
"Oh look, the clown showed up!" He kicked the fallen flute aside and drew a vibroblade.
"You with them? With this scum that hides traitors? Some no‑name mercenary, pfft…" he taunted, spinning the knife in his hand in a pathetic attempt to intimidate me.
The first bolt of lightning escaped on its own — violet, tearing the air with a crack. It struck the nearest thug's arm, turning his blaster into molten slag. The second strike I sent into the ground, kicking up a cloud of fused dust and smoke.
"Jedi?!" the leader screamed, voice cracking with rage, hurling his blade at me.
"Worse," I hissed, catching the weapon mid‑air with the Force. The blade shattered with a sharp crack into hundreds of fragments, hanging suspended around us.
"I'm the one Count Dooku pays for results. And I will get them."
His name hit them like a stun baton. The thugs froze. I used the pause — clenched my fingers, weaving lightning into a net between their helmets. A powerful shock dropped them all, leaving only the leader conscious.
"Tell Vizsla — or whoever's in charge —" I lifted him by the throat with the Force, feeling his pulse hammering in sync with my anger, "that the Count's envoy is waiting at Tark's farm."
After holding him there a few seconds, I let go. He hit the ground, scrambled upright, and blasted off with his jetpack.
Tark, leaning on Kem, wiped blood from his face. Leini clutched Torbi to her chest — the child cried, reaching toward the mangled flute. I did what I could to calm them with the Force, and it seemed to work. I helped clean up the mess and tied up the unconscious thugs the Mandalorian had left behind.
Honestly, I expected more from these "warriors." Maybe I'd subconsciously nudged their minds again, slowing their reaction… or something like that. Hard to say.
By the time the sky began to lighten, three gunships with Death Watch insignia — a black trident on a blood‑red field — descended and hovered over the farm, whipping up spirals of ash. I sat on the roof, flexing my fingers. The Force still hummed in my bones like an overheated engine.
Kem stood below, blocking the cellar door where Tark's family hid. Convincing him to help "guard" the hosts had cost me a lot, and now I owed him — but he agreed, and I knew he wouldn't break his word. His armor was scorched from previous battles, but his gaze… that gaze remembered times when mercenaries — Mandalorians included — trembled at the sight of him.
"You sure you want to play in their sandbox?" he grumbled as the first soldiers in rusted armor began surrounding the house.
"These pups don't even know how to wear their helmets right," he added, missing the irony — he was always the first to rip off whatever was on his head in a fight.
"What choice do we have? Orders are orders." I jumped down, adjusting my cloak.
"Dooku wants an alliance. We'll give him one. And after that… well, that's another story," I said through the vocoder.
XXXXXXXX
The flight was surprisingly short. We arrived at a place called Gargoyle Canyon — a jagged wound carved into the planet. The walls inside were decorated with dozens of helmets, clearly hammered in along with the heads that once wore them.
Vizsla waited in a tech‑reinforced cavern adorned with banners of ancient clans. His armor gleamed like a black sun, and though his visor hid his expression, something about him radiated cold, lethal danger. If we fought, it wouldn't be easy — but I didn't feel true threat from him. He couldn't kill me.
"The Count's envoy," the Death Watch leader lounged on a throne made of bone and plastasteel, tossing a clearly trophy lightsaber hilt in his hand.
"An entire squad lost all electronics in their armor because of your lightning. Next time, try to be less… destructive toward those you want as allies," he said, voice cold, but with unmistakable mockery beneath it.
I laughed. Genuinely. The Force caught the sound, echoing it through the cavern until the torches flickered from the gusts. Vizsla tensed — a good sign.
"That squad of 'warriors' suffered such 'terrible' losses because your pups can't tell a CIS envoy from a jawa!" I stepped forward, letting lightning crawl across my fingertips.
"Dooku isn't offering slavery, Vizsla. He's offering a chance to restore Mandalore's glory. But…" I paused — just like those psychology books from my past life taught, "Mandalore needs a leader. Not someone hiding in caves — someone who will lead a fleet against the Republic. Only as our ally can you unite your people."
Vizsla slammed his fist into the throne's armrest. The bones groaned but held.
"Fine. Let's discuss terms. I want autonomy. Full control over all systems belonging to Mandalore. Everything we conquer becomes part of our new territory. And the droid army — under our command on our planets," he demanded, pushing the limits.
"Autonomy… fine, let's say that's possible." I pulled out a holoprojector with Dooku's seal, knowing full well the Count would never approve these terms.
"But the droids stay under CIS control. However…" I pointed at a sector on the galactic map.
"There's plenty of spoils and weapons factories here. Feed your hunger for conquest with those."
Vizsla rose, his shadow falling across the projection of Coruscant. For a moment, I saw the Vizsla from the show — a fanatic ready to burn the galaxy for a ghost of glory.
"And what does Dooku want in return, envoy?" he asked, stepping closer. The smell of blood on his armor stung my nose.
"The pleasure of watching Jedi and their cloned lapdogs burn. Our main condition — we need skilled CIS commanders who know the tactics the clones were trained with. I know you'd love to gut their 'father' if you could," I smirked.
"Then consider the preliminary agreement made. After this, I speak with Dooku directly," he said — just like that, without resistance.
Once introductions were done and the Mandalorians were warned not to fry their armor electronics again, I stepped outside and mounted the speeder they'd provided. I entered the coordinates for the meeting point with Dooku's agent.
I kicked my new "iron steed" into motion, speeding toward the nearest major settlement. According to the computer, the round trip would take less than half a day, so I didn't bother picking up Kem — and besides, the speeder wasn't built for two, and a dashiade weighs as much as three people.
But speed wasn't the only reason I chose the speeder — asking for a ride on a gunship would've been easier.
There was something else.
I hadn't forgotten the Jedi.
And I don't like leaving debts behind.
If he reports our new alliance later, things will get… awkward.
And there's only one way to silence him.
Well, two — but both end with winning a fight.
In our first battle, I wasn't ready for his style.
But I learn fast.
I already have a few ideas — even if the victory ends up being "dirty."
Now then… time to go fishing.