Chapter Text
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There’s a cramped little cantina on Coruscant's lower levels. It’s filled with the scent of smoke from various species’ inhalants. It’s mixed with the warmth of overworked fryers and ovens as the cook in the back room curses up a storm. There’s a persistent hum from the endless engines that fly through the planet’s skies.
In a darkened booth, a quiet crook scans his surroundings as he waits for his client to arrive. One hand is permanently affixed to his blaster, as anyone who has had too many close calls would do.
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His client is half an hour late, and the man feels one of his four feet start to twitch; ready to leave at the slightest give. The door opens, and a graying Latero walks in.
The man straightens up, then remembers his client is an Ikotchi and settles once again. The Latero has a fool’s grin spread across his face. Half the eyes in the room follow as he sits down. All of them itching for their next payday.
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With little else to do, he watches the Latero strike up a conversation with the barkeep. The idiot brags about the deal he got on a new ship, and whatever eyes had initially dismissed him now shine with a predatory glint. If the crook wasn’t already waiting on a payment, he too might regard the Latero with a similar gaze.
But alas, he’s stuck waiting. He assures himself that if the client doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, he’s leaving.
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With nothing else to do, the crook listens to the Latero’s yapping. Apparently, the fool got the ship from a lucky Sabacc game and came here to celebrate. He’s at least smart enough not to say what model the damn thing is. The crook gives a chuckle into his liquor at the thought. To win a whole kriffing ship in a game. What a lucky bastard.
It's only because the crook looks down at his watch that he can tell you what happened the second that the hour turned.
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In a tent on Dathomir’s reddened soil sits a teenage Nightsister. She has been preparing this ritual for months now. If she can perform it well in front of her mother, she may advance to more complex spells.
She takes a deep breath as she calms her nerves. She can feel her sisters’ and mother’s eyes on her. The timing is the most essential part of this spell. It can only be performed today as the blood moon rises boldly into the sky.
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She finishes arranging the required materials and tools in front of her. She will take this one step at a time to ensure it's done properly. She resists the urge to roll up her ceremonial sleeves as she starts the preparations.
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She has finished the required herbal concoction and begins to chant the needed incantation. Her sisters watch eagerly to see what she will conjure. Her mother gives a tight-lipped grin that’s hidden entirely in the shadows.
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The tent’s fixtures start to spin as a green mist flows from the girl. The moon’s red surface almost seems to shimmer like a ripple in blood through the small opening. This is her spell, and she knows it well. She will not fail. She will prove herself.
Only it seems today is not that day. As before, the last word can be uttered, something else finishes its ritual the very second before her own.
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Crechemaster Fayvii starts their duties as they do every day. They retrieve the younglings from their morning meditation from crechemaster Davax. Today, they are in charge of the Boma clan, consisting mostly of humans and humanoids.
The younglings are as rambunctious as ever, and Fayvii feels the force lighten around them as the children begin to discuss anything and everything.
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It’s not a long walk to the training grounds, but somehow many of the younglings still seem ready to burst from their skins in their excitement. While quite young, this clan has been granted permission to start more advanced initiate training. A rare, fortunate turn of events as a consequence of the war.
As a few children nearly leap into the designated areas, Fayvii is quick to remind them to lower their sabers output to training levels.
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Fayvii takes careful notice of the pairs forming up and the stances they lean towards. One student is quite fast on their feet, but leaves many openings. A good beginning in Ataru. In contrast, another excels at blocking, but their feet almost appear rooted in ferrocrete. That one has potential in Soresu.
There are excitable younglings and nervous ones, and Fayvii is so excited to see this group grow to the noble Jedi they know they will be.
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One duo in particular catches their eyes. Almost as if naturally, the pair fall into beginning stances of Shii-cho. As if in a dance, they exchange blow for blow, never falling into the usual pitfalls of too much or too little, seen commonly in beginners.
Fayvii can tell these two will be excellent fighters. It will not be a surprise if a master chooses them as soon as they can.
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The pair continues to catch their eye as they start to notice the things the two can work on. The older one acts recklessly at times, leaving him open for the younger to take advantage of. However, the younger is impatient, as instead of remaining defensive when faced with a long onslaught chooses to attack instead.
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The first match ends, and partners switch. At such an age, many children have already spent most of their energy. They can see many tiny arms shake with the effort of carrying the saber in hand.
Here, the children’s endurance and persistence are meant to shine through. Those who conserved energy in the first match begin to land more hits. In turn, those who moved offensively at first are forced to slow down and defend.
Out of the corner of their eye, they spot the previous two once again showcasing their aptitude as they lack signs of slowing despite the earlier sparring.
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Fayvii watches as the initiates continue. They will take a break to assess and recoup soon before they push themselves once more. Fayvii is already memorizing the notes to give to their fellow crechemasters later in the day.
Because of this organization of thought, they won’t be able to tell you what happened a moment later when chaos broke loose.
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Mace Windu has been stuck in this meeting for far too long. Despite having far more urgent matters to attend to, the few masters still at the temple are forced to listen as the Chancellor recounts the grievances brought up at the previous senate meeting.
The nasal droning has given him a headache, and Mace rubs the bridge of his nose to help alleviate it.
It’s only when his pinkie suddenly becomes wet where it rests beneath his nostrils that he realizes this might not be a normal headache. He’s vaguely aware of someone calling his name in concern before it happens.
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In the next second, he can feel the force explode as if in a million little shards. Webs upon webs overlay and overlap suddenly, and with it the worst migraine of his life. His vision blurs. He feels faint. Before he collapses, he manages a single question.
“Who the hell?”